1- Breakfast of Champions

Something I have noticed about immortal, or long lived beings, is that they stay that way because they follow very strict personal rules they set for themselves. If, like myself, you've been alive and kicking since the 17th century you tend to pick up some tips for basic survival. I wrote them down on a bit of scratch paper once during The Great War, but I dropped it somewhere in the Somme River in 1918. I managed to get through That particular conflict and the next one, although there was a few close calls with the Nazi occult squads afterwards in South America. Of course that's a story for another time. I can remember a few of the more pertinent items on my survival list though.
Trust your gut
Trust your nose
Pack extra ammo and spare clothing
Keep few attachments
When you enter, plan an exit.
If it won't kill you now, worry about it later.
Make no apologies, make it right when you can.
That's it. The majority of it anyway. It isn't a life altering philosophy, but it works for me. The main problem I have though is I don't always follow my own rules. Some decades they might as well be on stone tablets, but every once in awhile I just chuck them out the window cause some damsel is in distress, or if a buddy of mine needs their a*s hauled out of the fire. When I get that odd heroic urge that I'm needed, I forget everything but my gut and the ammo, and blast or claw my way clear.
That last rule is the one that keeps me sane.You see, I've been around since before my country even officially existed, and done more than my fair share of dirty deeds. I learned long ago that I cannot hold those sins over my head like a big black gloom cloud or I won't be able to help myself let alone others. My name is Ignatius Devereux. You can call me Nate. I like coffee, motorcycles, the occasional book, sitcoms, and I'm a werewolf. Yep furry tail, sharp fangs, "that time of the month" jokes from my non-werewolf friends, the complete package.
I rolled into Nashville on an early Monday morning. The blacktop rushing under the wheels of my mostly new Indian Chief. I had picked the bike up in Baja California from a border patrol impound lot and headed east to visit an old friend. And I do mean old. I had served under Jethro Carroll for a time during what we southerners then called "The War of Northern Aggression." I had come down from the Rockies after about two decades of living rough when I realized that there was a war on. Jethro took me under his command in his cavalry regiment and I served as a tracker and scout for him. I didn't get into any of the fighting directly. I already had my fill of the blood and death that war brings. I spent the war mostly covered in mud while I dodged enemy troops. There was also a run in with a few necromancers who thought acres of corpses were a golden opportunity to take a chunk of power for themselves. I mostly went behind enemy lines and figured out how much firepower they had. So yeah I was a Greyback, a Johnny Reb. I know that I'm not a boy scout or anything, but I had no idea that wearing grey for a few years would rank me among hillbilly racists for all time. I never cared about the politics. Point of fact I have some strong ideas against slavery, more on that later, but mostly I was there for the men beside me. We fought for each other.
Jethro and I had fought the Yanks until our soldiers were killed in an ambush. It wasn’t the Federals though. It had been a rogue wolf, a Packless, that had attacked our platoon. I've never had a pack that I ran with for more than a year or three, but a true Packless is the worst kind of monster that one of my kind can be. You see a lone wolf chooses to hunt solo, but a Packless is ostracized by all packs. It ripped through my men when I was out on patrol, taking them out of their tents without so much as a whisper of sound and faster than lightning. Jethro was one of the eight survivors out of thirty. Only five of those made it through their first change to wolf. I helped them get settled away from the conflict and connected with the packs I had some pull with. Jethro himself was now the Omega wolf of the Nashville pack. Now don't let that title confuse you. The Omega is not the lowest in the pack structure, more like just outside the pack. He is like the counselor to an Alpha. It is a position of mental and physical prowess whose responsibility it is to protect the vulnerable rear of his packmates.
Jethro and I had kept in touch over the years. Letters, telegraphs, phone calls then finally I got an email from him a few weeks before saying he was getting married again and needed a best man. I left Argentina that day. Jethro was the kind of friend you dropped things for. He was loyal, brave and had been one of the toughest b******s I've ever met. My welcome was wearing a little thin with the South American werefolk packs anyhow. So I headed north then rolled across the southwest towards Nashville.
I enjoy the wild freedom of the motorcycle. It is one of the closest experiences I can recommend for you normals to compare with a hunt. The wind pummels your face and whips your hair back, as your two wheels just eat up the miles. I wore some fancy sunglasses I found in the dark brown leather saddlebags. Even though I can heal practically any wound that isn't immediately fatal, when road grit gets in your eye it still hurts like hell. The bike's previous owner had most likely bought this fine machine on a whim or some kind of mid-life crisis thing. I had done something like that about a century back, but I just stole a fine horse from a nearby tribe of Cree close to where I was living. That had also been a costly midlife crisis. The former owner of my bike had gotten himself into a spot of trouble with the border patrol and DEA for trying to sneak some kind of fancy Mexican tequila, and a statuette of the Virgin Mary back into the U.S. inside his saddlebags. The hooch hadn't been his problem, it was the twelve ounces of Colombian cocaine he had stuffed inside the holy lady that had gotten him pinched. His loss was my gain though.
I had only another few miles to go till Jethro's place when I caught a scent in the air. I had ridden all night and the aroma of coffee, bacon, and flapjacks, made my stomach growl harshly at me to stop. When you're a werewolf you tend to take such growls seriously. We can eat a truly extraordinary amount of stuff. In different places throughout the south there are steak joints that offer you a free 72oz rib-eye if you can eat it in under an hour. Our bodies metabolize food so quickly that the last time I went through Amarillo I downed three within the hour limit. Needless to say I am on a watch list for such restaurants.
I checked the wristwatch on my left arm and judged that I had made good time during the night. It was very nearly 6:00 a.m. and that was way too early to call on someone anyhow. There were protocols to be obeyed as well. As a lone wolf I could not just waltz into another pack's territory without informing the local Alpha of my presence. And the only Alpha in the Nashville area was an old German wolf named Schneider, who would look at any breach of protocol as a challenge and would put me down faster than a hot pan. He and I had been at odds for centuries, but all I wanted was to attend Jethro's wedding. So I decided to play nice.
There was a little roadside cafe just off of interstate 40 and the Charlotte Pike, named Hillwood Diner where the delicious smells were emanating from. It had a great view of the Cumberland River. I pulled off the highway to grab a bite to eat, and find a way to let Schneider know I would be visiting. The weathered blue paint on wood siding of the building and a couple older model pickup trucks let me know this was the kind of place that was a local institution. Very few of the patrons would be newcomers I guessed, but not unwelcome when they happened through. As I approached the smell of good southern cooking grew stronger, my senses being much greater than a normal human's. I also heard the hubbub of what I assumed was the regular crowd of people. There was the clinking of glasses and scraping of utensils on ceramic plates. I gritted my teeth as I heard that sharp wood on wood sound of a chair being scooted across the floor. There was also the comforting noise of people. I heard snippets of a half dozen conversations over as many topics. Some older men were ranting about the government and how which ever party they supported was being trampled by their unworthy opponents. I never cared much about what was happening in the government. I had spent my formative years east of the Mississippi where each tribe was more or less autonomous. And even though I had fought alongside the rebellion that helped to form this country, I had to as they say these days "fly under the radar". I do not want to be responsible for the general public to discover the existence of my kind. That could be a disaster for the entire Were community. Don't believe me? Remember how paranoid Europeans were? Hunting witches and werewolves in the Middle Ages? Now imagine today's modern technology and weapons devoted entirely to wiping out the supernatural community en masse. Not a pretty picture.
I could hear another three men on the south corner were reading the paper with their coffee and discussing the ups and downs of their favored sports teams. I opened the door to a jangle of bells attached to the top and the slightly muffled sounds I heard outside came to life.
A greying bun of hair turned to show the pleasant face of a woman in her late 40's. Her dark brown skin was the same chocolate of my leather jacket and her bright smile reached to her eyes as she welcomed me. She was carrying a tray to one of the booth tables nearest the door and said in a soft voice.
"Just sit anywhere darlin'. Someone'll see to you directly."
I nodded my thanks and returned her smile. There were booths lining the outside edge of the room with a few scattered tables in a random pattern in the middle. I headed to the last available booth near opposite the front door. The table next to me held three older men, who I took to be retired by their collective age. Two were white and the third was black. They paused their conversation about sports that I had heard faintly outside and tried hard not to look in my direction. Sometimes us werewolves can emit a kind of "back the hell off" vibe. It is one way to deter wolves or other predators who are less dominant from picking a senseless fight they can't win. I can turn it down when I concentrate. I closed my eyes, and began to take a moment and tell my wolf to take a breather.
I could feel his presence, as always present in my mind. Frère, my wolf, my other half of my soul, my brother. He was a little agitated, even though the full moon was still two weeks away. Frère is always restless in big cities. He doesn't like the concrete and steel and there are too many harsh noises and foul odors. Wolves aren't urban creatures and we much prefer to be closer to nature. That has gotten more difficult in the last century. Human progress has made the wolf packs wary of our interactions with them. I had an instantaneous conversation with him.
'Hey Frère, I know you hate this place. I promise as soon as we are done we can leg it up to somewhere they have elk in season and bring down a few together. Hang in there and be polite.' A mental shrug of agreement was all I got, Frère is the strong silent type. It's like we're mentally conjoined twins and I'm the one with the motor mouth. I felt him tune down the predator vibes. As I opened my eyes I could see that there was a noticeable release of tension from the next table. The men picked up their talk almost as if they hadn't paused.
"And you just watch him next week, he'll throw the next game too."
"Ahh forget it, you're just sore cause that son-in-law of yours saw you coming and took twenty bucks off you for last night's game."
I saw the waitress coming over to my table with a menu and a small steno pad. She handed the plastic covered paper to me and gave me that welcoming smile again.
"What can I get you honey?"
I took a moment to peruse the menu. I hadn't had a good old fashioned southern breakfast in a decade it seems, and that may very well have been true. "Hmm I will have.... 'The Elvis Special' and can you add on a few extra sides for me?"
"Sure, what did you have in mind?" She began to scribble little notes on the pad.
"Three extra bacon sides and two home fries."
She whistled, writing down the order which already included a stack of 10 pancakes, sides of bacon, sausages, and four eggs sunny side up with four pieces of cinnamon toast. She politely didn't add further comment about my heart attack on a plate and grabbed the menu and made for the kitchen to leave them my order.
One of the older fellows leaned over to my table and smiled incredulously at me. "Are you sure you can handle all that sonny? That's a meal likely to be your last."
I returned his smile with maybe a bit more teeth than was necessary. "More than sure sir, I feel like I haven't eaten in a week." He caught a glimpse of my eyes and unconsciously jerked his gaze away. It looked like he had just lost his balance leaning over to talk to me and his buddies laughed at him good-naturedly. He laughed it off as well and they turned back to their own conversation. While I waited for my food, I pulled a prepaid phone out of my pocket and a small flip notebook with some phone numbers written inside. I found Schneider's number and rang him. It connected and a baritone with a light German accent answered.
"Schneider." His one word answer didn't surprise me. The old wolf had always been terse and it is difficult for us older wolves to change.
"Hello Mr. Schneider, this is Nate Marron." I was using my current alias and spoke at a normal level knowing that any wolf on his side of the line would be able to clearly hear my voice as well, but not acting suspicious to those nearby myself. There is something undeniably shady about a man who whispers furtively into his phone in a public place. I was hoping that he was aware of my current identity. Hopefully Jethro had told him I would be coming to give him time to adjust to the idea of a lone wolf in his pack's territory.
"Yes Marron, I know who you are. Vhere are you calling from?" There were the clipped Germanic tones I knew and hated. I don't have a problem with Germans mind you, just him.
"The Hillwood Diner by I-40." I knew that I could offer him no disrespect or he would eject me from his territory. So in an unusual display of self restraint I closed my yapper and gave him simple answers.
"You vill remain vhere you are until some of my pack come to retrieve you. I am sending my Gamma and Lambda to your location." I tried not to let frustration show through my voice.
"That is not necessary Mr. Schneider. I am just here to visit my old friend and promise to cause no trouble for you and yours. I am his invited guest and would no more abuse your generous hospitality than I would my own mother's."
"I never knew your muzzer Marron. Just vait zhere." His voice was agitated, which it usually was when talking to me, but there was a deeper anger behind that voice too. He and I were on opposite sides of the American Revolution when he became Alpha, and back in 1872 I killed the Alpha of one of the Georgia packs. The alpha had been a close personal friend of his, and he took even more of a dislike for me.
Heinrich Becke was the first wolf Schneider had turned, and that is a special bond between wolves. I had been arriving back to North America after a tour of Europe, and he met me at the port when my ship was docking. He was close to 400 years old, but was worried that I was gonna stake a claim on his territory and pack. He thought he could keep me out in the ship and out of the country. He threw down the gauntlet, so to speak, and tried to dominate my wolf into submission. I broke his spine with my bare hands in less than six minutes and Schneider had been sore at me ever since. It didn't matter that the crazy fool I killed had been hunting human children for fun. He was turning into a monster and had to be put down. But if it was anyone's responsibility it should have been his maker.
I slipped the phone and the notebook back into my pocket and brooded for a moment until the first of my breakfast arrived. Frère spoke to me in my mind. 'We should punish that one for speaking like that. The second he gets a chance he will rip our throat out.' My wolf was like that, he always suggested the course of least resistance and usually the highest amount of violence. I thought back to him. 'No not yet. He wants something from us I can tell, but I don't know what that is yet.'
Frère harrumphed in the back of my mind and when the first of the food arrived, we tucked in together. Everything was made with just a little something special that most people wouldn't be able to detect other than noticing the taste was good. The cook must've had a latent magic. I could taste the devotion to craft in each bite. There isn't any kind of spell that can effect a werewolf or any of the other therianthropes. That's a big fancy word that just means a person who can shift form into an animal shape. We are bound so tightly to our own magic that most other magics simply bounce off us. But there is a subtler and deeper magic in ordinary things and people that defy such laws. The joy of laughter with a friend, feeling the wind as you ride across the land, or the pleasure of something made well with intent. The effects wouldn't change the laws of physics like a wizard, but the cook probably never had a meal sent back to the kitchen with a complaint.
Since we're on the subject of werewolves, I've been in libraries all over the world and there's all kinds of ludicrous crap that people have claimed to have discovered over the centuries about Weres and our magic. People have written about wolf skin belts, which are only somewhat true, all the way to silver bullets, which as it turns out are quite true, and every myth in between. The truth is that they are looking at us as if we were stories. Not the actual living things we are.
I contemplated these things as I chowed down on my breakfast. Frère didn't have much to say beyond expressing his enjoyment of the meats. The waitress brought my extra sides and gave me a questioning glance as I had already half emptied the first platter in the four minutes it had taken her to bring my extra sides. I grinned good naturedly at her and she just smiled and walked away muttering something under her breath about young men and their appetites. She thought that her comment went unheard and for almost anyone else it would have been. I ignored it and went back to business. The older men nodded at me as they left and I gave them a friendly nod right back. If only my own kind were as welcoming as the people in this diner.
Speaking of my kind. I heard what sounded like a midsize SUV pull up and park outside. I heard their tires crunch on the gravel and noticed that they were parked nearby my bike. Frère stirred a little inside my mind. 'They better not scratch what is ours.' Frère didn't even know how to ride a bike, but like all wolves he had a distinct sense of property and what things rightfully belonged to him.
Their car doors opened and closed and I caught their scents as they came closer to the door of the diner. There were two wolves, a male and female. I wasn't surprised that one was female I just hadn't expected it. The bite to transfer the magic of lycanthropy needs to be deep to a vital part of the body or cause lethal damage. Most don't survive the changing process. Those who do then experience their first transformation to wolf form on the next full moon. The average survival rate for men is three or four out of every ten. For women it is probably half that. This makes the population of most packs significantly more masculine.
They weren't talking and must have formulated a plan on the way here. These must be my new baby sitters. Any other time I would have given them the slip. This was a plan that Frère reminded me he was in favor of, but I reminded him we needed to be on our best behavior for Jethro's wedding. The bell on the door rang gently as they walked through. They zeroed in on me instantly and began to make their way to my table. The waitress tried to ask them where they wanted to sit and when she was ignored she looked over their shoulders at me in exasperation. I gave her a sympathetic shrug as if to say. 'I'm sorry that these people are being rude'. And I resolved to leave her a generous tip.
The female walked in front and the male hulked behind her. At first I thought he might be the Gamma wolf and was just being a gentleman, letting the lady go first. But wolves don't operate like that. She was in the lead so she must be the higher ranking member of Schneider's pack.
All wolf packs in the world are obsessed with two things. Tradition and Position. Cue eye roll. They all still structure their packs using the Greek letters of the alphabet in reference to the first werewolves of Ancient Greece. Wolves have always done this and have stamped out any heresies that do otherwise. Wolves are by nature either dominant or submissive. Within packs we naturally jockey for a position based on a variety of factors including age, size, aggression, dominance, blah blah blah. Short answer, one of the reasons I never officially joined a pack is that all the scheming and infighting drives me bonkers.
I studied them closely in the few moments it took for them to approach. They were both in peak physical condition and, like myself appeared to be in their mid to late twenties. She was tall for a woman, probably about five inches shorter than my 6'4". She had coffee and cream colored skin and black hair worn in loose curls in a pageboy cut. Her dark brown eyes were relaxed, but took in her surroundings with confidence. Her nose was more aquiline than African Americans usually sported, and she knew how to look down it with an air of superiority. She was fit and had the slightest sway in her slim hips. Frère perked up a bit the way he did whenever a female wolf was around. My wolf brother and I have different strategies about interacting with women. I prefer to court a woman and treat her with courtesy. Frère on the other hand ... well is a wild animal and like other wolves tries to claim any viable mate in his immediate vicinity. The Gamma noticed my attention and gave me a split second smirk that said 'Yeah I noticed you noticing me.'
My attention moved on to size up the Lambda, and as I did noticed the glimmer of irritation on her face. She liked to be distracting and even though she was good at it I'm too old to be distracted by a pretty face and nice legs... Okay I did see those too.
The male was a big ole boy. With a few extra inches taller than myself. He had significantly more muscle mass as well, though that didn't matter much to wolves. If the Gamma of his pack was a woman she was probably at least a hundred years old, and that meant she could throw down with just about any wolf that wasn't an Alpha or Beta. Mr. Lambda had sandy hair cut into some kind of modern look that just looked messy to me. He was wearing a dark polo and artfully ripped jeans, I was liking him less and less by his personal fashion alone. His eyes were also brown but closer to honey than mahogany. They squinted at me when I examined him, trying to look tough. He would have been handsome but for his overlarge jaw and his eyebrows were so pale that they almost disappeared.
Ms. Gamma reached to pull out the chair across from me and sit down. Well that's all kinds of rude as she hasn't introduced herself or asked permission. I may be a lone wolf but both Frère and I agreed that disrespect was not to be tolerated. We mentally turned up the amp on our dominance and she froze. She flashed her eyes at me trying to turn up her own strength, but she was way out of her depth if she wanted to play dominance games with me. I didn't even glance at Lambda to know that he was still as a statue. I held her gaze until she dropped it in respect.
"Mr. Marron?" Her teeth were slightly on edge as she asked more politely if I was who she was looking for. She knew damn well who I was and what I was capable of and I could tell she had a little difficulty being reminded of that.
"Why yes I am. Would you care to sit?" I released the dominance but both Frère and I were wary of these two now. And now little miss Gamma knew my big bad wolf was more than a match for both of theirs.
The other customers of the cafe were starting to notice the exchange as something other than a normal meeting. It was time to use some more werewolf magic. I dug deep and gathered my will. I pushed outward with my awareness with a vibe that encouraged other people to look the other way and ignore what we were doing. Other magical users or beings think that being a werewolf is just being able to do one spell really well. In reality it is being in tune with nature and being able to subtly influence your surroundings. Most wolves refer to these magics as pack magic, personally since I don't run with a pack I like to call them vibes. Werewolves can push out these vibes to affect those around them.
I'm sure there are more precise names but I have termed them in a bit more personal way. There is the aforementioned "Back the hell off", this was Frère's go to one, "Don't notice me", which I was doing now to help keep us from causing a scene. There are a few more, but don't expect too much of an info dump in the beginning of my story.
Ms. Gamma held out a shapely hand with long delicate fingers. "My name is Milena Bazzoli, Gamma of the Nashville Pack." I took her hand and nodded up and slightly over to the right at an angle in greeting. It's a wolf thing, something about showing your neck implies non violence. She, being the less powerful wolf nodded up higher. I turned to the large Mr. Lambda he didn't even offer his hand. It was a human gesture, one not always done by wolves, but it was still considered a small nicety.
"And your name sir?"
"Arthur Becke, Lambda of the Nashville Pack." His nod was even higher. To a human it would have looked like he was trying to crack his neck joints to intimidate me, but he was actually submitting to my authority.
I smiled at them. "See how easy that was." A thought was swimming around the back of my mind. " Becke..... Becke.... Where have I heard that name before?"
Arthur Becke stiffened and growled low in his throat. His Gamma kicked him under the table and he stifled it to answer me. His deep basso rumbled in his chest as he obviously fought to control his emotions. "My great great grandfather was Heinrich Becke." He left off and I finally realized how I knew that name.
My mind flashed back to 1872 and the fight I had with old Heinrich at the docks in Georgia. He had been a big fellow also. He had reigned with an iron claw and apparently had some descendants before I ganked him. If Arthur was a great great grandson of Heinrich he would most likely be close to his apparent physical age. This explained why such a large specimen would be a middle rank like Lambda in the pack structure. I tried to play it casual so as not to enrage the young wolf. The "don't notice me" vibe I was pushing was strong, but not enraged werewolf losing his crap in the middle of a busy restaurant strong.
"Thank you both for coming to meet me today. As you know your Pack's Omega is getting married later on this week. Jethro and I are old friends and he has invited me to be a part of his wedding." They both stiffened at this and I could see their eyes go a little yellow with rage. They hadn't reacted the way I would have expected to the news that I was coming to the wedding. They had reacted to Jethro's name. "Is there a problem?"
"Mr. Marron," Milena began as controlled as she could forcing her eyes back to brown. "I would ask you to remain calm and to know that our Alpha is handling the situation."
"What situation?" Now I was growling and felt my eyes go a little yellow. Frère also wanted to know what was happening.
Milena took a deep breath to steady herself. My irritation must have broken over her in a wave of emotion. "Last night there was an incident at Jethro's house. He was attacked around 3:00 a.m. We all felt it too late and by the time we got there he was already gone."
I clenched my hands into fists feeling my nails sharpen and begin to dig into my palms. "What do you mean you felt it too late?" My voice was as tight as my fist and I tried to keep it from booming too much.
Becke spoke up. "Something obscured the pack bond between Jethro and the rest of us. Or was it someone?" He left it off at that.
Frère almost took control at the implication that we would harm a friend. We had hunted with Jethro for a long time and Frère had a lot of respect for Jethro's wolf. Respect that wasn't so easy to earn. I stood up abruptly and I knew my eyes had flashed a deep angry gold. Frère almost had control now and I was inclined to let him take over. His voice rumbled around my brain. 'Hunt'...'Kill'.
I bee-lined to the front door and vaguely noticed Becke fishing out his wallet to pay for my meal. Milena stuck with me and tried to get in front to block my path. I reached out in a flash and snatched her by the throat. I wasn't trying to choke her out, just fling her out of my path. Becke appeared out of nowhere to catch her and he set her on her feet. He tried to step in my way next but Frère's force of will froze him in his tracks easier that a blizzard. I left the diner and leaped on the saddle of my bike. It came alive under my hands as I started it up and the growl of it's engine echoed the one rising in my chest. Someone had hurt my friend and I was going to find out who.