and more boisterous than we’d left, Jeremy met us in the garage and warned us to tone it down. Dominic’s headache was worse, and he was now complaining of dizziness and other pains. Jeremy was obviously worried, but Dominic only brushed off his suggestion to visit the doctor and popped some aspirin.
So we bustled off to bed. I slept in Nick’s room, and Joey slept in one of the guest rooms with his father. Nick and I stayed up for a while, talking, but drifted off shortly before two.
At three-thirty, I awoke to Jeremy shaking me. One look at his face, and I leapt up.
"What’s—?" I began.
"Dominic," he said, handing me my clothing from the floor. "He passed out and I can’t wake him. We need to get him to the doctor, fast. Are you okay to drive?"
"Sure," I said, and grabbed the clothes.
Challenge
I drove Dominic to the hospital so fast that, if I’d been pulled over, I’m sure I would have lost my license.
He’d had a stroke. Things like this are less common among werewolves—maybe because of our different physiology and maybe because of our more active lifestyle—but sometimes it doesn’t matter how healthy you are, mother nature decides your time is up. And so it was for Dominic.
For the next three days we kept vigil at his bed in the private clinic. I wanted to stay, but Jeremy insisted there was nothing I should do and so I shouldn’t miss school. I did, however, skip classes that weren’t absolutely necessary so I could zip across town to the clinic and spend as much time there as possible.
On Tuesday morning, Dominic died, having never regained consciousness. I didn’t learn of it until I arrived late that afternoon and found Nick and Jorge alone, sitting beside an empty bed.
Antonio made the arrangements for Dominic’s funeral. Or, he did his best, but Jeremy ended up quietly taking over. This is one part of Western death rituals I’ve never understood, that a person has just died and, within hours, those closest to him, who most want to go home, close the door and grieve, must instead sit in some stranger’s office and decide what kind of coffin or flowers they want. As for the service itself, it was small, as are all Pack funerals. Afterward, we retreated to the Sorrentino estate to grieve.
We’d been back for less than an hour, all gathered in the living room. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts—each except Malcolm, who knew exactly where he was heading and wasn’t waiting another minute to get there.
"We need an Alpha," he said. "Word gets out that Dominic died without a successor and we’re in trouble. Every mutt in the country will think something’s wrong with the Pack."
"We just put my father in the ground," Antonio said, lifting his head from his hands. "You can wait another goddamned—"
"No," Jorge said softly. "He’s right. We need to get this over with."
"I don’t mean any offense to your father, Tonio," Malcolm said. "If it seems that way, then I apologize. I’m just thinking of the Pack. We can get this over with quickly and painlessly, then let everyone get back to mourning a great Alpha. We all know how this works. I’m putting my name forward. If anyone cares to challenge me, we’ll step outside right now and settle this."
"Challenge you to what?" I said. "A duel? You gonna pick swords or pistols?"
Jeremy’s lips curved as he recognized his own words from so long ago.
"A fight, Clayton," Malcolm said. "A fight to the death. That’s how it works when an Alpha dies before the Pack chooses an official successor. Now, the only people here who might have a shot at winning that challenge are you and Antonio. Tonio doesn’t want it. Never has. As for you, I’m sure you’d make a damned fine Alpha . . . in ten or fifteen years. If that’s what you want, you can have it then. I’ll pick you as my successor and I’ll make sure you win. That’s a promise."
Jeremy cleared his throat. Malcolm turned on him before he could get a word out.
"Don’t
So we bustled off to bed. I slept in Nick’s room, and Joey slept in one of the guest rooms with his father. Nick and I stayed up for a while, talking, but drifted off shortly before two.
At three-thirty, I awoke to Jeremy shaking me. One look at his face, and I leapt up.
"What’s—?" I began.
"Dominic," he said, handing me my clothing from the floor. "He passed out and I can’t wake him. We need to get him to the doctor, fast. Are you okay to drive?"
"Sure," I said, and grabbed the clothes.
Challenge
I drove Dominic to the hospital so fast that, if I’d been pulled over, I’m sure I would have lost my license.
He’d had a stroke. Things like this are less common among werewolves—maybe because of our different physiology and maybe because of our more active lifestyle—but sometimes it doesn’t matter how healthy you are, mother nature decides your time is up. And so it was for Dominic.
For the next three days we kept vigil at his bed in the private clinic. I wanted to stay, but Jeremy insisted there was nothing I should do and so I shouldn’t miss school. I did, however, skip classes that weren’t absolutely necessary so I could zip across town to the clinic and spend as much time there as possible.
On Tuesday morning, Dominic died, having never regained consciousness. I didn’t learn of it until I arrived late that afternoon and found Nick and Jorge alone, sitting beside an empty bed.
Antonio made the arrangements for Dominic’s funeral. Or, he did his best, but Jeremy ended up quietly taking over. This is one part of Western death rituals I’ve never understood, that a person has just died and, within hours, those closest to him, who most want to go home, close the door and grieve, must instead sit in some stranger’s office and decide what kind of coffin or flowers they want. As for the service itself, it was small, as are all Pack funerals. Afterward, we retreated to the Sorrentino estate to grieve.
We’d been back for less than an hour, all gathered in the living room. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts—each except Malcolm, who knew exactly where he was heading and wasn’t waiting another minute to get there.
"We need an Alpha," he said. "Word gets out that Dominic died without a successor and we’re in trouble. Every mutt in the country will think something’s wrong with the Pack."
"We just put my father in the ground," Antonio said, lifting his head from his hands. "You can wait another goddamned—"
"No," Jorge said softly. "He’s right. We need to get this over with."
"I don’t mean any offense to your father, Tonio," Malcolm said. "If it seems that way, then I apologize. I’m just thinking of the Pack. We can get this over with quickly and painlessly, then let everyone get back to mourning a great Alpha. We all know how this works. I’m putting my name forward. If anyone cares to challenge me, we’ll step outside right now and settle this."
"Challenge you to what?" I said. "A duel? You gonna pick swords or pistols?"
Jeremy’s lips curved as he recognized his own words from so long ago.
"A fight, Clayton," Malcolm said. "A fight to the death. That’s how it works when an Alpha dies before the Pack chooses an official successor. Now, the only people here who might have a shot at winning that challenge are you and Antonio. Tonio doesn’t want it. Never has. As for you, I’m sure you’d make a damned fine Alpha . . . in ten or fifteen years. If that’s what you want, you can have it then. I’ll pick you as my successor and I’ll make sure you win. That’s a promise."
Jeremy cleared his throat. Malcolm turned on him before he could get a word out.
"Don’t
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