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#Chapter 182 – The Trump Card
Inside the house, Ian, Emma, and Delia jump when they hear the sound of the bombs.
Mrs. Walsh just sits still. It’s a sound she’s heard before, one she was expecting.
“Wha-” Ian says, his mouth open and his head turned towards the windows, wishing, desperately, that
he could see out. “What was that?”
“Bombs, darling,” Mrs. Walsh says from her spot in her armchair by the unlit fire, her head resting back
against the fabric, exhausted. “That is the sound of the battle beginning.”
Ian grimaces and Emma knows that he wishes, above all, that he could be there. Ian is a boy who
needs to be in on the action – he will be absolutely restless until he feels that he’s at the center of it all,
helping his side.
Keeping him here, safe and sound, is torture for him.
“Mom,” Emma says softly, turning her face to her mother, trying again. “This can’t seriously be what you
want for your pack, for its future.”
Mrs. Walsh turns her face away, as she did before.
They had tried, earlier, to persuade her. To convince her that a pack with Emma and Evelyn at the
head, instead of John and Joyce, would be the better choice for everyone. But she had simply sat
down in that chair and not responded – not at all – to anything that Emma had to say.
Delia hadn’t said anything, had merely sat quietly on the sofa. She knows that it’s not her fight.
Eventually, Emma had given up and went to sit with Delia. They had sat in silence until the sound of the
bombs started.
Ian surprises them all, though, by going to sit in his grandmother’s lap.
She welcomes him there, wrapping her arms around him as he curls up with his head against her
chest. She rests her chin on his head.
“Grandmama,” he says softly. “Why does my grandfather hate my dad so much? Why does he want to
kill him?”
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtHer face goes pale at that and she looks down at her grandson. He’s clever enough, she knows, to
realize that the two forces going at each other outside are, indeed, his father and his grandfather. So
she can’t lie to him to make it any better.
“I don’t think that’s his real intention, Ian,” she says softly. “I don’t think he wants to kill him. It’s just…
very important, for your grandfather, to maintain control. Of his pack.”
“Is daddy trying to take away the control?” Ian asks, looking up at her. “Why?”
She avoids the question a little, knowing that her husband is, in fact, the aggressor in this situation –
even if Victor is the one to come to the property, Walsh started this fight. “Your grandfather thinks that
he will be better at leading the people than your father is. That he knows best, and that your father
should step down.”
“I don’t see why it matters,” Ian says, his voice rueful. “Alvin and I are going to inherit both packs in a
little bit of time. They’ll be combined anyway. This all seems…” Ian takes a moment, staring at the iron
shutters over the windows of their cage, trying to put words to emotions perhaps too intense for a six-
year-old boy.
“It all seems like a terrible waste,” he says finally, his voice very soft. “If people are going to get hurt,
even die. When these packs are going to unite anyway, in the future.”
Mrs. Walsh looks down at her grandchild, surprised, and then stares at the wall in front of her for a
long, quiet moment.
“Well, baby,” she says softly, stroking his hair in the same way that his mother does. “Perhaps you are
right.”
A feral smile rips across Victor’s face as he sees that his plan has worked. The final dregs of the
wolfsbane smarts against his skin and his eyes as he blinks, surveying the damage done to his
enemies. But his scientists had been perfect in their calculations.
The vast majority of Walsh and Willard’s forward forces lay writhing on the ground, screaming, their
hands going to their faces, their eyes, their backs arching in agony as they fight against the chemical
attacking their bodies.
A brief flicker of guilt runs through Victor at their pain – he doesn’t enjoy it, of course – but he wipes it
away, knowing that the men will be grateful, in the end. He doesn’t know a single man among them that
wouldn’t trade three days of pain for a swift death, which was the other option.
Quickly, Victor surveys his own Betas, who have likewise turned back towards their foe. A few have
fallen, writhing in agony themselves – likely those who hadn’t turned before the wind had carried the
wolfsbane amongst them – but the vast majority of them stand strong.
The tide of the battle has turned now. With the majority of Walsh and Willard’s forces out for the count,
the numbers are again in Victor’s favor.
Taking advantage of the situation, Victor opens his mouth and shouts, commanding his army to charge.
As one, they surge forward, picking up speed again as they hurtle towards their foes.
There’s about four hundred yards between Victor’s army and the enemies. His Betas have been
ordered to take care – to go for a wound at every opportunity, instead of a kill. To press the advantage,
but to be aware that they’re fighting amongst men who used to be their allies, who would be again, if
Victor’s campaign is successful.
Victor knows that Walsh has given his armies no such command. Still, they are too far away still for
short-range pistols or even machine guns to accurately shoot, and Walsh’s uninjured forces are
scrambling to man the front lines. Victor’s smile deepens as he runs, knowing that the odds are in his
favor.
Still, his eyes scan Walsh’s encampment, knowing that Walsh is no fool. That he’s not going to just let
Victor dash in and take over without a fight. He will have something up his sleeve, and Victor is on the
lookout for it, prepared for it.
He sees commotion at the center of the ranks, a flurry of activity just inside the chain-link fence
surrounding a watch tower. Betas run all over it, swarming like ants, moving equipment and people
around under a flurry of orders.
A watchtower, Victor thinks, confused. Why the hell do they need to concentrate on manning a
watchtower when his army is rushing forward towards them in plain sight –
Amidst all of the Beta black climbing the steps of the watchtower, Victor notes a flash of blue –
s**t.
Follow on Novᴇl-Onlinᴇ.cᴏmHe realizes, suddenly, that Walsh is going to play his trump card. Right now.
A ring of static runs over the field and then the sharp piercing noise of an amplifier being attached to a
microphone. Several of Victor’s Betas wince but they don’t hesitate, moving forward as one.
“Stop,” a voice booms from a gigantic speaker that swings to the front of the watch tower. Victor
ignores the command and, receiving no contrary order, his troops surge forward.
“You will stop!” the voice repeats, and then the figure in blue is pushed forward to the railing of the
platform at the top level of the tower. “Stop, or she falls!”
Victor freezes on the battlefield, recognizing the figure –
Of course he does – the shape of her, the curl of her hair – he would recognize his Luna anywhere –
“STOP!” His command rips from his throat, followed quickly by a growl of frustration, of fear, of rage at
this gall of this man, threatening the life of his daughter as a battlefield ploy.
Victor’s troops heed the command, coming slowly to a stop as the order echoes amongst them. They
have formed a semicircle around Walsh’s encampment, those troops around Victor having heard and
obeyed the order first, those furthest having proceeded further until the command reached them.
When they have all stopped, frozen on the field, the voice begins again.
“Kensington, come forward.”
Victor recognizes the voice now as Walsh’s own. He wasn’t sure if Walsh would himself be on the field,
as he was, or if he’d be giving orders from the background. Now he knows precisely where he is and is
glad of the information.
Still, Victor makes no move.
“Come forward,” Walsh commands again. “Or she falls.”
At that, a Beta violently kicks the railing in front of Evelyn, snapping it, shoving her forward so that she’s
suspended over the open air, her arms reeling, seeking balance.
s**t, Victor thinks, grinding his teeth.
A trump card indeed.
Slowly, amongst the silence and the stillness of his Beta forces, Victor takes a step forward.
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