The "grand hall" was the largest of the temporary structures erected within the Stone Circle's perimeter—a vast, military-style marquee lined with thermal sheeting, lit by humming LED strips. At its center was a heavy oak table, a concession to tradition in the sterile space. Around it sat the Alphas and senior Betas of seven major packs and three recognized rogue alliances. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool, pine resin, coffee, and a low, simmering aggression.
Eleanor stood at one end of the table, a portable projector set up before her. James stood slightly apart, near his father's shoulder, a bridge between the presentation and the pack power structure. Her two white vans were parked just outside the open tent flap, a silent promise of the evidence within.
"Thank you for granting this audience," she began, her voice cool and amplified slightly by the tent's acoustics. She did not wait for a response. A click of a remote brought a grisly, clinical photo onto the screen—the first soldier's body in the forest, the unnatural positioning of the limbs circled in red. A murmur rippled through the assembly.
"Victim One. Cause of death, exsanguination via massive trauma. Manner of death, homicide staged to mimic a predatory animal attack." She advanced the slide. A macro image of a wound margin filled the screen. "Note the uniformity of the laceration depth and spacing. This is not from teeth or natural claws. This is from a manufactured implement. A weapon designed to mimic us."
The uproar began as a low growl, building.
"Silence!" Alistair Wilson's voice cracked like a whip. The tent quieted, but the tension vibrated.
Eleanor advanced again. A graph appeared, spectral analysis lines spiking. "Residue recovered from the victim's nails and wounds includes a synthetic polymer-based pheromone, a masking agent of extraordinary sophistication. It is designed to mimic, and then override, natural scent signatures." She looked directly at the gathered Alphas. "It is a chemical camouflage. For one of us, to move among humans—or other packs—undetected."
This time, the outcry couldn't be stifled. A grizzled Alpha from the Northern March pack slammed a fist on the table. "This is human trickery! Espionage!"
"It is biotechnology," Eleanor corrected, unwavering. "The precursor chemicals were traced to a shell company, Aethon Biomedical." She advanced to a map, highlighting the contested property near the military base. "Their interest, through legal counsel, is in this land. Land adjacent to the Weeping Caves."
She brought up the iridescent mineral sample, its unnatural glow obvious even in the photograph. "This was embedded in Victim One. Its geochemical signature is unique. It matches core samples taken exclusively from the sacred strata of the Weeping Caves." She let that hang, a stone dropped into a still pond. "The murder weapon was crafted. The chemical cloak was manufactured. But this… this is a calling card. It points here."
James stepped forward, his voice cutting through the agitated buzz. "The second victim was Major General Covington. His death was staged as a traffic accident. The cause was a toxin." He nodded to Eleanor.
She advanced to the final slide. A chemical structure rotated on the screen—complex, elegant, and deadly. "Wolfsbane-722. A genetically modified variant of aconitine. It is fast-acting, induces paralysis and cardiac arrest, and metabolizes into untraceable byproducts within hours. It was present in Covington's vehicle. It is also the agent used in a prior, successful assassination via engineered plane crash." She paused, her gaze sweeping the stunned, furious faces. "This is not a human hunter with silver bullets. This is a program. A protocol. It requires insider knowledge of our physiology, access to our most guarded sites for signature elements, and a biotech infrastructure far beyond any lone wolf."
She switched off the projector. The sudden gloom felt heavier.
"The evidence," Eleanor said into the silence, "points to a conspiracy with two heads. One in the human world: corporate, financial, legal. And one here. An insider. Someone with the access, the knowledge, and the motive to weaponize our very nature against us, and to use our children as recruits."
The tent erupted.
"Lies from an exile!" shouted the Northern Alpha.
"This is your proof?" snarled another, gesturing wildly at the vans outside. "Machines and human poisons?"
Alistair Wilson stood, his presence dominating the space. He looked not at the others, but at his son, his expression carved from disappointment and cold fury. "You bring this… diagnosis… to our hearth? You let her sow distrust with human science?"
James met his father's gaze. "I brought the truth. Ignoring it won't make the poison less real."
The political fracture was immediate. The old packs closed ranks, their suspicion of the rogue elements and Eleanor's "human" methods hardening into outright hostility. The rogue pack delegates looked to Eleanor, their faces grim. They had trusted her expertise; now they were all under the blade of collective suspicion.
---
As the leaders devolved into heated, factional arguing, the larger gathering outside the command tent was a tense social echo of the conflict. The summit had drawn not just Alphas, but aides, warriors, and mates—the whole ecosystem of pack politics.
Here, the side plots converged.
Gareth Bennett stood near a brazier, a crystal tumbler of whisky untouched in his hand. He looked every inch the wealthy pack elite in a tailored waxed jacket, but his eyes were hollow, fixed on the middle distance. Beside him, Simone Clarke was a vision of nervous elegance. She wore a dress of charcoal cashmere that clung and flowed in equal measure, and diamonds glinted at her ears. But her smile was too bright, her laughter at a nearby comment too sharp, and her fingers plucked incessantly at the sleeve of Gareth's jacket. She was monitoring the tent, the crowd, the exits—a sleek animal sensing a shift in the wind.
Near the parked vehicles, Maggie Hughes stood with Benjamin Carter. Their professional détente had evolved into a solid, quiet alliance. They were examining a map spread on the bonnet of a Land Rover—the land survey from the lawsuit. Benjamin pointed to a contour line, his voice low. Maggie nodded, her sharp eyes missing nothing, occasionally flicking to the tent where the uproar was audible. She was here as junior counsel for a minor pack with a stake in the outcome, but her real purpose was the truth—and protecting the frightened woman currently hiding in her rented cottage miles away.
And Chloe Bennett was there, in a manner of speaking. She stood in the shadowed lee of the massive Mercedes Sprinter, having slipped from Maggie's car wearing a borrowed, oversized anorak with the hood pulled up. Her facial blindness made the crowd a sea of frustrating, merging features, but it also made her less recognizable. She watched Simone with the focus of a prey animal, her heart hammering. She saw the fake smile, the calculated touches, the way Simone's eyes darted toward a particular figure on the edge of the woods—a man leaning against a tree, nursing a beer.
Oliver Khan.
He looked bored and surly, his expensive shoes muddy, his gaze locked on Simone with possessive irritation. He was the loose thread, the volatile element. Chloe knew he was the source of the vials, the "supplier." Seeing him here, so brazenly close to the heart of pack power, made her skin crawl.
The tension within the tent was bleeding outside. You could feel it in the way clusters formed—old packs here, rogues there, mates forming a separate, anxious group. The presentation had not unified; it had lit a fuse.
James emerged from the tent first, his face a stony mask. Eleanor followed, her composure intact but a tightness around her mouth betraying the strain. They were immediately set upon by delegates from both sides, demanding clarification, hurling accusations.
From across the clearing, Simone watched them. She saw James and Eleanor standing side-by-side against the onslaught, a united front against the pack's fear and anger. A spark of pure, vicious hatred ignited in her eyes. It wasn't just political. It was personal, primal. The Beta's daughter and the Alpha's son, together again, digging up graves.
She leaned into Gareth, her voice a honeyed whisper in his ear. "See? He always needed her to make him look competent. Some things never change." It was a needle expertly inserted, designed to find the old wound of Gareth's insecurity.
But Gareth didn't react. He just stared at the ground, his own shame a heavier weight than her poison. He was looking at his phone, at a photo of Maggie laughing on a hiking trip years ago, a photo he'd kept long after he'd driven her away.
The stage was set. The Summit was no longer a meeting. It was a pressure cooker, and Eleanor Thompson had just turned up the heat. The insider—the traitor who knew the caves and the chemistry—was here, somewhere in this clearing, hiding behind a familiar face. And with the packs turning on each other, the real enemy was free to watch the chaos unfold, and prepare the next, perfect strike.