Alpha of Smoke

The Traveling Party

*Isabella*

Dust rises up off the road, clogging our lungs and coating our tongues. Even though we’re walking on the raised sidewalk that runs along the outside of the shops to keep our boots out of the horse muck, it hasn’t rained much yet this spring, and the grit in my eyes is proof we are due a nice thunderstorm.

“Where are we going, Ma?” Alice whines, darting forward toward our mother so quickly she near pulls my shoulder out of its socket. Keeping a good grip on her hand, I tug her back. “Sis said we aren’t going west.”

“That was before.” Ma’s words are clipped. She doesn’t even turn her head to look at us. “We’re just going to listen.”

On my other side, Robert huffs under his breath but says nothing. I wish I hadn’t promised them anything last night. I’d felt defeated myself and thought there was little chance of us ever leaving this place only to have everything turned on its head when our cousin was killed.

“We’re doin’ more than that.” Joseph, who is a good four feet behind us and has gotten separated from the rest of the family a few times as busy shoppers exit the businesses around us, stepping into an opening and not recognizing the fact that the young man loping so far behind us is actually part of our party.

“No one has decided nothin’,” Ma reiterates. This time, she does whip around to give us a stern look before turning back around in time to avoid running into a gaggle of children running down the walkway, laughing, with licorice in their hands. “Heathens,” Ma mutters.

Pa grunts. He has that steely look on his face, the one that tells us no matter what our mother may be attempting to speak into existence, the decision has, for certain, already been made.

I knew it last night when Pa’s eyes met mine from across the room, only a flame’s flicker after Henry left this world.

After that, Uncle Tim had lain into Pa. How could we possibly stay here now? We have to leave now before it’s too late.

Pa had suggested they wait until today, give it some time and proper thought, but Uncle Tim was more determined than ever.

Today, a couple of veterans my father is acquainted with from the war are holding a meeting to see how much interest there is in organizing a party. It’s the same one my uncle and Mr. Casper were talking about just a few hours before Henry met his demise. Over breakfast, Ma had ranted about how it was likely to be a bunch of foreigners who don’t even speak the language, folks we won’t even be able to communicate with through the mind-link because they ain’t from our pack.

Pa, the picture of tranquility, sipped his coffee and reminded her that we’d promised her grieving brother we’d hear them out.

“I don’t know why we are dragging the children along,” Ma says as we approach the old bank building that now serves as a makeshift meeting space since the new bank opened across town.

I’m not surprised when Pa pretends he didn’t hear Ma’s statement. He does that when he don’t feel like arguing and doesn’t have an answer she’ll like.

I’m about to walk inside when I hear a whoop go up across the street. My head turns in that direction, and immediately my mouth drops open as I see what all the noise is about.

It’s a rare sight for our little town. Feathers, leather, bright colors, long black hair, skin truly kissed by the sun’s rays. Four men walk along the walkway, wide smiles on their faces as they take in everything our Tennessee town has to offer. I can imagine everywhere they look, they see something new and interesting, too, as none of us are anything like them.

My eyes meet a pair of black glossy orbs, and my breath stutters in my throat. Even though he’s clear on the other side of the street and a team of horses has just raced by, stirring up the dust, I see him as clear as I saw the back of Ma’s head as I followed her here before his very existence snapped me out of one reality and into another one.

He sees me, too.

The acknowledgement is small, just a shallow inhale, the tilt of his head, the quirk of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Then, his friend says something, and he turns away, shiny black hair floating like ribbons as he turns.

“Izzy?”

My attention is ripped back to my family as a yelp escapes my gaping mouth. “Sorry,” I mutter as Pa raises an eyebrow. “That was loud.”

Again, his only response is a low rumble in the back of his throat that tells me I cannot get anything by the steady eyes of a man who was once responsible for convincing thousands of men to follow him across death’s threshold.

He holds the door to the bank for us, and we all go in.

Once again, I’m caught off guard. I was expecting ten or fifteen people, but the entire room is full. Ma lets out an unamused laugh as Pa takes her hand and leads her to a spot with a little more room. I reach for Robert’s hand to pull him along, but he snatches away from me, reminding me he’s not a baby anymore. I let him go, giving him a scowl, and the three of us follow, with Joseph lagging behind.

Aunt Lena is perched on the edge of one of the few chairs left in the space, a handkerchief pressed to her nose. Hanna sits on the floor next to her, forlorn, and Uncle Tim, whose hands grip his wife’s shoulders, follows us with puffy eyes. Next to him, Mr. Casper and his family stand stoic, their heads tipped slightly as if to punctuate the fact that they wanted to be here all along, and it didn’t take the death of a young man to persuade them to stand with their friends.

Once we are tucked out of the way a bit, I take a look around. I’ve lived here my entire life and don’t recognize a single face, other than those I’ve already named. Most of these people look like they just swam across the ocean and walked from Savannah or some other port city. They’re dirty. Thin. Their clothes are worn and wrinkled. A few of them cough into their sleeves or sneeze. Ma wraps her arms around Alice and Robert and pulls them closer as if that will keep them from becoming infected with whatever these folks are suffering from.

None of them look prepared to shift and run for thousands of miles across forests and prairies, to cross mountains, to swim across rapid rivers. What the hell are they thinking?

“I think we’ll go ahead and get started.” A man with gray hair dressed in a military uniform steps forward, another, slightly younger man in marching garbs at his shoulder. “I’m Major Sanders, and this is Burns. We’re holdin’ this meetin’ to see if there’s any interest in organizing a party to head west—tomorrow.”

A murmur rips through the crowd, and at first I think it’s because everyone is so surprised that we’re leaving right away, but then, people begin shaking their heads, and I realize they don’t understand a damn word he’s saying.

Sanders swears under his breath. “Anyone speak English? Parle vous English?” His French accent is almost comical, but I can’t laugh at a time like this, so I bite it back.

A girl about my age in the back of the room raises her hand. “I do. Some.”

Sanders swears again, and the girl translates, which has all the mothers covering their children’s dirty ears.

This time, I can’t help it, and a giggle slips out. Ma elbows me hard in the ribs, and I manage to rein it in.

“What’s yer name?” Sanders asks her.

“Genevieve,” she says, bowing her head to him as if he’s the Alpha or something. She steps through the crowd to stand in front of him.

“All right, Ginny,” he says, like he’s hard of hearing or just doesn’t care that he’s changed who she is. “Tell ‘em everything I say. Every word. Except the swears. Got it?”

She nods, and when Sanders starts lecturing us all about how we’re basically all starting a slow march into death’s open arms, the girl repeats what he’s saying in French.

My eyes wander around the room, taking in the various reactions from the crowd. One after another, their mouths drop open as Sanders—and Ginny—explain all the dangers we’ll be encountering should we be foolish enough to embark on this journey. “Deadly snakes, poisonous plants, water that’s not safe to drink, raging rivers, and worst of all, native rogues.”

When he says those last two words, Ginny’s forehead crinkles, and she turns to look at him. “Native rogues?” she repeats in her thick accent. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Wolves that have lived in these parts for thousands of years,” Sanders tells her. “They still think those lands out west are theirs, even though the humans are tellin’ ‘em otherwise.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, thinking of the four men we saw across the street on the way here, namely the handsome one who caught my eye. They weren’t native rogues—but they were from a native pack. There’s a difference, though I doubt Sanders will have Ginny explain. Some of the packs between here and Wyoming are kind and helpful. They trade with us and the humans. As long as no one tries to take the land where they’ve settled, peace is possible.

But further west, we will encounter packs that refuse to budge. They see anyone coming their way as a threat. And maybe they’re right, but that won’t stop the humans.

And apparently, that won’t stop us neither.

A thin gentleman with a scruffy beard full of dirt raises his hand. Sanders acknowledges him, but his question is in French. Ginny translates, “Are we taking land that belongs to someone else?”

A hardy laugh emanates from both Sanders and Burns. “It ain’t theirs if they can’t keep it. Either us or someone else.”

In response, all Ginny says is, “Oui.” Yes, yes we are.