Gela’s words hung in the air, a slick film of calculated menace. Tamar stared at the file, then at the lingering scorch mark on the counter where a man had recently ceased to exist. Her gaze drifted to the pile of ash, now gently smoking, near the industrial espresso machine. “The health inspector is going to have a fit,” she muttered, more to herself than to the Elder. “And do you know how hard it is to get good insurance these days? ‘Acts of God’ doesn’t cover ‘spontaneous vampire combustion due to barista’s blood.’ Trust me, I’ve checked.” She pushed the file away with a single finger, as if it might also spontaneously combust. The low, rumbling vibration of his discontent made the ceramic mugs on the shelves rattle. Gela offered a thin, humourless curl of his lip. “The cost of your coffee shop, Tamar, might be the least of your concerns. Your lease, however… a pack-wide civil war tends to devalue real estate. Not to mention the inconvenience of an enslaved lineage. Imagine the service charges.” That got her attention. Her lease. A civil war would definitely mess with her ability to pay rent, let alone keep the shop open. She picked up the file again, the laminated cover cool beneath her fingertips. It wasn’t some flimsy, crumpled stack of papers. This was an official-looking dossier, bound with a metallic clip, detailing dates, names, locations. Illicit gatherings in abandoned abattoirs, shadowed transactions on the docks of the Urta River. Malkhaz’s signature on a forged bill of sale, exchanging a litter of barely-weaned pups for a cryptic “Vial of Empyrean Ambrosia.” “So, my dad wants to sell puppies to the equivalent of immortal bloodsuckers for his personal brand of eternal youth,” Revaz rumbled, his voice low, a raw edge of betrayal slicing through the words. He hadn’t touched the file, but his eyes devoured every line as Tamar slowly turned the pages. His hackles were raised, a thick ridge of fur standing erect along his spine. The scent of bitter rage, sharp and acrid, permeated the air. Tamar flipped to the last page. A photograph of Malkhaz, shaking hands with a gaunt, unnervingly pale man whose irises were impossibly black, like polished obsidian. A date stamped beneath it: three weeks ago. “Not just his personal brand,” Tamar observed, tapping the photo. “Looks like he’s already taken a sip of the Kool-Aid, if this guy is any indication.” Revaz snatched the file, his massive fingers crumpling the edges. A guttural sound, halfway between a sob and a snarl, ripped from his throat. The betrayal, the sheer enormity of it, seemed to physically shatter something inside him. His creator. His Alpha. A traitor. The man who had taught him to hunt and defend pack territory was now brokering flesh to their sworn enemies. “He’s going to pay,” Revaz said, his voice a low growl, devoid of any warmth. “He’s going to pay for every pup. Every drop of blood. Every broken oath.” Gela nodded, detached and still. “Indeed. A timely reckoning. The pack council gathers at the old smelter tonight, on the industrial fringe of the city. A routine quarterly meeting, officially. But word of Malkhaz’s… recent affiliations… has begun to spread among the more discerning members. They are already questioning his leadership. Your presence, Alpha Revaz, and this… evidence, would be most… persuasive.” Tamar sighed, picking up a stray coffee stirrer. “Fine. But if this turns into some sort of bloody Game of Thrones situation, I’m charging a cleanup fee.” She looked at Revaz. “And you owe me a plastic container. The good one with the orange airtight lid. You used it to pack raw elk heart yesterday, and I need it for the leftover pastries.” Revaz barely registered her words, already turning to stalk out, the file clutched in his hand. “He dies tonight,” he snarled, a promise of carnage in his voice. He shifted into his half-wolf form, shoulders broadening, claws elongating, a raw surge of power radiating from him. He tore through the reinforced front door, leaving another jagged hole in the newly installed bulletproof glass. “Honestly, the repair costs,” Tamar muttered, grabbing a broom. “And what about my storage bin?” She glanced at Gela. “He’s not going to bring it back, is he?” Gela chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Unlikely, Tamar. Perhaps you should retrieve it yourself. It might prove… illuminating.” Illuminating or not, Tamar needed that sealable tub. It was the only one that kept fruit tarts fresh. She locked the Brass Boiler, leaving a hastily scrawled note: “Closed due to impromptu pack politics. Reopen tomorrow, maybe.” The rain had started again, a fine, cold mist, as she flagged down a battered taxi. “Old Zevrakh Foundry,” she told the driver, handing him a wad of crumpled bills. “And try not to hit any werewolves. They get cranky.” The works was a skeletal hulk of rusted metal and broken glass, silhouetted against the bruised evening sky. The air thrummed with a heavy, primal energy. Werewolves, in various stages of shifting, moved like shadows between the decaying structures. Tamar spotted Revaz’s hulking form near the central cavern, his enraged aura almost visible. He was confronting Malkhaz, whose posture was regal, unnervingly calm, even in the face of his son’s apocalyptic fury. A semicircle of graying veterans stood around them, shifting weight from boot to boot. Tamar navigated the treacherous terrain, stepping over cracked concrete and avoiding puddles of dubious origin. She spotted the orange lid, a bright beacon sitting incongruously on a stack of grimy, oil-stained barrels near Revaz. He’d probably forgotten about it entirely. Typical. She reached for it just as Revaz, his voice a thunderous roar, slammed the file detailing Malkhaz’s treachery onto a nearby metal crate. “Father! You would sell our blood? Our children? To the *vampires*?” Malkhaz arched a brow, an arrogant sneer lifting his lip. “And what of it, boy? Do you truly believe the old ways serve us now? Power. True power, beyond the petty squabbles of our kind. That is what they offer.” His voice, usually gruff, now had a chilling, silken quality. Then, slowly, deliberately, Malkhaz raised his head. His eyes, once a piercing amber like Revaz’s, were now solid, unblinking voids of pure, unholy black. A collective hiss rippled through the gathered ranks. Revaz staggered back, a look of profound horror contorting his features. Not simply a traitor, but a thrall. A puppet of the very creatures they had sworn to despise and destroy. “The Alpha’s father… a blood-thrall?” an elder whispered, the words barely audible over the sudden, shocked silence. The scent of iron and sour sweat flooded the open floor as ranks broke formation. Malkhaz’s smirk widened, revealing canines that seemed just a little too long, too sharp. “A thrall? No, my son. An acolyte. And soon, with the full power of my masters, a true lord. And you, my dear boy, were simply too primitive to understand.” He snapped his fingers. From the shadows of the rusted upper catwalks, dozens of figures dropped, clad in dark, leathery armour, their faces obscured by visored helmets. Their weapons, wickedly curved blades and crossbows, were all aimed at the assembled pack, and more specifically, at Revaz. Malkhaz’s execution squad. Just as Tamar finally wrestled her plastic container free from the barrel rim, she found herself in the direct line of sight between the crossbowmen and the stunned wolves. She blinked, annoyed. “Excuse me, can you move those pointy things? Someone could get hurt.” Malkhaz’s eyes, those unsettling black voids, swiveled to her, a glint of predatory recognition lighting them. He moved with a speed that defied his age, a blur of motion. Before Revaz could even roar a warning, Malkhaz had closed the distance, his hand clamping around Tamar’s throat, lifting her effortlessly off her feet. The orange lid bounced across the concrete, hollow and sharp. “The vampire-bane,” Malkhaz hissed, his breath chilling against her cheek, his grip tightening. “The key to their complete dominion. My masters will be most pleased. I will bleed you dry, barista. Every last drop of your toxic blood will be purged, ensuring their reign without contest.”

The Tupperware Incident