Chapter 15

*The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.
- Edgar Allan Poe*

Ice cold water hit Kade the moment he pressed the old rusty lever, thousands of droplets raining down on him like needles, slicing into his flesh. The moment the brutal shower hit his bruised and bloodied skin, he grit his teeth, shuddering as the cold sank painfully into his bones. Blood quickly turned the water a pinkish red colour as it swirled around the dirty plug hole and the sound of his breath ricocheted off the tiles like bullets. The early spring night was frigid, winter still clinging to the dark to drop the temperatures to a crisp sharp bite that was only amplified by the frigid water.

Kade had long since lost track of time. It wasn't uncommon for him to black out when fighting. That was the trouble with having a wolf like Legion; they could take control more easily and border on the feral side. Since leaving the forces, Legion had become more difficult to control and Kade had been living with a constant headache as the wolf thrashed against his cage relentlessly, prowling in the shadows like a wicked nightmare; saliva dripping from bared fangs and hackles raised. So there was no doubt that when the coppery scent of blood began to fill the chilly night air, Legion had taken over.

When Kade was finally afforded full control again, he found himself bloody and the three men a mangled mess in the field about a hundred metres from the old inn. Inside, humans drank and ate completely oblivious to the blood bath occurring outside. Thankfully the poor fuckers were alive but it would be some time before they properly recovered if they did at all. Kade had thought that perhaps he should just kill them outright to save them from their suffering but, hadn't enough innocent lives been lost because of him? Still, the bloody sight always ignited a keg of dark and brutal memories and images from Kade's past and that never bode well.

So he stole a bottle of bourbon from the local metro store before breaking into the local lido to clean his wounds. The heat of the bourbon as it slid down his throat burnt like fire while the icy water bit at his skin and punished his wounds. He could stand there until all the water in the world had washed over him and he still wouldn't feel clean. There was just some dirt that water couldn't get rid of.

He finished that bottle of bourbon while standing under the spray. He felt the amber liquid burn in his gut and then slowly spread out through his veins like a dull ache with each beat of his heart. The images of dozens of pairs of scared eyes flashed through his memory with every mouthful of the liquor followed by rows of frightened girls and young women caked in tears and sand. The lifeless eyes of a little boy wearing a Chelsea F.C. football shirt…

He grunted as he finally forced himself out of the shower, muscles tight and stiff like stale gum as he staggered to his motorcycle. Goddess be damned if he was in any fit state to ride but he had to get back to the pack, back to where it was safe. He could make it to his room and the pills Dagmar had made for him before the real episodes started. He just needed to get back to the territory.

The alcohol served to take the edge off the pain. Somewhere inside the dark shadows of Kade's mind, his beast stirred again, threatening to take over. But they were too close to humans. It would be dangerous and Kade couldn't stomach the idea of more blood being spilt tonight.

So he rode, taking the back roads and not paying attention to the speed limits despite the sharp turns and deep bends. He nearly crashed several times but he kept going. He just needed to get back. It was the only thought he dared to afford himself. Nothing else mattered. He just had to get back.

He abandoned his motorcycle at the back of the pack garage, stumbling through the dark towards the sounds of his pack celebrating. The soft light from the fairy lights and stage lights blurred, the world shifting on its axis making the beta lose his footing and fall into the gravel and earth. He couldn’t feel the burn of his scraped palms, he couldn’t feel anything except his blood pumping through his ears like the roar of a tsunami. He didn't want to be seen, he didn't want to have to explain the bruises and the blood that stained his freezing cold and soaking wet clothes. So he staggered to the bar which he knew would be empty. He would wallow in there with another drink to numb the pain.

*Just like your old man!* Dagmar used to say, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. *Always turning to the drink when things get difficult!

He snatched the first bottle he found, not caring what it was so long as it had an alcohol content. It was delightfully dark in the pub as if the world had faded away and it was just him, the alcohol and his ghosts.

The first time he got drunk was after he attacked his dad for hitting their mother. He had laid into the old man with all the rage he possessed for a thirteen year old male wolf, unaware his sister was watching in utter horror. When he did notice her, it was too late. She had seen enough to scare her. She ran away from him, afraid of the monster her brother had become. The look of sheer terror in her grey eyes still haunted him.

Collapsing onto a bar stool, he took a long drink from the bottle, letting the alcohol burn his insides. He'd wait until the party was over and then he'd go to his room where it was safe, where the pills were. He just needed to fight back the ghosts until then.

But as he turned to look around the bar, he knew it was too late. The faces and lifeless eyes of his demons stared back at him.

His monster of a father.

His broken shell of a mother.

His frightened sister as a little girl.

All of his comrades who had died or been brutally injured.

The desperate eyes of Karim, silently asking him why he had broken his promise.

The frightened young women and girls that were stolen from their families at gunpoint.

The boy with the Chelsea F.C. shirt and a bullet hole in his chest.

By the time he finished the third bottle of bourbon he was blackout drunk. He vaguely remembered stumbling and swaying his way to the pack house. He wanted to go to bed and try and forget the whole day even if he knew it would be easier said than done. Someone had stopped him in the kitchen (or at least he was certain it was the kitchen) but he hadn’t been in the mood and tried to get past them. That ended in him being punched in the mouth, his lip busting open and blood spewing down his chin and onto his damn shirt. He was quick to return the favour with eyes as black as night and fangs bared. His fist connected with someone’s nose with a crunch and a howl of pain but it didn’t soothe the maelstrom within him.

And the ghosts of his past pressed closer still, whispering to him.

*You lied

You’re just like your father

Coward

You promised

Murderer!*

“Shut up!” He snarled, digging his hands into his chestnut hair and tugging on the strands. It was any wonder he hadn’t ripped any of it out with how hard he tugged

He just wanted to fall into the darkness. He just wanted to be consumed by it and never wake up but he was never granted such mercies because he was beyond redemption and this was his punishment. He was not worthy of salvation.

But that didn’t stop him from praying for it