Chapter 67

When he returned, Doc tried to talk to him about his health. Ansel refused and left.

As if to prove Doc wrong, he went out to train. Henry had gathered up the gammas to go over security for the tour and class. Ansel weighed in strategically, and when their meeting wrapped up, he led a training session, sparring with several of the gammas.

By the time Ansel was done, he felt almost as sick as he did before. He cursed himself for ruining his own progress and wearily changed into one of his suits.

“You ready,” Henry said, knocking on his door.

Ansel opened it.

“Are you okay,” Henry asked, his eyes wide.

“I just overdid it a little,” Ansel said.

“Maybe we should cancel this. They’ll book you again.”

“We’re not canceling,” Ansel barked. “I’m not pulling out at the last second.” No way was he going to let illness get in the way. Not now, and not ever again. He wasn’t going to relive the past.

He dragged himself into his office for a video call with news anchor, Beta Jack Myers. They were doing a live interview about the election. Henry, quickly becoming a jack of all trades, helped Ansel adjust his lighting before stepping out.

For several minutes, Ansel stared back at his own video image while he waited for the call to connect. His face looked drawn and pale and his eyes were obviously tired.

He straightened his tie a little. He wasn’t normally one to be nervous about the press, but now, everything was on the line.

The reporter connected just as Ansel broke into a coughing fit. Perfect.

“Excuse me,” he said, wheezing slightly.

“Certainly. Thank you for being here, Sir Ansel.” Myers had red hair and angular features. He wore thick-framed glasses that could easily pass for vintage 1960’s, along with his trademark skinny tie.

Myers was known for his gotcha-style journalism, made palatable by his calm, smooth demeanor. He had attracted a devoted following.

“I wanted to talk to you about the unprecedented nature of this election - the first of its kind for the werewolf world. What’s your reaction to this seismic shift in tradition?

“I’m excited to be part of this historic change,” Ansel managed. His chest was tight and having to talk was adding to his breathlessness. “And as we enter another year of civil war, a move towards increasing freedoms can only provide a bridge to peace.”

“Can you elaborate on what you see going forward?”

“I, um -” His chest was tight and achy. He felt as if he was being squeezed. “I - can you repeat the question,” he asked.

Myers repeated his question, but Ansel barely heard it. He had been siphoned into a place of hell. His heart was beginning to thump rapidly in his chest. He mumbled something unintelligible about “great things ahead” for the pack.

“Can I just clarify that point, Sir Ansel? How might this continue to play out? Are we looking at an even more democratic process in the future?”

“I think that’s a real possibility.” Ansel tried to hold back from coughing, but couldn’t. He leaned over off camera, hacking, and hating himself for it.

“Give us some specifics,” Myers said. “Are you considering a term of office? Will you totally breakaway from the concept of a birthright to the throne?”

Ansel stared at his image on-screen. His face was still red from coughing. “Look,” he said, tapping a pen against his desk. “I don’t have all those answers yet. No one does.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m asking if you can speculate on what the future may hold, especially if you’re elected.”

Ansel tossed his pen down. “I can only say that the response to the coming election has been favorable, and I think we can surmise that continuing to provide some level of choice will be healthy.” He leaned over to cough, briefly.

‘Healthy,’ indeed. Fuck!

“Your father, King David, assumed the position when he bested the former Alpha. Are you hoping to diminish the threat of violence that might remove you from the throne?”

Ansel tensed.

Myers continued. “Outsiders and insiders, alike, have long speculated that you were King David’s likely favorite to become the next Alpha King.” Myers tilted his head a little, as though he were innocently curious.

Ansel imagined punching him. He took some shallow breaths and straightened in his chair. He could feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

“I support the King,” Ansel said, firmly. “I stand with his decisions as being best for the pack.”

“We have to wonder sir, how you stand to benefit from all of this.” Myers leaned forward.

“I don’t know how I can be more direct,” Ansel said in a low, slowed voice, trying to fight back a growl. “I didn’t plot out an election for some underlying reason. If your whole argument is that I want to be popular with the pack,” Ansel cleared his throat and took a small gasp for air. “So that I can deter a possible coup, I couldn’t find that more absurd.”

“Your popularity is well-known, Sir Ansel, but you are also known to be quite the polarizing figure in some circles.”

“What circles,” snapped Ansel, his voice booming. “Circles of traffickers and organized crime?”

Myers pushed his glasses back against his nose. “Some connected to you have suggested that your life has come under threat more than once.”

“Any true Alpha won’t be a stranger to Death.”

“And you’ll continue, then, if you take the throne, to wage these battles against crime and corruption?”

Ansel’s face hardened. “Yes.”

“Let me make sure we understand each other. You, as Alpha King, will personally go out to continue your efforts?” Myers smiled.

“I won’t sit on the sidelines, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ansel said, in gritted teeth.

“And yet, you have no heir.”

Ansel’s insides were boiling. “That’s no secret,” Ansel snapped. His headache was intensifying to a dull throb. He picked up his pen again and began clicking it.

“Let me just make the point,” Myers said. “You have no heir to ascend the throne. You have no spouse, either. And yet, you yourself, suggested that your life hangs on a precarious balance.”

Ansel was dragging his pen deeply into his notepad, the way he wanted to rip his claws through Myers throat.

“Anyone,” he said in Jeff’s growl. “Who wants to challenge me or try to claim my life, I beg them to try.”

“You’ve got grit, I think we all appreciate that.”

Ansel glared at Myers. “I won’t back down to the low-lifes who are crying because I’ve destroyed their illegal gambling ring.” He paused to breathe. “So, did we hit on all your made-up controversies yet?”

The tiniest amount of anxiety entered Myers’ eyes.

“Indeed, but don’t you think it’s fair to reiterate that fact to the werewolf community,” Myers persisted. “Some may find this concerning.”

Ansel shifted again in his seat. He wanted to loosen his tie, which was beginning to feel noose-like as he continued to struggle for enough oxygen.

“I have nothing more to say.”

“Alright,” said Myers. “Let’s move on.”

Myers looked down, briefly, at his notes. Ansel used the time to try and catch his breath, to ready himself for round two, and reign in his annoyance. Sweat was forming at his hairline. His hands were clammy.

“A few nights ago, you introduced Lady Karin as your partner, at the Blue Moon Ball.”

“Yes,” Ansel said. His jaw tensed reflexively. He struggled against Jeff’s instinct to bare his fangs in a true werewolf snarl.

“While she was once a world-renowned ballerina, she disappeared from the stage five years ago, and, as has been widely reported since the ball, somehow entered into another kind of life. Pardon me, sir, but she is a prostitute, is she not?”

“That,” Ansel said, his eyes glowing with rage. “Is a lie.”

“She was reportedly seen on the auction block at -”

“She’s not a prostitute.”

Ansel’s lungs burned. His tie felt like a vice grip around his airway. He gripped the edge of his desk, while he struggled to get air and fought the instinct to pulverize his computer.

His head was pounding. He saw the wet sheen of sweat in his image on-screen. Ansel shifted in his seat and tried to turn off the boiler inside.

“Sir, I mean no offense,” said Myers. “But this appears to be your partner’s background.”

Under the desk, Ansel crumpled the notepad in his hand like it was styrofoam.

“Perhaps you could clarify - “

He crushed the pen to smithereens.

“Or reassure voters,” Myers continued.

Myers knew he had him. His face was serene. It was glowing with zen-like tranquility, while Ansel was edging towards explosion.

“No,” Ansel said. His voice was a deep, dark warning, etched across the fucking sands of time. He wanted to leap across the screen and shred Myers into bits. And since that was outside the realm of physics, he was prepared to find him.

Myers seemed to sense it. He blinked and looked unsettled, but foolishly, he was not dissuaded. “There’s an event scheduled with Lady Karin late tomorrow afternoon, at your manor, in fact. For children.”

Myers paused dramatically while Ansel’s fingers began to tremble with a surge of adrenaline. His heart raced in his chest.

Myers continued in faux-concern. “Can parents be sure it’s appropriate to be around this kind of influence? Is it safe for their children?”

That’s when Ansel lost it.

“Motherfucker,” he said, through gritted teeth. “We’re done.” He sprang up from his chair, unable to contain the torrent of energy coursing through him.

“Sir,” Myers said, in a voice so gentle he could be a meditation track.

Ansel lowered his face back down to address him, “Clutch your fucking pearls all you want, Beta,” he growled. “You and anyone who insults my mate.” He directed his eyes to stare directly into the camera.

Ansel slammed his laptop shut so hard it cracked. Then he threw it into the wall with a deafening “thud.” The force of it splintered the laptop into pieces before crashing to the floor.

Henry burst in.

“Ansel,” he said.

“Don’t,” Ansel warned, his eyes piercing through Henry. “Do not utter a word.”

Henry seemed to shrivel before his eyes.

Ansel’s shirt was soaked. He gripped his desk, leaning forward with his face down, to try and get control over the feeling of suffocation.

Then he stormed out of his office, where he found some nervous staff waiting around outside the door. They caught the look on his face and scattered before he could yell at them.

He would spend the next two days spiraling.

Rundown from illness and clouded by hangover and emotions, he would miss the strange scent around the manor, back again.