11. Oliver

In the family library, I stand looking up at the family portrait over the fireplace, clutching the dossier of secrets and betrayals in one hand.

The oil painting, framed in dark mahogany, captures a moment so lost in time that I have a hard time believing it ever happened—that we ever stood there, the five of us together, to have our picture made. It”s an odd choice of backdrop: the deep woods behind us, shadows clinging to the edges like whispered secrets. But for a family of werewolves, it”s a slice of home—a testament to our dual nature, even as we stand in human form.

There we are, the Faulkners, a veneer of nobility over our feral hearts. Father stands tall and unyielding at the center, his silver hair catching the light that filters through the canopy. Mother, with her kind eyes and gentle smile, seems almost to glow with an inner light that belies the future accident that will abruptly take her away from us.

To Father”s right is Irene, her expression serious even then, a prelude to the matriarch she would become. Her hands rest lightly on Father”s shoulder, a show of solidarity and support that would later fracture with her marriage into the Larken pack.

And then there”s Jason. He”s on Mother”s left, his smirk rebellious against the formality of our pose. He leans slightly out of line as if ready to bolt into the forest at any moment. I remember him chafing against the responsibilities that came with being firstborn, a wildness in him that couldn”t be tamed by corporate thrones or pack politics.

Lastly, there”s me—awkwardly sandwiched between Mother and Irene—trying to mimic Father”s stoic pose but not quite succeeding. My hands are balled into fists at my sides as if ready for a fight, my jaw set in a challenge I didn”t understand at the time. Jason’s eyes and mine both look out from a similar curly mop of dark hair—a resemblance I never cared to acknowledge before. The scar above my left eyebrow is still fresh in this painting. Jason, as I recall now, dared me to climb one of the trees…and inevitably, I fell, and he pretended he”d had nothing to do with it.

Are all brothers like that? Rivals even when trying to be friends?

The artist captured our likenesses but missed the undercurrents—the rifts and alliances forming even as he instructed us to hold still. He painted us in our human forms because that”s what the world sees: the wealthy Faulkner clan, pillars of Ravencourt society. But beneath the surface lies our truth—we are beasts of tooth and claw.

A knock on the door pulls me back to the present, to the library where secrets gather dust on shelves filled with leather-bound spines and forgotten lore. It”s Irene, no doubt sensing my unrest.

”Ollie?” Her voice carries concern laced with authority—the same tone she uses when mediating office disputes or arguments between me and Father.

”Reenie, I”m in here,” I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.

Irene enters with measured steps. Her eyes dart to the folder in my hand, and in an instant, she knows why I”ve come here, to our home to face her, rather than at the office.

”I knew it was only a matter of time before we’d have to have this conversation,” she says softly and rings for tea.

I feel a twinge of sadness. Her reply is almost a confession of wrongdoing. The Moonrise Gala looms over us all like an ominous red sun, But with every beat of my heart, I”m reminded that there”s more at stake than just family pride or personal vendettas.

”I”m trying to understand,” I admit, because there”s no point in pretending otherwise with Irene.

She nods once and looks up at the portrait. “Mom looks so beautiful.”

”Never saw her wolf... always thought it was just Dad”s thing,” I say more to myself than her. I realize that it’s not just any woods in the background. It”s the Northern Quarter, the same land coveted by Kray for its mineral deposits—and the one plot of Faulkner land Mom always insisted was to be left untouched. A sanctuary, she”d said. Now, Kray was circling that land like a vulture, and I had to wonder if there was more to her words than just sentimentality.

”I saw it—saw the real wolf inside her—more than once. She was magnificent.” Irene”s voice holds a note of reverence that makes me want to believe her innocence in all this mess.

”I suppose,” I say simply, realizing that despite our inherent devotion to the wolves inside each of us, I’ve never shifted in front of any member of my family. And I’ve never seen their wolves either, beyond a glow in the eyes and an unsheathed claw. Why are we like that? Why are we so afraid to show ourselves to each other?

Irene’s eyes search mine. ”Would you believe me if I told you the truth is rather more complicated than what Sophia brought to you?”

I hesitate. ”It”s not about belief, Irene. It”s about facts, and right now, they”re pointing in directions I can”t ignore.”

Her face falls slightly, hurt flashing across her features before she masks it with that matriarchal poise she wears like armor. ”Ollie, you know me.”

”Do I?” The question slips out sharper than I intended.

”You think I”d put our family in jeopardy? That I”d consort with traitors to our name? Has Ms. Carter convinced you I’m some sort of divergent from the pack? It’s what Father believes, I know.” Irene’s voice rises with a blend of anger and pain.

I”m hoping my internal struggle is not showing on my face too much. There is love between us, but so much hurt, too—old wounds from decisions made and lines drawn in the sand when we were both too young to understand their lasting impact. She had to become first a surrogate mother and now a nursemaid. And all of it without thanks from our father.

”I want to trust you,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. ”But there is so much damning evidence. Faulkner Enterprises can survive this only if the Shadow Covenant goes down. And that means you could go down with it unless you expose the Covenant for what it really is—a long-term con. Even then, there would be months, maybe years of investigations. It might ruin us anyway. And this has nothing to do with Sophia, really. Besides, you”re the one who told me to hire her, Reenie. Did you know what she might uncover?” I stop, suddenly realizing something.

”Did you plant this folder of evidence where we would find it? Was it you who sent us over there? Did you try to trap us in the labyrinth?”

Irene takes a step back as if my words have pushed her away. ”What? If you”re going to side with an outsider over your own blood...”

”Why shouldn”t I? She might be more than just an outsider,” I cut in before I can stop myself.

There”s a beat of silence as we both realize what I”ve implied.

”You believe she is your fated mate?” Irene’s eyes narrow,, skepticism lining her words. ”That”s not something this family places much stock in.”

I feel my defenses rise again. ”Maybe we should. There was no love between our parents. And I know you only married Edward Larken as an escape from Father.”

She snorts and looks around the room. ”It wasn’t much of an escape, was it? I’ve been caring for him around the clock for months.”

”Reenie, you haven”t answered my question, did you plant this folder?” I look around the room as though there might indeed be eyes watching us. ”Are you making these decisions alone?”

Irene”s posture crumbles as if a weight has settled on her shoulders, her usual composure slipping away like a shadow. Her eyes dart to the door, then back to me, as if expecting eavesdroppers lurking in the shadows.

”No, I didn’t. I was hoping to never have to tell you any of that. But maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know how much longer Father will be with us, so you need to know. For years, I’ve been following her guidance—Mom”s. And now, I hear Jason’s voice, too. They speak to me, Oliver. They guide me so that I can protect all of us,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

”You believe you’re listening to the dead, Irene?”

Is she insane?I search her face for signs of deceit or madness, but instead, I see a raw earnestness that chills me to the bone. It’s not just her words—it”s the fervor behind them, a belief so strong it seems to vibrate in the air between us. She sounds so sane…it’s crazy.

“Death isn’t the end, not for us, for the Faulkners,” she says.

”Irene,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel. ”You know as well as I do that when our kind die.…if they persist, there is no humanity left in them.”

I trail off, unwilling to voice the grim finality we all face. Werewolves may have longer lives than humans, but not much longer. We believe only that if our souls persist, they persist in werewolf form, finally free.

She shakes her head, a tremor in her chin betraying her fear. ”Bodies die. But not spirits. In Mother”s case and Jason”s, they”re not truly gone, Ollie. Not completely. Mom’s father made breakthroughs into the afterlife. He opened doors and left them open so his descendants could walk through them—so that they could reach back and guide us.”

I want to scoff, to dismiss her claims as grief-fueled delusions. Yet here she stands before me, a woman who has always valued power and control, embracing ghosts and delusions as truth.

”Guides? How do they guide you?” The question feels leaden in my mouth.

”They visit me in dreams or when I’m alone,” Irene says with a quick glance upward as if expecting Mother’s painted eyes to blink at her confession. ”They show me paths hidden from our enemies—paths to keep us safe.”

”And Jason?” The mention of our brother tightens something in my chest—a mix of sorrow and old betrayal.

”He says thsi Gala will be the most important one of all.”

I scoff. Jason had always been wild and unpredictable, and he fled this family as soon as he was able. None of mother’s myriad programs for runaways ever convinced him to come back to us, if he even lived long enough to deny them.

He and Father had always fought and finally, one night, he was gone. Mom and Father raged at each other for weeks, months. She grew hard and remote and, more wolfish. She grew ill as she searched for Jason. She poured every bit of the life she had left into the Moonrise Gala, raising millions of dollars. I’ve always wondered if the accident that took her life, was just a cover for her own despair. Even the insurance money from her death went into the Foundation.

Oh, my damned demons.

It”s all been a scam. It’s been going to the Shadow Covenant. Some—maybe most!

I look at Irene again—the sister who took up the mantle when Mother died, who bore Father”s scorn and weathered his illness with unwavering resolve. Mother and Jason are dead. How could Irene believe she was really taking counsel from ghosts?

Or is she just another wounded child, like the rest of us? Trying to live up to expectations too heavy to bear, trying to make sense of a world that has too many rules, too many expectations…and not enough love. She’s as broken as me.

I”m not sure what scares me more: the possibility that my sister believes she is being guided from beyond or that someone has insinuated themselves so deeply into our family that they are controlling her…and, by extension, all of Faulkner Enterprises?

Her gaze meets mine again, desperate and pleading. ”Ollie,” she says, reaching for my hand with hers that suddenly feels too cold. ”You have to believe me. These aren’t just delusions. They”re real, as real as the blood that runs in our veins,” Irene pleads, her fingers clutching the necklace, the one Sophia noticed that suddenly seems new to me. It dangles from her grasp, swaying slightly like a pendulum calling forth spirits. It was Mother”s.

Irene looks at me, her eyes brimming with tears that threaten to spill over. ”Mother explained to me: it”s my destiny to walk in her footsteps. My responsibility. Mine. You are just the little brother. I”m supposed to protect you. You aren”t supposed to know.”

She”s practically in tears. My alarm flares.

Sure, this is Ravencourt, and magic is alive in every cobblestone and brick. You can”t turn around without brushing against it. We all belong to Factions: angels, demons, vampires, wolves, fae, centaurs, sirens, dragons, and shifters of every sort. All of us…we are magic made real. Why shouldn”t Irene have believed it?

But this, this is madness.

”Irene,” I say firmly, locking eyes with her. ”We need to talk to Father.”

His reticence on matters of the family’s past has always been a solid wall to break against. But it”s time for me to stand up to him.

”Alright,” she finally concedes with a heavy sigh. ”But be prepared; Father fades in and out. You saw that the other night. I never know from hour to hour who he will be.”

”I do,” I say grimly, ”He”ll be the same bullying son-of-a-bitch he”s always been. Let’s go.”