Gathering
My name is Marcus Holt. I’m a lycan, an alpha, and I’ve been the werewolf representative on the Supernatural Council for nearly a decade. I’m six-four, two-hundred-forty pounds of muscle and fur and instinct that I keep carefully controlled most of the time.
I was born into the Eastern European Wolf Pack, trained to lead, and raised to understand that the pack is everything.
And then I chose something different.
This is my life now—my pack.
Not a traditional pack—no den, no hierarchy beyond what we’ve built ourselves, no moon runs through ancestral territory. Just six supernatural beings living under one roof in a converted warehouse in Rome, pretending we’re a family.
Except we’re not pretending anymore. Somewhere in the last year, it became real.
I chose the council. I decided this warehouse full of misfits was home. I chose a witch named Lucia Pollard who makes my heart race and my wolf settle in equal measure.
The pack back home doesn’t quite know what to make of that.
Maybe that’s for the best.
I follow the smell of burning down to the kitchen, where Lucia is staring at a pan of what might have once been eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for complex spellwork.
“How bad?” I ask, coming up behind her.
“Catastrophic.” She doesn’t look away from the pan. “I got distracted reading a grimoire and now we’re having toast for breakfast.” She drops the pan in the sink, flicking on the faucet with a hiss of steam. “Those were the last of the eggs.”
“We’ll get more eggs.” I wrap my arms around her waist and press a kiss to her neck. She leans back into me, comfortable and familiar. We’ve been doing this dance for five years now—longer if you count the months before we admitted what we were to each other.
“Mario’s already come through twice looking for food,” she says. “I told him there’s cereal.”
“Bold of you to assume a demon eats cereal.” I have to laugh because it just sounds absurd.
“Bold of him to assume I’m his personal chef.” But she’s smiling. “Zachariah made coffee, though. Real coffee, not that espresso nightmare he usually drinks.”
“Character growth,” I observe. “He’s been calmer since Mario cut him off. Did you know Mario had him drinking twenty-four espresso shots a day? Six shots, four times a day.” I pause. "I guess angels can't get caffeine poisoning. It was us who would have had a heart attack by now, I'm sure."
“That explains so much.” Lucia turns in my arms. “You think the change is the espresso or Mario?”
“Probably both. Hard to relax when your boyfriend was literally poisoning you with caffeine.” I say softly. "But now that they are settled, maybe the demonic urge to overcaffeinate an angel is gone."
My phone rings. I consider ignoring it—breakfast with Lucia and our gradually waking household is preferable to whatever work crisis is calling this early. But the ringtone is specific. Pack business.
I pull away from Lucia reluctantly and answer. “Marcus.”
“Representative Marcus.” Thelon’s voice is warm and relaxed. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Just breakfast. What’s up, Thelon?”
“I’m calling to invite you to the autumn gathering. It’s been—what, eighteen months since you’ve been back? The pack misses you. I miss you.” He pauses. “And I think you should bring Lucia. Let her see where you come from. Let the pack see who’s important to you.”
I grab the tennis ball from the counter—bright yellow, half-chewed, always within reach because standing still when I’m processing makes my skin itch. Bounce. Catch.
“You want me to bring Lucia to a pack gathering?” I exchange looks with her across the island.
“Why not? She’s your partner, isn’t she? Been together what, five years now? The pack should meet her. See that you’re happy.” His voice drops, more intimate. “Come on, Marcus. Let the pack see that you haven’t forgotten where you came from, just that you’ve built something elsewhere too. You can play in the games—rope pull won’t be the same without you. And the hunt. You haven’t been on a hunt in ages.”
The hunt. My chest tightens. I haven’t run with the pack since I left for Rome nearly ten years ago. Since I chose the council over the beta position Thelon offered me.
“Three days,” Thelon continues. “I’ll send the location details. Traditional territory, so I’ll arrange clearance for Lucia to cross the wards.”
Three days isn’t much notice. And traditional territory means something. It means sacred ground, pack-only spaces, generations of history, blood, and belonging.
It means they’re letting Lucia in despite her being an outsider.
“We’ll be there,” I hear myself say.
“Excellent. Oh, and Marcus?” There’s something careful in Thelon’s tone now. “Maxwell will be there. I know things were... tense... the last time you two were in the same space. However, he has been working on himself. Following the hierarchy. I think enough time has passed.”
Maxwell. The name lands like a stone in my stomach.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“I’m sure it will,” Thelon agrees. “See you in three days.”
He hangs up.
I stand there holding my phone, a tennis ball gripped in my other hand. Maxwell. Great Pyrenees. Built like a tank, twice my size in shifted form, and carrying a grudge since the day I got the council appointment he thought should’ve been his.
“Marcus?” Lucia’s voice pulls me back. “What was that?”
“Pack invitation. Autumn gathering in three days.” I meet her eyes. “He wants you to come too.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Me? To a pack gathering?”
“He said the pack should meet you. See that I’m happy, that I haven’t forgotten them.” The ball is solid in my palm. “It’s actually... nice. Thelon being welcoming like that.”
“You don’t sound like you think it’s nice,” Lucia says carefully. “You sound worried.”
I am worried. The Eastern European pack doesn’t do “nice” for no reason. We do hierarchy. We do tradition. We do pack first, always, no exceptions. And I’ve been breaking that rule for a decade—choosing Rome, choosing the council, choosing a life away from them.
But Thelon has always been warm and supportive, even when I left.
“The pack doesn’t usually invite outsiders to gatherings,” I admit. “Especially not to traditional territory. It’s for pack only—mates, family, those who’ve earned their place in the hierarchy.”
“So why invite me?”
“I don’t know.” I bounce the ball once. “Maybe Thelon really does just want me to visit. Reconnect. Show them I’m happy.”
“Or?”
“Or he wants to remind me what I left behind.” The words come out harder than I intend. “Show me what I gave up when I chose Rome over pack. What I’m still choosing every day I stay here instead of coming home.”
Lucia crosses to me, takes the tennis ball from my hand, and sets it on the counter. “Do you regret it? Choosing this life?”
“No.” That much is certain. “But they might want me to. I mean, it was the pack's idea to send a representative, I volunteered.” I leave out the part that Maxwell also volunteered, and there was a vote, and he lost.
She takes both my hands in hers. “Then we go. We show them you’re happy. That this life you built is worth celebrating, not mourning.”
“They’re going to test you,” I warn. “Not obviously. But they’ll watch everything. How you carry yourself, how you respond to dominance displays, whether you defer or challenge. And they’ll judge.”
“Marcus.” She squeezes my hands. “I’m a council member. I deal with vampire politics, angelic bureaucracy, and demon contracts. I think I can handle some curious lycans.”
“And Maxwell will be there,” I add quietly.
“Is that the one who wanted your council seat? The one you said was really kinda obnoxiously shitty?”
“Yeah, and now he's all on the idea that I'm the one who thinks I abandoned the pack to play politics with outsiders. Like he wasn't also vying for the job.” I look at her. “He’s not subtle about his opinions. And he’s got supporters. Other alphas who think traditional lycans shouldn’t be mixing with witches, vampires, and demons.”
“Will he cause trouble?”
“Thelon says he’s been working on himself. Following hierarchy.” I don’t sound convinced even to my own ears. “Maybe he has. It’s been long enough.” I try to believe that.
“But you don’t believe that.” She sees right through me, every damn time.
I give her a warm smile. I don't want her to worry. “I don’t know what I believe.” I pull her close, press my forehead against hers. “I just know I want to show them that you and this life are real. That I made the right choice.”
“Then we’ll show them,” she says firmly. “Together.”
The kitchen door swings open, and Senet enters, already dressed despite it being barely seven AM. Mummies don’t sleep much past sunrise. “Good morning. Is something burning?”
“Was burning,” Lucia corrects. “I’ve made peace with it.”
“Toast for breakfast then?” His golden eyes are amused.
“Toast for breakfast,” I confirm.
"I have fig jam." Senet moves to the fridge, clearly as happy as a three-thousand-year-old Mummy can be to consume toast and jam.
The next three days pass quickly. Lucia reads everything she can find about lycan customs—which isn’t much, since most of it is experiential. I try to remember everything I was taught growing up, all the small courtesies and unspoken rules.
Don’t challenge eye contact with elders. Don’t refuse offered food. Don’t question the alpha’s judgment in public. Don’t show weakness.
Please don’t bring your "Otherly" girlfriend to pack lands and expect them to accept her.
That last one isn’t written down anywhere, but I heard it often enough growing up.
On the second evening, I find Lucia in our room, staring at her open suitcase with unusual uncertainty.
“What should I wear?” she asks.
“Practical. Hiking boots, jeans, layers. We’ll be outside most of the time—the games are all outdoors, and the hunt is in the forest.”
“The hunt.” She sits on the bed. “Walk me through that.”
I join her, and for the next hour, we go over everything. The games—rope pull, obstacle courses, sparring matches—the feast, where pack members share stories and songs. The hunt itself, when the pack runs together through the forest, is a coordinated force.
“Will I be expected to participate?” she asks about the hunt.
“No. Outsiders, Children, the Elderly, and Omegas watch from the gathering point.”
She nods slowly. “And Maxwell? What should I expect from him?”
“Distance, if we’re lucky. Posturing, if we’re not.” I choose my words carefully. “Maxwell is... complicated. He grew up believing he’d be a ranked Alpha, standing beside Thelon as his second. When I was offered the position and turned it down to stay in Rome, it confused him. Made him angry. He thought I was throwing away something sacred.”
“Were you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I chose differently. That doesn’t make my choice wrong. I do good work here, for all Lycans, that's got to be something that has more value than Ranked Alpha under Thelon. That might not make much sense, but I wanted more for Lycans.”
“I think you made the right choice.” Lucia agrees. She leans against me. “You’re tense.”
“I’m preparing.” But she’s right. My shoulders are tight, my jaw clenched. “I just want this to go well.”
“It will,” she says with certainty, a wish I wish I felt. “We’ll be respectful. We’ll show them you’re happy. And we’ll come home.”
“Home,” I repeat. “Yeah. We will.”
The portal drops us at the edge of pack territory on a cold autumn morning. The air hits different here—crisp and clean, heavy with the scent of pine and earth and wet leaves. Home.
Except it hasn’t felt like home in a long time.
Lucia stands beside me, taking it all in. She’s dressed practically like I suggested—hiking boots, dark jeans, a jacket that won’t show dirt. Her hair is pulled back in a braid, and there’s a determination in her posture that makes my chest tight with affection.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
We cross the ward line together. The magic washes over us—checking, identifying, tasting. For a moment, I tense, worried it might reject Lucia despite Thelon’s clearance. The wards here are old, powerful, keyed to pack blood. They’ve turned away outsiders before.
But then the magic settles, accepting her presence. Thelon kept his word.
“Welcome to pack lands,” I tell her.
She smiles, but I can see her awareness sharpening. Witch instincts kicking in, reading the magic around us. “It’s beautiful. And very heavily warded.”
“Traditional territory. No humans have set foot here in three centuries.”
“I can feel why.”
We start down the trail—a well-worn path through towering pines that leads deeper into the pack lands. The forest is alive with autumn—gold and red leaves, mushrooms clustered around tree roots, the distant sound of running water.
And then I hear them.
Footsteps. Breathing. The soft pad of paws on pine needles.
Pack members, drawn by Lucia’s unfamiliar scent.
“We have company,” I murmur.
“I noticed.” Lucia keeps her eyes forward, but I can feel her tracking them.
They appear between the trees—wolves mostly, a few in human form, some in the hybrid lycan shape that’s our hallmark. All of them are watching us with territorial intensity, assessing whether this outsider is a guest or an intruder.
More lycans join as we walk. A growing escort that falls into step around us, some in the trees, some on the trail itself. All of them were watching Lucia.
She handles it perfectly. Eyes forward, posture relaxed but not submissive, movements calm. She’s not prey, and she’s making sure they know it.
One young wolf—probably just past adolescence—gets bold and trots up beside Lucia, sniffing at her hand.
“Hello,” she says softly.
The youngster’s tail wags once before an older lycan barks a sharp warning, and the pup falls back, ears flattened.
Lucia doesn’t react, keeps walking. But I catch her small smile.
The trees begin to thin, and then we’re emerging into the clearing.
The village spreads before us—maybe twenty cabins arranged around a central gathering space, smoke rising from chimneys, gardens, and work areas scattered throughout. And lycans everywhere.
Children running between cabins in various stages of shift. Adults hauling logs, repairing roofs, tending fires. Some look like humans, some in lycan form, and a few wolves patrolling the perimeter.
And all of them stop when we enter the clearing.
The silence spreads like ripples in water. Every eye turns to us. To Lucia.
The weight of their collective attention is almost physical—dozens of lycans, all focused on the outsider in their midst. Measuring. Judging.
Lucia keeps her chin up, her expression pleasant but neutral. Not challenging, but not cowering either.
Perfect.
Then Thelon steps forward, and his smile is warm and genuine. Just like always.
“Marcus! You made it. Welcome home.”
He crosses to us and pulls me into a hug that’s all strength and familiarity. He smells like pine and woodsmoke and pack, and for a moment, I let myself sink into it. This was my alpha. My teacher. My family, after my parents died. He's the man who raised me, the only father I have left.
Then he turns to Lucia and offers his hand.
“Lucia. Pleasure to see you again—glad it’s under better circumstances than council business.” Thelon’s attended council sessions before, so they’ve met, though never socially. “Thank you for coming. Welcome to our territory.”
She takes his hand without hesitation. I observe her, not react when he brings it to his nose—scent identification, standard pack greeting. She holds still, lets it happen, and I feel a surge of pride at her composure.
“Thank you for having me,” she says. “Your territory is beautiful.”
“It’s home,” Thelon says simply. He releases her hand and gestures to the gathering. “Come. The games start this afternoon, feast tonight, hunt tomorrow morning. You’re here for the best parts.” His eyes meet mine, warm and familiar. “And I think we have a lot to catch up on.”
We’re being swept into the gathering when I see him.
Maxwell.
He’s in human form, standing near one of the cabins with a group of other alphas. Even from here, I can feel his presence—dominant, challenging, barely leashed. He’s gotten bigger since I last saw him, more muscular. His eyes lock onto mine, then slide to Lucia.
Something cold and calculating crosses his face.
Then he smiles. Not friendly. Assessing.
One of the alphas with him—a younger male I don’t recognize—leans in and says something. Maxwell laughs. The sound doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Marcus?” Lucia’s voice is quiet. She’s felt my tension.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just Maxwell.”
“The big one who’s staring at us like we’re prey?”
“That’s him.”
“Charming,” she mutters.
Maxwell starts to move toward us, but Thelon intercepts smoothly, clasping Maxwell’s shoulder in a gesture that looks friendly but is clearly a reminder of rank.
“Maxwell,” Thelon says, voice carrying. “Good to see you following protocol. Marcus and Lucia are guests. Honored guests.”
“Of course, Alpha,” Maxwell says, his tone respectful but his eyes never leaving mine. “Just wanted to welcome Representative Holt home. And meet his... companion.”
“Partner,” I correct, moving closer to Lucia. “Lucia is my partner.”
“Of course,” Maxwell says again. “My mistake.” He turns to Lucia, does a small bow that manages to be both correct and mocking. “Welcome to our territory, witch. I hope you enjoy your visit.”
“I’m sure I will,” Lucia says evenly.
Maxwell’s smile sharpens. “Traditional territory can be overwhelming for outsiders. So many customs. So many ways to accidentally give offense.” He looks at me. “But I’m sure Representative Holt has prepared you well. He always was good at playing both sides.”
“Maxwell,” Thelon’s voice has gone hard. “You have duties to attend to.”
“Of course, Alpha.” Maxwell bows to Thelon, nods to me, and walks away. But not before giving Lucia one more assessing look.
The group of alphas he’d been standing with disperses, but I catch their glances. Speculative. Curious. Not hostile, exactly, but not welcoming either.
“I apologize,” Thelon says quietly. “Maxwell has improved, but old grudges die hard.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though my shoulders are tight.
“It’s not fine,” Thelon corrects. “But it won’t be a problem. I’ll make sure of it.” He looks at both of us. “You’re here to be welcomed. To be celebrated. Don’t let Maxwell’s bitterness ruin that.”
“We won’t,” Lucia says firmly.
Thelon smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. “Good. Now come. Let me show you to your cabin. You’ll want to settle in before the games begin.”
We follow him through the village, and I try to shake off the encounter with Maxwell. Thelon said he’s been working on himself, following the hierarchy. Maybe he has changed.
But that look he gave Lucia—calculating, cold, predatory—that wasn’t the look of someone who’s moved on.
That was the look of someone planning something.
I hope I’m wrong.
