Wolves of Haven: Lone (5 page)

“Home?” Akia whispered,
coming to a stop on the one lane road and looked at the aged sign
that simply read
Welcome to Haven:
Population 451.
“Home is eleven hours and
nearly seven hundred miles behind me,” she reminded herself. “Home
is Boston, not Haven. Never again will it be
Haven.”

****

The repeated thud of the heavy axe
connecting with a log round was followed by the split crack made
when the blade sheered through the round, splitting it in two. With
effortless ease, corded muscles pulled the axe high in the air
before slamming it into the next round, narrowly missing the young
man switching out the split logs for the next round.

“Damn it, that one nearly took my
finger off!” Ulrik complained.

The hulking giant of a man with the
axe simply made a deep, scoffing sound that was neither apologetic
nor remorseful, and pulled the axe back, readying for the next
round.

“Dude, seriously,” Ulrik said,
getting to his feet, “if you’re trying to cut my hands off, I’m
going to be pissed.”

An amused chuckle came from behind
them, and the young man turned to regard his brother. “And pray
tell, Kid, what is it that you are going to do about it if he is?”
Rafe asked, tucking the loosely falling dark blond hair back behind
his ears that was freed from a gust of wind.

Ulrik made a face. “I’m pretty sure
you used that wrong, or at least it sounded wrong,” he pointed out.
“And I don’t know what I’d do, but I’d do something. Just because
he’s as big as a house and has the personality of drying paint,
doesn’t mean that I won’t one day be able to take him when my inner
badass finally lets his balls drop, as Connie calls it.” The
spindly young man started wind milling his arms in the air and
kicking, poorly reenacting every kung fu move from the Karate Kid
he could.

The other two looked at him
curiously before Varg shook his head then embedded the axe deep
into the splitting log; apparently this remedial task to pass the
time was done thanks to the A.D.H.D. ridden kid.

Rafe chuckled. “Apparently we need
to up your meds,” he said.

Ulrik made a face. “You suck, and I
don’t want to take those stupid pills. I know Connie is only making
me take them so he can keep my beast back. He’s scared of it. Admit
it. You are too!”

Varg made that disgruntled grunting
sound under his breath as he loaded his heavily corded arms with
cut wood before turning towards the manor.

“Trust me, Kid,” Rafe said, waving
him to follow him, “your inner puppy will never be able to take
Adam. Sorry, Kid, but it’ll never happen.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled under his
breath, pouting.

When the back door swung shut, he
looked around to make sure they were alone.

“Is it true?” he
whispered.

Rafe cocked an eyebrow. “Is what
true?”

“That Dad’s favorite is coming
home,” he said excitably, well aware that Rafe knew exactly what he
was talking about.

“Oh, that,” Rafe said, rolling his
icy blue eyes. “The chosen one was called. If they’ll come, I don’t
know.” He looked out across the sprawling estate to the thick
forest surrounding the manor. “It will be interesting either way,”
he admitted.

“Can you tell me about the chosen
one?” the excited youth whispered. “I’ve heard the rumors, but are
they true?”

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Why are you
asking me? Did Varg threaten to rip your head off for
asking?”

He snorted. “I’m not stupid enough
to ask Varg anything. He’s a gigantic tool that needs to have that
stick up his ass surgically removed.”

Rafe chuckled. “Truer words have
never been spoken, Kid. Are your chores done?”

Ulrik made a face. “Maybe…no,
they’re not. Why am I the only one that has to do everything around
here?” he whined. “Are you taking advantage of me? Like those on
the street of the Ukraine tried to do to this innocent, strapping
young man?” he asked, batting his lashes.

Rafe shook his head, giving him a
look. “There is nothing innocent about you, Kid.”

“Do not be mean to the boy,” Louvel
scolded, joining them from the garden with a bouquet of fresh cut
flowers in hand. “And you do not do all of the chores. You hardly
do the chores you have been commissioned with,” he reminded him
with a chuckle. “Rafe, go see if Fae needs help in the kitchen.
That Irishman is baking up a storm as if he is French,” he said
with the heaviest French accent they had ever heard.

Rafe shook his head, taking the
flowers from Louvel. “Lou, I’m only agreeing to this because I’m
tired of that blue haired kid and his million
questions.”

Louvel chuckled. “Do not darken the
innocence of an inquisitive mind,” he scolded, watching Rafe head
into the house. “Never mind him. He is simply terrified of your
inner puppy.”

Ulrik smiled wide causing the older
man to chuckle.

“You have questions?” he asked,
motioning the young man towards the garden since he was supposed to
weed it days ago.

“Will you actually answer them or
are you just going to tiptoe around them while I do the grunt
labor?” Ulrik asked, hurrying after him.

“Both, though I am much too old to
tiptoe around anything anymore, and everyone will agree that I am
much too cultured to lie,” Louvel said with a chuckle then sat on
one of the stone benches in the center of the garden.

Ulrik took the work gloves from his
back pocket then started pulling the weeds from the closest
flowerbed. “Dad’s chosen one, is it true?” he asked.

Louvel shrugged as he loaded his
half bent Dublin pipe with sweet tobacco before striking a match
against the stone bench then took a few, long draws from the pipe.
“Varg called Akia, that is true,” he eventually said. “Beowulf will
not be pleased. He didn’t want Akia pulled into this, but we are
running out of options. The proud man is nearly as stubborn as
Akia, and that’s why they love each other as much as they
do.”

“Why did Akia leave?” Ulrik
asked.

He chuckled. “Honestly? We do not
know. Akia is a very complex creature, with demons that shadow her
past much like the ones that shadow yours.”

Ulrik started to nod then stopped
and looked at Louvel with wide eyes. “Akia is a female?” he
choked.

“Oui,” Louvel said, amusingly.
“Akia is one of the many dark little secrets of our family. Beowulf
came across her naked and covered in blood in Svay Pak. Somehow the
young girl was sold into the trade of the Vietnamese village
located in the Russey Keo District of Phnom Penh, Cambodia. She was
caged and put on display.”

The young man gasped, his hands
covering his mouth to stifle the sound.

“Beowulf lost his seldom seen
temper, and went to take care of the vile beasts… Aux grands maux
les grands moyens,” he said as if it explained it all. “When he
returned to the villa with the tiny creature, and I discovered she
was female, Seff nearly lost it. Returning to Verulfr Manor was not
easy. The little girl terrified all of them, and they questioned it
many times. Beowulf was known for bringing home Strays, so gender
did not matter in his eyes, and his word was law. Yourself is
included in that,” he reminded him with a chuckle. “Always an
advocate for children that could not defend themselves,” he said
softly, his attention and mind drifting to the past.

Ulrik groaned in frustration; his
uncle was getting easily distracted as of late, and he knew it was
from the stress of the situation, but he wanted to hear more about
the lone female of their family. “Lou, Earth to Lou,” he said,
snapping his fingers in his face, “come in, Lou.”

Louvel swatted his hand away
with a chuckle. “À goupil endormi rien ne tombe en la gueule,” he
reminded the impatient young man. “
It is
wise not to speak when it is not necessary
,” he translated when his nephew groaned. “It is not my story
to tell, Boy. Though, I will warn you now, do not ask. Varg would
take it as a personal attack against his other
half.”

Again, the young man groaned.
“Fine, but tell me one thing, then I’ll drop it…for
now.”

“This ought to be good,” Louvel
said, reloading his pipe, motioning for him to ask.

“What was Beowulf’s count when he
got her?” he whispered, looking around to make sure no one was
lingering.

“Ahh, that question,” Louvel mused
then beckoned the young man closer, which he eagerly obliged. “The
body count was impressive, yes. However, no blood blemished
Beowulf’s soul.”

Ulrik looked at him confused. “I
don’t understand. You said Dad lost his temper, and she was covered
in blood.”

“Oui and oui,” Louvel agreed.
“Nearly twenty, most likely it was more once they succumbed to
their wounds. They were grave indeed, but they were not caused by
Beowulf, they were caused by the little creature he brought home.
Heed my warning, Boy,” he said, patting the stunned young man’s
cheek, “do not mention it for Varg’s wrath is a warm embrace in
comparison to Akia’s.”

****

“How are you feeling?” Damian
asked, leaning back in his chair, pushing his hand through his hair
in frustration.

The sigh that echoed through the
receiver caused his heart to clench in his chest.

“You got there in one piece?” he
teased, trying to be lighthearted in order to keep the woman he
loved on the other end of the line from losing it, especially since
he wasn’t there to keep her together if needed.

“Sadly,” Akia said; she sounded
mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted, neither of which
was good. “I’ve been sitting outside the gate for the past hour,
trying to find the nerve to drive up to house. This was a bad idea.
I don’t even know what in the hell is going on, and of course
Father doesn’t have a damn cell phone. That man is stuck in the
stone ages, I swear.”

He chuckled as he absently doodled
on the coversheet of the report he was supposed to be signing off
on, and yet hadn’t bothered to look at still; work was the very
last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

“Damian, I don’t even know what’s
going on,” she said, mimicking his position in the driver’s seat
more than a thousand kilometers away. “If this was just some ploy
to get me back here, I’ll be so…” her words trailed off, and she
shook her head. “Tell me a story.”

Damian rubbed his temples; the only
time Akia asked for a story was when she was about to lose it and
go over the edge, not something that he was willing to risk. “Did I
ever tell you about homecoming?” he asked.

She moaned. “No, tell
me.”

“I warn you now, it is not a pretty
tale,” he said.

“I have no doubt,” Akia said with a
smile.

Damian chuckled and propped his
head up on his hand, and visualized that he was home in front of
the fireplace and Akia was sitting across from him, hugging a
pillow and wearing one of his undershirts that hung off of her
toned body like an ill-fitting dress. Her hair would be pulled back
in a sloppy pony tail, the shorter strands framing her face making
her look younger and softer somehow, and the warm glow from the
fireplace painted her in golden light making her appear
angelic.

“I was seventeen, captain of the
football team, of course,” he dryly added the latter for her
amusement, and she chuckled, “was dating the head cheerleader who
was prom queen runner up. The deejay was playing the worst
compilation of music in recorded history, the crape paper
decorations were a fire hazard, I’m sure-”

Akia snorted. “Oh my
god.”

“I haven’t even gotten to the best
part yet!” he assured her. “Miss Prom Queen runner up decided to
throw a complete temper tantrum because I had to dance with the
Prom Queen, who coincidentally was my step-sister-”

That was it, she
laughed.

“It gets better,” Damian assured
her. “While we were doing the robot and running man, instead of
slow dancing, since we were family, my date went and popped a
handful of pills, snorted a few lines of coke, and drank a fifth of
vodka. By the time I found her, she was covered in vomit and making
out with the fat girl from the chess team.”

Akia was laughing so hard that she
had snorted more than once.

Damian smiled; he knew that her
ocean blue eyes were sparkling like the diamonds she now wears
around her neck, and her skin was flushed with amusement. “Are you
better now?”

Content, she sighed. “Surprisingly,
yes.”

“Good. Get your firm, round ass out
of the Jeep, see what’s going on with your father, so you can get
home where you belong. Okay?”

“Home?” Akia whispered. “That
sounds like an agreeable plan. I’ll call you once I find out what’s
going on… Thank you.”

His smile fell. “There’s nothing to
thank me for, you know that,” he reminded her. “If you would let
me, I’d be there for you now, regardless of what family drama is
going on for you. It’s okay to ask for help and to allow others to
help you, Latria Mou,” he whispered, his rarely heard outside of
the bedroom Greek accent flaring. “S’Agapo.”