Chapter 2: Four Killers and a Blade

I found the alpha manual in that abandoned church and had just tucked it into my jacket when I got surrounded by a bunch of enforcers—Silas Keene’s dogs, every one of them.

They came crawling out of the shadows, boots thumping on old boards, eyes cold and hungry. I could smell the fear and greed rolling off them. Time to dance.

I drew my blade, fought my way out, and ducked into a roadside bar. I was just about to enjoy a shot of bourbon when I realized two things that made my night even worse.

First: I’d lost my wallet in the scuffle.

Nothing like being broke, bleeding, and stranded in the middle of nowhere. My stomach growled, my pride took a hit. Typical for me.

Second: the four folks in the bar all looked at me like they’d just spotted a deer in their headlights—hungry and mean as hell.

Their eyes locked on me, hands resting just a little too close to their weapons. The air was thick with tension. This was about to get real interesting.

In our world, two things spread the fastest: gossip and the scent of something valuable.

Word travels faster than a wildfire in August. And right now? I was the spark everyone wanted.

I shook my head and laughed out loud. The situation was so obvious it was almost funny.

Sometimes all you can do is laugh at your own rotten luck. I leaned back, letting the tension roll off, playing it cool like I had all the time in the world.

Here I am, sitting in a bar, and each of the four tables around me has one person.

It felt like the setup for a bad joke: a lone wolf walks into a bar, and four killers are already waiting.

Four people, all here for the alpha manual.

Almost flattering, if you ignore the part where they’d kill you for it.

Sitting diagonally in front of me is a burly, middle-aged man with a thick beard and hair, a battered hunting knife on the table. That’d be Buck Granger, second-in-command of the Iron Ridge Pack.

Buck looked like he could wrestle a grizzly for fun, arms crisscrossed with scars, eyes sharp as broken glass. He gave me a nod—no warmth, just warning.

To my left sits Cole Everett, a senior at Pinebrook Lodge—a young guy who just married the alpha’s daughter.

Cole had his hair slicked back, shirt half unbuttoned, gold chain glinting. He grinned, but there was a mean twist to it. The kind of guy who thinks he’s luckier than he really is.

Behind me, off to the side, is Quentin Miles, the brooding head of Hollow Pine Estate. To my right, Mason Wilder, eldest son of the Crescent Moon Clan.

Quentin looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, shadows etched under his eyes, fingers drumming a restless beat on the table. Mason was all calm—too calm—his gaze never leaving mine.

I looked at all four, tipped my hat, and grinned. “Name’s Luke Banner. Nice to meet you all.”

My voice was easy, just enough swagger to show I wasn’t rattled. If I was going down, I’d do it with a grin.

“Meeting you is your bad luck today!” Buck Granger sneered, eyes flashing like a wolf’s in the dark.

His voice was pure gravel, like an old pickup grinding gears. He slammed his fist on the table, making his whiskey jump and a few heads turn.

Mason Wilder nodded slightly. “I’ve heard of Banner’s reputation. For you to get this manual, you must be good.”

He spoke slow and smooth, like a man who never rushes into a fight. There was respect in his eyes—and calculation.

Cole Everett eyed the blade at my hip, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Luke, that’s quite a knife you’ve got.”

He leaned in, elbows on the table, sizing me up. You could tell he wanted a closer look, but he wasn’t dumb enough to reach for it.

I raised an eyebrow, running my fingers over the red maple inlaid on the silver sheath. “Gift from a friend, Cole. You got a point?”

I let my hand rest on the hilt, just to remind them I knew how to use it. The red maple glinted in the low light, a piece of home I carried everywhere.

Cole smiled slyly. “That knife was the only one old man Jasper ever made at Riverbend Forge—‘Frost on Maple.’ Birthday gift from Briarwood Hall’s master to his daughter.”

His tone was half accusation, half awe. He was fishing for a story, hoping to rattle me or just get under my skin.

Buck cut in, “If it was a gift for his daughter, how the hell did it end up with you, Banner?”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a growl. The bar seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my answer.

“I hear Luke’s quite the charmer, so it’s no surprise if he’s tangled up with the Hall’s princess!” Cole nodded.

He winked at me, but there was a challenge in it. The others chuckled, but their hands stayed close to their weapons.

I laughed. “No need to be jealous, Cole. I heard you just married your lodge master’s daughter. Compared to a blade, the warmth of a beautiful woman’s a whole lot sweeter!”

I shot him a wink, letting the tension ease just a touch. The bar let out a low chuckle—the kind that comes before a brawl or a round.

“That’s right!” Cole snorted and grinned, puffing up with pride.

He puffed out his chest, pleased as punch. Young love—makes a man reckless every time.

Buck raised his glass and took a long swig. “Banner, you’ve walked right into our trap. Hand over the manual so I don’t have to get messy!”

He slammed his glass down, whiskey sloshing over the rim. His patience was running thin, and his fingers twitched for his knife.

“No need to rush.” I waved him off, then looked at him and Cole. “You two sure love gossip. I’ve got a story for you—actually, it’s about both of you.”

I leaned in, dropping my voice just enough to reel them in. Nothing gets a room’s attention like a juicy rumor.

“What gossip could I have with him?” Cole wrinkled his nose, shooting Buck a look of pure disgust.

He looked at Buck like sharing anything with Iron Ridge would ruin his appetite.

“It’s not just about you two, but also about Cole’s new wife.”

I let the words dangle, watching the color drain from Cole’s face. Buck’s hand paused mid-swig, his glass trembling.

Buck’s grip tightened around his glass.

You could hear a pin drop. Even the bartender stopped polishing glasses, sensing the storm brewing.

“About a month ago, Cole, you and your wife passed through Cedar Falls and spent the night at the foot of Willow Bluff. That night... you slept so soundly, you didn’t realize your new bride was quietly taken away by Buck Granger of the Iron Ridge Pack for the whole night...”

I let the words trail off, just long enough to watch Cole’s face turn red. The accusation hit the bar like a thunderclap.

Before I could finish, Buck roared to cut me off. “Banner, what the hell are you talking about?!”

He shot to his feet, fists clenched, eyes wild. The whole place tensed, waiting for the first punch.

I grinned. “Just a rumor, but the guy who told me saw it himself, so it’s probably true.”

I shrugged, playing it innocent. Sometimes a little chaos is the best shield.

Cole’s face went through every color in the rainbow, his breath catching. His hands shook, and after a second, he pointed at Buck and shouted, “It was you! So it was you! Willow Bluff! Iron Ridge Pack! How did I not realize?”

His voice cracked, the betrayal sinking in. I could see the gears turning, every memory turning sour.

“She thought the man that night was me! Damn, I thought I just drank too much and couldn’t remember! No wonder she said my beard was scratchy and made her uncomfortable, but I’d just trimmed it! So it was you, you bastard!”

Cole went pale, then red with rage.

He looked ready to explode, veins bulging in his neck. The bar was one spark away from a fire.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and Mason beside me let out a quiet chuckle too.

The tension broke for a heartbeat, laughter echoing through the smoky air. Even the bartender cracked a smile.

What came next, of course, was Buck’s useless denial and the sound of Cole drawing his blade.

The scrape of steel on leather was sharp and sudden. Chairs screeched back, folks ducked for cover. Shit was about to get bloody.

The two started arguing and fighting, and two groups rushed in from outside the bar, yelling “Cole!” and “Second!”—their voices drowning out the clash of steel.

Boots thundered on the floor, tables went flying, and the place erupted into chaos. Shouts, curses, the smell of adrenaline and cheap whiskey filled the air.

Mason glanced at the lodge boys and pack members who’d stormed in and said to me, “These folks were meant for you, Luke, but now you’re off the hook. Lucky break, huh?”

He gave me a sly grin, like we’d just dodged a bullet together. I could tell he was enjoying the show.

Then he smiled again. “We’re lucky too. Now we just have to get the manual from you—no need to deal with those two idiots.”

He tapped his fingers on the table, eyes sparkling with mischief. The odds had just changed, and he liked his chances.

I turned to him, curious. “The Pinebrook Lodge and Iron Ridge Pack both use blades, so it makes sense they’re fighting over the manual. But you two—one from Crescent Moon Clan, one from Hollow Pine Estate—both sword guys. Why do you want it?”

I leaned back, genuinely interested. In our world, the difference between a blade and a sword is more than just steel—it’s a whole philosophy.

“By order of the Quinn family patriarch, we’re to do whatever it takes,” Mason replied, voice smooth as Tennessee whiskey.

He was all calm, but the message was clear: orders were orders, and the Quinns didn’t mess around.

“So that’s how it is,” I nodded.

I tucked that away for later. The Quinns had their fingers in every pie, and now they wanted a slice of Hawthorne legacy too. Color me unsurprised.

It’s said the Quinns, top dogs in the supernatural world, have been at odds with Carter Hawthorne for years. Word is, the Quinn patriarch helped Silas Keene pull off his coup.

Everybody knows the Quinns don’t do favors for free. If they helped Silas, it’s ‘cause they wanted the manual—and maybe the whole Midwest—on a silver platter.

Do a favor, cash it in later—now that the Hawthorne manual’s loose, the Quinn patriarch wants to help Silas Keene “recover” it. Or so they say.

The Quinns always collect their debts, one way or another. And right now? I was standing between them and payday.

“Not everyone’s fit to hold the Midwest’s top alpha manual, and not everyone should be playing in these waters,” Quentin, who’d been quiet, suddenly spoke. “Luke Banner, leave the manual and walk away. It’s best for both of us.”

His voice was low and cold, like wind off Lake Superior in November. He meant every word, and I could feel the threat simmering underneath.

I laughed. “The Midwest runs on swords, after all. Not many blade guys around, so maybe this ‘number one alpha manual’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I shrugged, playing humble. But my grip on my blade tightened. I was ready for anything.

Mason said, “Since you think the manual isn’t much, and we value it so highly, why not just give it to us?”

He smiled, but there was steel behind his eyes. He was done talking.

“I’ve got a request for you two,” I said with a grin.

I let the words hang, making them wonder if I was about to bargain or bluff my way out.

“Name it, Luke.”

Mason’s voice was cautious, but he leaned in, curious.

“I’d like you two to buy me a drink. I’m dying of thirst.”

The bar went quiet for a beat, then Mason burst out laughing. Even Quentin cracked a wry smile.

Mason was stunned, then shook his head with a smile. “That’s easy! You should’ve said so sooner!”

He slid his bottle across the table with a flourish, then snagged Quentin’s as well, setting it down in front of me. “Quentin doesn’t drink much, so let Luke have his too.”

Quentin just grunted, but didn’t argue. In our world, a drink can be a peace offering—or a last request.

“Thank you both!” I tipped my hat, grinning.

I poured myself a glass, savoring the burn. For a moment, it almost felt normal—like before the world went crazy.

So, I drank and watched Cole and Buck’s crews go at it.

Chairs crashed, fists flew, and the two packs tore into each other like wild dogs. I just sipped my whiskey, enjoying the carnage.

I slowly drank half of each bottle. The fight still hadn’t ended, but Mason was already getting antsy.

He drummed his fingers, eyes darting to the door. Time was running out, and he knew it.

“Luke, you seem to be enjoying yourself. How long do you plan to drink?” he asked.

His voice was tight, but there was a smirk in it. He knew I was stalling, but he let me have my fun.

“Good whiskey’s meant to be savored. Chugging it would be a sin,” I replied, laughing.

I raised my glass in a mock toast, letting the last drops linger on my tongue. Sharp, smoky—reminding me that life’s short, and good whiskey shorter.

Mason sighed. “If you hand over the manual now, this is top-shelf. If not, it’ll be your last drink.”

He slid his chair back, hand drifting toward his sword. The air got colder, the shadows deeper.

“Why bother talking to him? I don’t think he plans on leaving here alive,” Quentin said coldly.

He stood, eyes locked on me, hand never leaving his sword hilt.

“Quentin, that’s not right. Living is good—why wouldn’t I want to live?”

I flashed a grin, trying to keep things light. Truth was, I was as ready for a fight as I’d ever be.

I stood up, smiled. “Thanks for the drinks. I’m good.”

I wiped my mouth, straightened my jacket, and let my hand rest on my blade. Time for talk was over.

As I stepped forward, Quentin’s green jacket flashed as he drew his sword to block me.

The steel caught the light, and the whole bar seemed to freeze. Only sound was my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

In an instant, steel flashed and a cold wind swept through the bar.

The first strike came fast, a blur. I ducked, rolled across a table, glasses shattering all around me.

I dodged and leaped onto tables and chairs, steel slicing everywhere, wood chips flying like rain.

My boots barely touched the ground, dodging left and right as steel flashed past my face. The heat of the fight, adrenaline roaring in my veins.

Mason, seeing this, swung his sword like a moonbeam, a chill sweeping in from behind me.

He moved with deadly grace, his blade slicing the air, cold as ice. The whistle of steel was sharp and clear, a promise and a threat.

I turned and drew my blade, energy flaring to meet his attack.

My blade met his sword with a crash that echoed through the bar. Sparks flew, and for a second, it was just the two of us—no past, no future.

His sword sang, sharp as a bluejay’s shriek, as Quentin spun in, his long sword slashing at my chest.

I felt the air shift, ducked just in time, blade missing me by inches. The sound cut through everything else.

I stepped back a yard, swinging my blade to break open a whiskey bottle on the table. The bottle shattered, whiskey spraying everywhere, the droplets caught in the wind—then, with a flick of my blade, the whiskey gathered into a wave, splashing toward the two swordsmen.

The scent of whiskey filled the air, sharp and sweet. The wave caught them off guard, forcing them to scatter.

They both dodged. A whiskey droplet grazed Quentin’s cheek, drawing a bead of blood.

It was a clean cut, just enough to sting. I saw the anger flare in his eyes.

The next moment, the bead split, blood trickling down.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing to slits.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to mess up your face,” I apologized.

I gave him a crooked grin, trying to keep things light. But I knew the real fight was just beginning.

Quentin’s face darkened. He raised his sword and attacked, his blade ringing out. In an instant, seven strikes fell all around me.

The strikes came fast, a blur. I could barely keep up, my blade moving on instinct.

I dodged three, parried three, but one sword tore open my side, fabric fluttering in the glare.

Pain flared, hot and sharp. Blood welled up, soaking my shirt. But I gritted my teeth and kept moving.

Two arcs of steel rose in front and behind me at the same time. I spun, raised my blade, and drew a half-arc of force.

The room spun with me, the world shrinking to the arc of my blade. Energy flared, pushing back against the storm of steel.

The surge swept aside Quentin’s blade, driving straight at his chest. Blood seeped from his mouth as he quickly switched from offense to defense. I turned and attacked Mason behind me.

Mason’s eyes widened, but he met me head-on, his sword flashing in the dim light. We traded blows, each one ringing out like a church bell at midnight.

Mason raised his sword to block, and in an instant, blade and sword clashed dozens of times, the crisp sounds echoing like waves.

Each strike sent vibrations up my arm, my muscles screaming in protest. But I pressed on, refusing to give an inch.

When my blade sliced open his shoulder’s cloth, Mason staggered, then swung his sword in a moon-colored arc.

Blood stained his shirt, but he didn’t slow down. His sword moved in a perfect crescent, slicing through the air with deadly precision.

His arc was cold as moonlight, dim as night, enveloping me and stabbing for my vital point.

The world seemed to slow down, the cold pressing in on me. I could feel the weight of the moment, the danger hanging by a thread.

I raised my blade and charged into the moonlight, slicing through the pale glow, blade shadow flaring bright.

Steel met steel, the clash echoing through the bar. For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole world held its breath.

At that moment, sunlight streamed in through the window, landing on my blade. I spun the steel through Mason’s moonlit arc, drawing a thin red line across his waist.

The sunlight turned the blood to gold, a strange kind of beauty in the violence. Mason gasped, stumbling back.

Mason spat blood and staggered back. I chased him, left hand flashing out to lock his muscles with a pressure point.

He froze, eyes wide with shock. I’d learned that trick from an old friend down in Louisiana—a little pressure in the right spot, and a man can’t move a muscle.

He froze in place. Quentin swung his sword at my back. I turned, stepped quickly to his side, then stopped short.

I could feel the air move as Quentin attacked, but I was faster. I sidestepped, letting his blade whistle past me.

My left hand chopped down on his sword-wielding wrist.

He cried out, the sword tumbling from his grip. I moved in, quick and sure.

Quentin’s wrist trembled, his sword fell, and I seized the chance to lock him up too, kicking his sword aside.

He glared at me, helpless. I could see the rage burning in his eyes, but he couldn’t move a muscle.

“Luke Banner!” Quentin was immobilized, and he spat a curse.

His voice was full of venom, but there was nothing he could do. I just grinned and shrugged.

I ignored him, turned to Mason, and smiled:

“Since you bought me whiskey, how about lending me some cash, too? Thanks!”

I patted his shoulder, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. Fair’s fair, after all.

I took his wallet and tucked it into my jacket.

It felt good to have a little cash again, even if I had to steal it. I flashed Mason a grateful smile.

“You two bought me drinks, so I won’t kill you. Farewell!”

I tipped my hat, the old cowboy gesture, and headed for the door. Mercy’s a rare thing in our world, but I figured they’d earned it.

With that, I stepped out of the bar into the sunlight.

The fresh air hit me like a blessing. I took a deep breath, letting the chaos fade behind me.

Before leaving, I glanced back.

Cole and Buck’s crews were still fighting and arguing—a real spectacle.

Chairs were flying, fists were swinging, and nobody was paying attention to me anymore. I grinned and slipped out the door.

I like excitement, but I don’t need to watch all of it.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away while you’re ahead.

Outside, spring was in full bloom. Thousands of apple blossoms fell from the branches, drifting in the wind.

The air was sweet, filled with the scent of new beginnings. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it.

I flipped my blade, and a blossom landed on the tip.

The pink petal trembled on the steel, delicate against the edge. I smiled at the contrast.

Sunlight glinted off the steel and the flower. I sheathed the blade, picked up the blossom, and pinned it to the torn spot on my side where Quentin’s sword had cut my clothes.

It covered the blood for a moment—a small, stubborn bit of beauty in a world that never stops bleeding.

Then I smiled and walked into the crowd, into the sunlight.

I melted into the bustle of the street, letting the noise and color wash over me. Nobody noticed the lone wolf slipping away.