📎A/N. Hello my lovelies. I've had a little problem trying to get this chapter published. Hopefully the publish button will work before the next chapter is due :(

For those of you caught in Hurricane Matthew, I hope you and your families are safe. My prayers are with you all...

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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Joe scanned the customers scattered around the small dingy bar as he poured a large glass of craft tap beer. They had been busier than normal, and he was rather stoked at the full tip jar. Unlike most Thursday's, the crowd had not been as loud or recalcitrant as usual.

Correct that; the Werewolf contingent have behaved themselves for a change.

His human customers weren't a problem. Those, he could handle. The rogues and unaligned that congregated here on a weekly basis were another story. Their numbers had grown over the past year, and it made his job as bartender more like a ringmaster in a three-ring circus than that of local publican on the outskirts of the city of brotherly love.

The growing unease and dissection that had infected their community contributed to most altercations. It was pure luck than design, no one had been gravely injured–yet. That wouldn't last. The divide was a powder keg. The smallest spark would blow up the whole volatile mess.

"You right there mate?" he asked Darren, one of his regulars, after noticing the man's difficulty in getting down off the bar stool while reaching into his back pocket at the same time.

Darren frowned as he stood and swayed from side to side to find his balance. Joe shook his head. The man could never hold his booze. It reminded him of the old coots at the outback pub in Alice Springs he'd meet while tending bar. Days like this made him regret leaving Australia.

"Better call it a night," Darren said with a slow slur in his voice. "Wife won't be happy if I'm late." The half inebriated man slid a five-dollar tip across the bar and saluted at Joe, missing his forehead and catching his ear in the process.

Joe glanced up at the clock above the bar–1:55 a.m. Last call was well and truly gone. He reached for the empty glass. "Something tells me that boat has sailed. Just make sure you go to the right house, the cops won't be so lenient next time."

Darren cut a crooked path across the now almost empty bar. With the amount he'd hit the turps over the course of the evening, Joe was astounded that he only tripped twice before he reached the door. With his blood alcohol level, he should be flat on his back and out for the count. By the time the latch clicked shut, the clock had ticked over to 2 a.m.

Joe scanned the remaining patrons and sniffed the air. The strong odour of alcohol, as well as heavy body perspiration from the customers, competed with the acrid stench of cigarettes and hampered his ability to determine if there were any humans left in the building. He found a familiar face and indicated towards the restrooms.

Malcolm, another of his regulars, shot up and disappeared into the gents. A moment later he reappeared and then poked his head into the ladies. "All clear," he said as he headed back to his seat.

A collective sense of relief spread through the room as if a heavy weight lifted from their shoulders.

Joe raced across the room, turned the open sign to closed, and bolted the door shut. "Hey Mary," he called out on his way back to the bar. "If you toss any more nut shells on the floor, it'll be you who's thrown out next."

Mary's response was to throw a peanut shell at him and laugh. Joe returned to the safety of the bar and took drink orders from two Werewolves he'd not noticed before.

Curious to see where they had appeared from, he watched the progress to the booth furthermost away from the bar. As they slid into the seat facing him, Joe realized a third person occupied the seat across from them.

That explains the Chartreuse.

Joe noticed a movement under the table as the person adjusted their position. His eyebrows rose when a pair of high heel shoes with bright red soles appeared. The brows nearly disappeared into his hairline when his eyes wandered up the crossed ankles and raked over her shapely legs.

The woman has positioned herself so that she could view the rest of the room through the mirror attached to the back wall. Unfortunately for him, Joe was in the wrong position to see who was attached to the stunning set of pins.

Bradley, an oversize Werewolf with a head one size too small and a cranky disposition, sauntered up to the bar and brought his glass down on the counter-top a little too hard. The sound carried across the room, over the digital jukebox, and all eyes swung to him.

Joe turned his focus back to the bar and poured a Guinness. He eyed the cracked glass and raised an eyebrow. "Struth mate, easy on the bar will ya?"

"So what d'ya know?" Bradley asked as he swapped the beer with a $10 bill.

Joe pursed his lips and tilted his head. "Blimey... let me see. Those Kiwis beat us again in Rugby, but I think we'll teach them a lesson in the Cricket." He reached for a towel and dried one of the wet glasses.

"You know that's not what I meant," said Bradley, as he leaned forward in a threatening manner.

Joe held his tongue. He'd seen more than one Werewolf bounce off the man's fist like a rag doll. He didn't intend to be another of the bully's victims. He shrugged. "Can't tell you what I don't know."

"Tracey," Joe called out. He needed to get their minds off the dark place they were headed. The new of the massacre had them all a little preoccupied.  "How'd ya go with that job interview?"

Tracey, a young Werewolf who had run away from her pack, smiled timidly at him. While she'd never said much, he was sure her escape had to do with some form of abuse. She was scared of her shadow and had a tendency to flinch whenever anyone came close. It was just as well her friend was outgoing; otherwise, he was sure she'd go days without speaking to anyone.

"Okay I think," she said. "The pay is good. I'm just a bit worried; they mentioned overtime and weekend work."

Joe chuckled. A human would be ecstatic at the possibility of making more money. He and the others would always worry how the additional hours would affect their ability to strike a balance with their wolves. He wasn't as young as he used to be, which meant he could go for long periods without changing. However, Tracey's wolf would be demanding at least fifty percent of her time, which didn't leave much for those overtime hours a job would entail.

Bradley, ever the troublemaker, turned around and faced the small contingent of rogues and unaligned Werewolves. "Has anyone heard what the high and mighty council are going to do about those deaths?"

"I heard the council was behind it," remarked someone from the back.

This was not the first time Joe had heard this particular rumor. So far he had managed to stay clear of the local packs as well as the laws dictated by the Alliance.  While he agreed with some of the rules, others were downright idiotic.

Nita, a heavily tattooed woman, whose nature was the total opposite of the hardened image she portrayed, asked, "Are we sure it wasn't coyotes, just like the news said?" She glanced tentatively around the room as if seeking answers. "Do you think we're safe?"

Joe could understand their concern. They lived on the fringe of society; attempting to blend in but never a part of it.

Unlike the majority in the room, he had not been born into a pack. His parents were nomads, and the better part of his youth was spent roaming from country to country, town to town. After one close call in Indonesia, they fled to Australia. Their Russian heritage would allow them to disappear into the general population without raising too many questions. The country was big enough to allow his folks to go walkabout for months at a time. It also enabled him to settle into one place and grow the roots he had always wished for.

Bradley crossed his arms over his chest and an angry gaze sliced around the room. "We're never secure. They make sure of that."

The others nodded in agreement and a low murmur buzzed and floated across the bar.

As if out of nowhere, a woman's voice cut through the unease. "Until you stand up as one and take your future into your hands, you will have none."

Joe snapped his head in the direction the sultry French accent. It was the woman with the red-soled shoes.

How did I not notice her when she walked in?

Anyone looking that classy in a dump like his bar would stand out. The woman took a step forward from the edge of the shadows and slipped her tan cashmere coat from her shoulders. She passed it to one of the strangers who he'd not long ago served.  The man stood guard at arm's reach, and the woman began to pull off her soft leather gloves, one finger at a time.

Blimey, you look like you're ready for a red carpet event.

Anticipation hung in the air as they waited for her to speak. They didn't need to wait long, the elegant brunette lifted her head regally and said, "I am Elise, and I am here to tell you, you are not alone."

No one spoke, and she continued. "Our race is suffering. We are suffering. There is a disease running rampant which, like a noxious vine—always ready to claim what we work so hard to create—is suffocating us." Elise's piercing gaze wandered around the bar and made contact with her captive audience. "My friends, we are asphyxiated by half-breed mutts and those traitors to our race, the Alliance. We are at a crisis point; too long have we struggled with knowing what's right but having our hands tied. For too long we've been considered secondary to those who are diluted in nature and purity."

The elegant woman glided forward, the sharp tap of her heels clicked with each step. There wasn't a person in the bar that wasn't riveted; and from the profuse nodding, they were in total agreement with her sentiment.

"Who put them in charge?" She pointed to Bradley and asked, "Did you?"

He shrugged and shook his head.

Elise narrowed her eyes and folded her hands over her chest. She thrummed her fingers on her arm. The blood-red nails matched her lips perfectly. "We have all suffered under the tyranny of this disease. Tell me," she addressed Bradley, "who was it that stole your rightful role as beta?"

"A half-breed mutt," he said with venom.

Joe wasn't surprised she knew. The loud, obnoxious Werewolf blabbed to anyone in hearing distance how he was looked over for beta. While he was willing to impart blow by blow details of the injustice, it was not quite clear on why he left his pack.

Elise shook her head in sympathy and dropped her arms. The gold from her chunky bracelet caught the light and sparkled in the otherwise murky bar. "We, who are the pure, the just and the rightful heirs, are pushed to one side to languish while they are exalted and protected by the Alliance; while the rest of you are discarded like garbage. How can this be right?"

Joe poured himself a drink. No one had yet approached the bar so he may as well have one. They were too caught up with the groundswell of dissent. Not that he could blame them. A lot had valid gripes and problems with the Alliance, half-breeds, or both. However, while he knew most others there, this female Werewolf and her two protectors were a complete mystery to him.

Who is this sheila?

The French woman glanced across at Tracey and gave her a small smile before making her way across to stand over the timid girl. Slowly, she reached out and cupped Tracy's face as she tipped it upwards. "Mon Cherie, where was your mighty pack when you were raped and beaten?"

Tracey visibly paled and shrunk back into herself.

Elise turned and faced her small audience. "Oh," she said, still addressing Tracey. "Remind me again, who was this defiler of children?"

Tracey mumbled under her breath.

"Sorry, I didn't quite get that."

"He was turned and brought to our pack before I was born."

There was a space of two heartbeats before Elise asked, "And what position did he hold?"

Tracey blinked rapidly, the strain of being in the limelight was getting to her. "Enforcer," she said as her shoulders slumped.

Elise locked eyes with each person in turn.

Joe's heart went out to Tracey, and he was thankful her friend reached out to comfort her. In all the time he had known her, not once had she mentioned the details of her ordeal. They had speculated, but this was worse than any of their guesses.

Not yet finished with this line of questioning, Elise asked, "And what did your Alpha do when you told him."

There was a paused before Tracey answered. "Nothing."

Every set of eyes was glued to Elise as she pivoted on her stiletto heels. "Why?"

Tracey's lips set into a grim line and her jaw tensed along with the rest of her body. Joe could feel the repressed anger float to the surface. "Because the enforcer denied it."

Elise's fists clenched, and she let out a low feral growl. "He took the word of a half-breed over that of a pure soul; and a child at that."

A low hum rose from all directions. Dissension and fury quivered through the room. Each word from Elise's mouth had raised the tension to the point he was sure it could be cut with a knife.

"His life should be forfeit, he doesn't deserve to live," a voice cried out from the small crowd.

Bradley spat on the floor. "I know what I'd like to do to that mutt and that half-breed loving Alpha."

A small cheer of encouragement burst out, and he was slapped on the back from those nearest him.

Elise moved to the center of the room and waited for the swell to subside. Something in the way she regarded them told Joe she had a lot more to say on the subject. Her next words proved him right; she made her way around the room and unveiled injustice after injustice. How she knew of their past was anyone's guess.

As the tales unfolded, emotions spiraled. Joe was thankful no half-breed or turned Werewolf was nearby. The electrified group was a lynch mob in the making. By the time Elise had made her way back to the middle of the room, he was sure the others would follow her to hell and back if she asked. As skeptical as he was of any organised group—pack or otherwise, the woman's message was a hard one to resist. They needed to fight back to save their race from annihilation.

"And what of you, dear Joseph?" Elise's question cut through the air and the room hushed as if someone had suddenly muted the volume.

Joe stiffened. He was now on high alert. He had wondered how she discovered Tracey's and the other's secrets, but there was no way she knew his. His inner wolf wasn't as confident. It began to pace, not liking the direction the conversation was headed.

He cleared his throat. "What about me?"

"Had that turned mutt been dealt with, the way he should have, your parents would still be alive today."

How does she know?

His history wasn't something he spoke of—Ever. Joe had wasted enough pain and rage at his parent's killer over the years and had avoided any possibility of heading down that trail again. However, the animosity that lay dormant at the turned Werewolf who took them was clawing to escape its restraints.

Hate was a strong word. His mum and dad had taught him better than that. Their brutal murder had put an end to any love he had for bullies or half-breeds.

Elise spread her arms wide. "How many more of us need to fall victim to these mutts?" Her voice rose in volume and intensity. "How many more of us will be forced to suffer while they contaminate our race; our heritage; our blood?"

"And what, I ask you, does the almighty Alliance do? Do they protect our future? Do they ensure we continue to walk this earth long after man has gone?"

"They do nothing," Bradley growled. "Not a damn thing. They give our rightful positions to them; they protect those freaks of nature, and we are cast out like garbage."

"I say enough! We deceive ourselves if we think this is right or just," said Elise.

The room was charged. Joe could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as she reminded them just how unique they all were. A fission of energy surged as the tiny seed of hope was planted as they listened to Elise describe a future in which they would fulfill the destiny promised since time immemorial.

"It is our birthright, one that we have been denied. We must stop this blight on our race before we are consumed with tainted blood. Make no mistake, it is poison, and must be eradicated before it is too late."

A small cheer erupted, and Joe felt himself caught up in the euphoria of her promises.

Elise balled her hand and hit her other open-palmed one with it. "We must be strong for those that can't. The victimized and downtrodden, the rejected and the disenfranchised. Because, if we don't, who will? Certainly not the corrupt Alliance."

As if they were a single mind, an eerie chant rose. Slow at first, it gained momentum as their voices were joined by the rhythmic stamping of feet. "Pure. Pure. Pure," repeated over and over like a mantra.

Elise raised her hands, and the chanting stopped. She was in control of their every thought and movement. "Like the mighty oak that is suffocated by the vine, we must destroy it before it destroys us."

Her hands dropped, and the chorus rose to fever pitch.

Elise perused the sea of faces, their shoulders back, eyes determined. For once, they were filled with a sense of purpose. As she turned, Joe locked gazes with her and a shiver ran down his spine. Her lips, full and sensual, were turned upwards at the corner, projecting jubilance and empathy. Her eyes, however, were another matter. Suddenly, he wasn't as sure of her intentions. The icy maleficent soul that he glimpsed scared him more than he was willing to admit.

Joe scanned the room. The others, swept in a tidal wave of euphoria and hope, were ready to follow a Werewolf they had just met into the bowels of hell.

The only problem...Was he?

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📎A/N. Hmm... why would Elise be building a little army of converts I wonder? What's more, she is targeting those that are a little more lost than most, and more susceptible to her 'charms'.

Surely they won't be fooled by her promises... will they?

Don't forget to vote. Till next time, take care.

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