This Race is a Prophecy [Nate]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Rumors circulate through the lower levels of Boston. Whispers of a king gone mad, of a leader prepared to turn on his disciples pass from mumbling lips to attentive ears. Nikolai has grown tired of Boston’s decay and he, with the pack elite, are planning to oust the rabble. Wolves who cannot provide enough for the pack will be deemed unnecessary and will be handled accordingly. They are loaded phrases that have spawned their own spiraling rumors. Nikolai means to cull the underperforming. Nikolai will instigate a higher tax to “encourage” better performance. As of yet, there have been no actions from the Malik family to give any weight to the rumors.

In fact, the Malik family has been oddly quiet.

Those who have seen Nikolai say he looks haggard, tired, and note the abnormal shortness of his temper. Micah is perpetually on a “business trip” and Jericho has passed all of his cases to other lawyers, citing a family emergency as his reason. Their behavior all reads exceptionally suspicious and no information has materialized that might bring light to the situation.

There is nothing until there is -- until the day a neat white envelope arrives in Nathan’s mailbox. The address on the envelope gives little information. A nondescript PO box from a well-traveled part of the city raises more questions than answers. The name provided is a simple, tongue-in-cheek John Doe. There is a distinct matchbox-thick rectangle sitting in the lower left corner. When opened, a small note and an actual matchbox will be revealed. Inside of the matchbox is a small bronze-colored key. The note reads --


We need to talk.

-J


Nathan is left with a key and a matchbox as his only clues. Upon closer inspection, the matchbox is from the Boston Harbor Hotel, and on the inside lip written in black ink, Greenway Suite. The whole setup is entirely melodramatic and ridiculous and, as such, is entirely Jericho.

Whether the head of security decides to play into the strange game is his decision. As it stands, Jericho might possess the answers Nathan is owed.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Boston is ragged, fraying at the edges and tearing at the seams, a thing held together more by practice and force of will than any true attempt at control. The concept of the pack suddenly failing – floundering, struggling – is a notion that would have greater men than Nathaniel Hart quaking, that would send those beneath him scrambling like vultures for their scraps, their pieces, their shreds of a shattered empire. Kingdoms do not ever fall gracefully and though every attempt has been made to quell rumor and silence doubt, still the whispers and misgivings trickle down, permeating the city like dry rot. There is a network in place to keep things functional but there is no progress; the city of Boston stagnates, and the quiet of her sovereigns lets uncertainty creep in deep.

It is not so difficult, so dangerous, that there is open discord in the streets, but rumor has a way of taking hold and turning wild fears to half-believed truths. Weakness is intolerable and meant to be taken advantage of, but both hierarchy and even leadership are simply single cogs in a vast machine – one that still manages an attempt at purpose without direction. The city rushes on blindly, a ghost at the helm.

There are other executives, other administrators, men and women both in positions of power capable of performing the coup d’état that grows more threatening with each passing day, but it a waiting game of gathering means and support. Striking too soon signs one’s own death warrant, and the upper echelons of the pack have settled for prudence. The Malik name carries an impossible amount of weight and meaning, and cannot be crossed for a simple thing like suspicion. Weeding out the purely opportunistic for the fiercely loyal serves the family well even now.

And into the middle of it all descends a matchbox, a note, and a key – clues and promises both held in the palm of Nathan’s hand.

Security is a vast concept. There is no denying Nate’s hand in the day-to-day management of the pack but there is a brutish implication to the position, a misunderstanding that stems from the rank of enforcers and thugs beneath him and reveals none of the nuanced truth. A large portion of the pack is his by virtue of rank and information alone, held tight in his fist by the secrets only he controls, but he has no mind for blackmail. Despite his tendencies, Nathan has always been a remarkably safe bet.

A sleek black car deposits him before the Boston Harbor Hotel, key in hand, and his thoughts are dark as he ascends to the higher floors. After months of denied contact, after weeks of Boston’s slow descent into confusion and chaos, that he should so suddenly be granted an opportunity to understand seems impossible; a game seems likelier, a scavenger hunt across the city crafted for the damnable aristocrat’s amusement, or any of a thousand possible scenarios. It could be a mistake. It could be nothing.

Overthinking does not suit him. Action will suffice.

Neither concern nor unease is reflected in either Nate’s expression or his bearing as the elevator chimes and he lets himself in to the sprawling and plush apartments housed within the Greenway Suite. His knuckles rap once, lightly, on the door as he enters, and the werewolf speaks as though he has every right to be here, and every desire to pretend this is usual, saying only—

”Jericho?”

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The city bleeds but it slithers on as a living skeleton, reliant on the structures put into place by generations of the Malik family. A history of hard work and careful planning that stems back to the founding of Boston has seen the werewolves thrive and grow self-reliant. The golden age ended decades ago but there is strength within the city’s infrastructure. Cut off the head of the beast, and it continues to exist by feeding off of the pulsing lifeblood kept strong by men like Nathaniel Hart. The crown has come to mean nothing, the heartbeat everything.

Nikolai and his sons are ghosts and their lack of presence means a lack of control. Decisions are deferred to other men, to more present men. The system continues to work because it is self-sustaining. The pack was never a dictatorship but a council, a hierarchy put into place in order to protect against catastrophic failure. Nikolai has power, he has respect, but pull back the curtains and he is nothing more than a figurehead. And as history has shown--

-- figureheads are easily replaced.

The Malik family is old. They represent the rigidness of the past and the unwillingness to embrace the future. Every mistake, every modicum of suffering or unhappiness is then squarely directed towards the family in charge. Power within a wolf pack is a gilded cage full of knives, an iron maiden of responsibility and blame. The walls are closing in and though Nikolai bears the brunt of the burden, his sons do not go unscathed.

Wolves are not men. They simply wear the faces of men. A shift in leadership is monumental and wolves do not handle change as civilized men do. There will be gnashing teeth and tearing flesh. The way for the new will be paved in the blood of the old. Nikolai’s days are limited. He knows this. His sons know this. His sons know this better than most.

The door to the Greenway Suite edges open and the lush, expensive interior swallows a single word-- Jericho. There is no immediate response. Nathan is instead greeted by a hollow silence, but the silence is not all-consuming. Boston calls from outside the open balcony doors. Seagulls cry as they circle the harbor, the bells of trolling boats ring out to announce their presence. The city lives on.

Before the suspicion that the letter and key were all a ruse can come to fruition, the man in question steps inside from an adjoining room. The sleeves of his white button-up are pooled at the elbows but the shirt is otherwise immaculate. The esquire’s hair is swept to the side and he is clean shaven. Gray, nearly white hair peppers the edge of his temples but he appears healthy and well-rested. Jericho looks up and upon seeing Nathan, his lips part into a slow tomcat’s smile.

”Nathan,” comes a familiar drawl, ”You’re looking…good.” Flirtation colors his words and his gaze, and Jericho chuckles smoothly. ”You’ll forgive my state of dishevelment, I’m sure.” Jericho appears calm but there is an unmistakable thrum of high-strung energy emanating from his animal. He makes his way towards a table hosting an assortment of shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark. Jericho pours a glass and holds it out to the other werewolf. ”Drink?” Whether Nathan accepts the glass or not, Jericho falls into a green-cushioned arm chair and takes a sip from his own glass.

”I know I could have simply called but where’s the fun in that?” The smirk he wears harkens back to the time spent playing out their own reckless and entwined game of hunger and fulfillment. Jericho, for whatever reason, seems to have reined his wolf in. He thumbs the corner of his mouth, collects a drop of whiskey and sucks it away. ”You’ve heard the rumors.” His tone is conversational and lazy, as if the Malik head wasn’t on the chopping block.

”At least I would hope so.” In that moment Jericho’s gaze shoots up to meet Nathan’s. ”Considering how hard Micah and I worked to spread them.”

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Silence is only to be expected.

Nathan is not sure what he would have rather discovered, opening that heavy wooden door to reveal the opulent parlor it hides, but silence does not disturb him. There is no relief to be found when his hopes had never truly been raised; he steps into the room and is welcomed only by the fragrant sea breeze, an overpowering scent that wafts over the familiar and acrid tang of city, and he is not disappointed. Setting the bar low when one is used to being let down allows Nathan to spare himself from any unwanted emotion, from having to recognize that maddening and wild piece of him that remembers—

There is a motion to his right, and in the doorway Nathan freezes like a startled animal, blue eyes darting up in a brief moment of honest surprise; the loss of composure is fleeting, masked with a carefully neutral expression that belies neither his apprehension nor his curiosity. Jericho is here. Nate straightens and steps into the room, drinking in the sight of a man he has long stopped expecting to see, and is caught hanging in a rare moment of uncertainty. His tongue runs along his lower lip, and there is a wariness in his demeanor, a feral hesitance he cannot quite disguise. Now that he has what he came for he is uncertain of how to react, of just what to do with it – but Jericho has always had a knack for shredding his lauded self-control.

”When do I not,” Nate counters smoothly, waving his hand in apparent dismissal – or the asked-for forgiveness – of the esquire’s current condition. He adjusts his lapel as if in demonstration, but the arrogance that should be so inherent in the gesture is brittle, his cocksure smirk too hollow, off-color and suspicious. To say that he is irritated with the ongoing games of rumor and intrigue would hardly suffice; the energy of Jericho’s animal has him instinctively primed for a fight, the wolf high-strung and pacing just beneath his skin, and the strength of its response is unsettling. Nathan reaches for the proffered drink with the barest hint of a frown, needing both the liquor in his blood and the distraction in his hands.

”You never did like making things easy.” Save for when he did – but so often the promise of a hunt had made the conclusion all the sweeter, no matter its inevitability. Nate settles to the nearby couch and takes a slow sip from his glass, throwing one arm lazily across the cushion behind him; he settles his ankle over one knee and fixes Jericho with a curious stare. If the man wants to pretend this is normal, that he has not been little more than a ghost for weeks as his father’s empire crumbled, than Nate is left with little option other than to play his game. Jericho does nothing without purpose.

There is a method to the madness – or so Nate vainly, perhaps mistakenly believes.

”Who hasn’t?” The executive’s finger is, by nature of his position and his disposition, on the pulse of Boston’s rumormill. Even the rats are likely whispering by now. ”You’re the talk of the town, and not for the usual reasons. You and your father.” Talk comes easily; the drink relaxes him, the cadence of their banter and Jericho’s flirtation all too familiar. He gestures at the other man with his glass and a subtle nod of his head, waiting for the blanks to be filled in – and when they are, just barely, Nate responds with only a pause and a disbelieving look, his lips quirked up in a wry smile.

”You’ve been planting them,” he replies flatly, drawing his glass to his lips before shaking his head with a dark chuckle. ”You and Micah. And you know half the city is out for blood?” It is rhetorical, slanted with a doubtful humor – there is very little that tends to escape Jericho’s notice. Nathan leans forward conspiratorially, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes bright and curious. ”And then you – you send me a note? A key?” The issue of why him, why now does not escape his lips, but it hangs between them unspoken.

After so long, Nathan still cannot bend to even ask a simple question. The powergames between them are that concrete, that instinctive.

”I admit it.” The werewolf leans back, hands parted in open surrender, and rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. If there is some bitterness there, it is well masked, indicative of the frustration he has felt in cleaning up after this mess. After Jericho’s game. ”You win. I’m baffled, and I have no idea what the fuck you think you’re playing at.”

[♔ Jericho ♔]

”But Nathaniel, nothing easy is ever worth it,” he admonishes. The set of Jericho’s lips is coy and playful, and mirth dances through the feral green of his eyes. ”You would know this better than most.”His fingers sit delicate around the edges of his glass and he sets it aside on a nearby table. ”Men of worth, after all, tend to chase adversity – but I digress. You aren’t here to listen to me wax philosophical.” Nathan, Jericho assumes, is here for answers. The esquire, despite his arrogant nature, is not egotistical (or hopeful) enough to think that the other werewolf may have been worried over his reclusive behavior.

To Nathan’s disbelief over the note and key, Jericho closes his eyes and chuckles. ”Yes. Addressed from John Doe, no less.” There is no mistaking it; Jericho is utterly amused by his own antics. The world may very well be a joke to Jericho Malik, but actions breed real consequences and for weeks now, Nathan has been left to deal with the fall out. ”You’ve always been such a willing participant-- I missed that.” A fleeting moment in which the mask falters, in which his ever-present smirk slips into something that stings of wistfulness. He is quick to recover, to retreat into his devil’s disguise.

Jericho reads the exasperation from Nathan with an idle, but calculating stare. He leans his cheek onto the back of his knuckles and for a stretch of time, does nothing but watch the other werewolf. An answer is not immediately forthcoming because this meeting was adlibbed into a long-standing plan orchestrated by Micah. Jericho watches Nathan and a lingering fondness begins to blur the line between friendship, brotherhood and possession. Boston is forfeit therefore everything in Boston is lost by association. The knowledge that he can no longer have, that he can no longer claim, turns his insides brittle. The esquire smothers the rising presence of his beast down and in response it tears into his blood with righteous indignation. His eyes narrow. ”Information is a gift. I could have very well left you in the dark – do not forget that.” The trip in demeanor is evidence to how high-strung the youngest Malik son is.

”This city was rotting long before you arrived and who do you think the wolves were blaming? My father. My family.” Money and social standing mean everything in the human world, but the realm of wolves is entirely more volatile. ”This…season of violence has been a long time coming – Micah and I have simply expedited its arrival.” Jericho did not plan this discussion out. From the note and key, to the words that now pass from his lips, the scene is an improvisation. ”Nikolai’s death will satiate the rabble for a window of time and when the new alpha is declared, he’ll be viewed as a savior. I do not envy the weight of responsibility that will fall onto his shoulders.” Jericho sends a thoughtful and weighted look to Nathan. This is more difficult than he had expected.

A shadow passes over his features and he abruptly stands. The doors to the balcony sit ajar and Jericho escapes into the open air. The black metal of the ornate railing is cold as he leans onto it, but it is a grounding sensation. The werewolf draws in a deep breath and stares out into Boston’s Harbor. The smell of salt and sea spray works like a mother’s lullaby to calm his frayed nerves, and Jericho finds his mental footing.

When Nathan decides to join him, Jericho’s attention is pointedly directed towards the horizon. A furrow creases his brow and the thrum of his wolf grows stronger, like a nervous animal backed into a corner unsure whether to fight or run. ”Kill the father and inherit the kingdom,” he drawls with a sense of defeat weighing down every word. ”But if the sons are not there to take on the crown, who does the mantle fall to?” In this moment, he looks to Nathan and there is something as audacious as pity lurking within his gaze.

”Fair warning.” The final answer. The reason as to why Jericho reached out to Nathan. A persisting affection that bleeds both fondness and respect has seen the esquire deviate from Micah’s plan. He could have left without a word and allowed the change to completely blindside Nathan. Instead he stands on a balcony overlooking the harbor and in two words, fair warning, tells Nathaniel to either run or to stay.

Jericho has decided on the former. The Malik name has decayed to the point of contempt. To stay would mean suicide. To run, survival. And so he chooses to run.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

What settles between the two men is an attempt at a relationship that was once intimately familiar; that had been second nature, tried and tested and forged in a sinful fire. Though Nathan is not a man to ever let a thing like his own past stand in his way there are differences now, subtle ways that gentle flirtation bristles abrasively in sudden challenge, brief losses of composure that are so unlike the reckless abandon they once knew. That Jericho should chastise him without the air of seduction is almost a testament to that change, and Nate sets his jaw and breaks his gaze in response.

He knows all too well how correct the other man is: just how valuable this information might prove, just how fortunate he may be to receive it. Nathan can sense that wild and forceful presence of the other wolf in the room, hidden behind a thin veneer of skin that it could tear through like silk, and the tension emanating from it builds like a storm; it thickens and threatens but shies just short of breaking, restrained by a modicum of self control Nate wasn’t aware Jericho possessed. His returned stare is pointed, both curious and defiant, but the werewolf remains silent.

Explanations, when they are forthcoming, do little to alleviate the mystery. Nathan, for his part, simply leans back and lets the esquire talk, distracting himself with slow sips of liquor until his glass is finally dry. A different man might find the conversation cruel, the cold and detached discussion of the Malik patriarch’s impending demise a heartless and callous theme, but Nathan responds with little more than a passing glimmer of suspicion and his full attention. Family is a luxury he has lived without, and the power games of wolves are more absolute, more pressing, more threatening. Nathan is, as ever, a realist.

So it is that he understands the layered nuance in Jericho’s words, the intent behind the forced hand of what amounts to a kindred spirit.

”You’re handling this on your own terms,” the man begins, but in his pause Jericho has risen, and Nathan chooses to remain behind. The shifting confusion in the esquire’s demeanor is not lost on him, but an appropriate response is. For a man usually so possessed with appearing at ease, he now finds himself at a loss, forced into drawing a cigarette from a sleek silver case to occupy his unquiet hands. The rush of nicotine works as a salve to the animal’s raw temper. It is more than a few drags before he can muster the energy – or perhaps the nerve – to follow, and Nate steps to the balcony with the scent of clove not far behind.

”You’re leaving.” It is an insipid attempt to avoid the why,, to dance around the words of caution Jericho offers him and state the obvious. Nathan instead takes the peace of their surroundings to rest his elbows on the edge of the balcony and lean forward, catching the other man’s gaze only as required. His thoughts are on previous private conversations, previous balconies, and he rips himself from them forcibly. The temptation inherent in the wolf beside him is a thing born of both instinct and learned behavior, and it courses through his veins each time that electricity dances in the air.

He cannot imagine Boston without Jericho, or perhaps vice versa; despite their time apart, the concepts are nearly synonymous, intertwined at their core. Blue eyes match green and hold, an instant of naked concern written on his features, a worry for just what the esquire has planned. Nate ashes his cigarette into the open air and drops his chin to his palm. ”Shoulda just stayed in Vegas, yeah?” He shoots the other man a wan smirk, an attempt at levity that lacks his usual fire. Nate shrugs. ”Old cities, old problems. Though what benefit you get out of forcing this now, I just don’t see.” He could have simply slipped away and let the kingdom tumble on its own. Instead, Jericho has granted him insight into the coming days – into a plan Nathan should, for all he is worth, be attempting to subvert – but his responsibilities are to the pack.

Not Nikolai.

”You know I can’t leave,” he says finally, though the man cannot quite grasp why. There has been no offer of asylum extended, nothing but the plain truth of the chaos that will reign down following the elderly sovereign’ death, and all Nate can feel is the cool anxiety of his wolf that balks at change. Boston had been hard enough on him; without that stability, he is nothing. Nathan turns to watch the esquire – a one-time lover, a sometime friend – and his gaze runs affectionate, nearly regretful. He has never been very good at finality, not like this. ”Say hello to Micah for me.”

[♔ Jericho ♔]

Family is a pretty concept full of such shining thoughts as love and loyalty, and sacrifice. Jericho is no stranger to these emotions; he loves with a burning fierceness that courts the line between violence and passion. The decision to send his father to the guillotine was not made lightly, but his love and respect for the man has deteriorated to the point of breaking. Secrets no longer so secret have laid a shattering blow to the chains of their father-son relationship. Knowledge is both a gift and a curse, and the circumstances behind his and Micah’s induction to the werewolf brotherhood leaves his throat dry and his temper flaring.

There are reasons he and Micah bear no scars. There are reasons as to why Jericho’s animal is so out of control and Micah’s was, until recently, completely under the sway of its human counterpart. The weight of what has come to pass within his family sits as an icy boulder within his gut, but he does not think to share these burdens with Nathaniel. No, there are some things a man must keep buried deep beyond reach, lest he give into the temptation to confess.

”Escape,” Jericho offers in way of explanation. The grey sky over the harbor is both familiar and alien, and green eyes stare into it as if searching for life’s answers. Boston is home and yet no longer his. He feels like a man out of time and place, and it has the esquire’s wolf reeling. ” And as you put it – on my own terms.” The brothers refused to bide their time and wait for the rabble to grow a spine and lash out. Control, even amongst growing chaos, has always been Jericho’s greatest vice.

A grim quiet falls over the werewolf. It is a raw, contemplative moment. Guilt is not an emotion Jericho is equipped to contend with. His blood runs sour, his insides twist to the point of discomfort, and he is listless. ”I am not a man,” the words are ground out through clenched teeth, as if particularly difficult to deliver, ”I am a wolf. Wolves are meant to survive, and survival --” He pauses to glance at Nathan. ” Survival means sacrifice.” Whether he is referring to the impending death of his father, or his throwing Nathan-- quite literally-- to the wolves, is left to interpretation. The importance of what Jericho says is in what he does not say. To understand him is to read between the lines and there are few who speak his language.

The seconds’ hand of his mental clock tick by and he knows his time is nearly up. Jericho pushes away from the railing and turns to face Nathan. One hand rests on the metal barrier, the other hangs by his side. Fingers twitch and he nearly gives into the urge to reach out. Even now, in the face of emancipation, Jericho’s wolf hungers for the wildfire connection it found with Nathan. Vibrant yellow bleeds into the green of his iris but the effect is soon dispelled. An observant eye might notice the white-knuckle grip of Jericho’s hand on the railing. Pain biting into the meat of his palm forestalls the rising presence of his wolf and he manages a tight smile.

”My wolf chose you for a reason.” It was not a cheap thrill that the animal found within Nathaniel’s beast, but a kindred spirit, a similar hunger for control and power. Someone worthy. Someone, now, who could take on the mantle of leader and thrive. The thin veneer of cordiality grows more opaque as the seconds pass. Jericho looks down, thoughtful. ”I wish—“ He chokes the thought off immediately and glazes over it with a wan grin. ”But wishing doesn’t amount to much, does it?” He shakes his head and breezes past Nathan, back into the main apartment of the suite.

Jericho is shrugging on his suit jacket when he says, ” You know, should you ever have the chance – consider visiting the Azores-- I hear it’s nice.” A mundane comment from some, but nothing Jericho says is quite so vapid. A clue, perhaps, and an open invitation for when and if the whim ever strikes.

”Goodbye – and good luck.”

Boston's child pulls out of her embrace but he will keep in touch. After all --

He is the good son.