Chapter 243 Welcoming Facade
Fennigan watched Draven's broad back disappear down the long, sunlit hallway, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Beside him, Jax mirrored his Alpha's rigid stance, his Beta instincts humming on high alert beneath his relaxed, welcoming facade.
Fennigan knew that every single Alpha arriving today would readily accept this excuse. Waiting for the sun to go down and the ale to flow before gathering the leaders was the traditional, expected rhythm of a pack celebration. It made perfect logistical sense to them.
But beneath the guise of generous hospitality, the delay was a highly calculated, ruthless strategy.
The High Council absolutely knew about Damon’s demise. Fennigan had literally shipped his father's corpse to the capital in a pine box. While the Council likely chalked the assassination up to a brutal, internal pack power struggle, executing a former Matriarch's husband without warning was a massive, aggressive statement.
By forcing the allied Alphas and their entourages to mingle, eat, and kill time on Blackwood territory for hours before the real meeting began, Fennigan had created a crucial window for surveillance. He needed to carefully watch each and every one of them.
He had to know if the High Council had quietly reached out to any of these independent packs in retaliation.
Throughout the afternoon, Toby, Sarah, and dozens of other highly trained guards would be seamlessly blended into the crowd. Disguised as friendly hosts, roaming security, and helpful staff, they would be monitoring the visiting leaders for any signs of deception. They were looking for hushed phone calls back to the capital. They were watching for any overly observant scanning of the perimeter, any nervous micro-expressions, or any out-of-the-ordinary behavior that suggested an Alpha had been tipped off, bribed, or threatened by the Council to turn against the Blackwoods.
Fennigan had to be absolutely, entirely certain of his allies before he revealed the apocalyptic secrets of the Vault.
"Have the guards keep a wide net," Fennigan murmured to Jax, his voice so low it barely disturbed the air between them. "The Council has Damon's body. If they've pressured any of these packs to act as their spies or executioners, I want to spot the signs before the first keg is tapped."
"Already done," Jax grunted softly, his silver eyes tracking another caravan of SUVs pulling up the driveway. "If any of them are working for the capital, they'll slip up by sunset."
With their silent, invisible perimeter set, the Alpha and Beta turned back toward the grand foyer, ready to greet the next wave of potential allies—or hidden enemies—with open arms and sharp teeth.
While the men locked down the physical perimeter and analyzed the Alphas, the women of the Blackwood family launched a completely different, highly sophisticated counter-intelligence operation.
They knew that in werewolf politics, the Lunas, the female elders, and the tightly knit entourages often held the true pulse of a pack's loyalties. If a visiting Alpha was hiding a High Council secret, or buckling under the capital's threats, his mate or his inner circle would inevitably show the strain.
Leela, Ginny, and Elana didn't need security earpieces or armed guards to conduct an interrogation. They had an absolute arsenal of soft power, and they had perfectly divided their targets for the afternoon.
Elana held court in the parlor. The formidable Matriarch positioned her wheelchair in the sunniest, most comfortable room of the guest wing, surrounded by gleaming silver trays of Vannie's delicate pastries and freshly brewed tea. She played the part of the gracious, retired elder to absolute perfection. By projecting a relaxed, slightly weary demeanor, she encouraged the visiting older women and established Lunas to completely drop their guards. She casually steered the flow of gossip, her sharp silver eyes meticulously watching for anyone who seemed a little too eager to ask probing questions about Damon’s sudden "absence," or anyone whose scent spiked with nervous guilt when discussing the High Council's recent politics.
Ginny weaponized motherhood. The new Beta female set up camp in a cozy, plush sitting room with tiny Iggy asleep against her chest in his sling. Because the bonfire was officially in her son's honor, every single visiting female eventually made their way into her orbit to coo over the newborn. Ginny played the exhausted, blissfully innocent new mother flawlessly. While the visiting women fussed over Iggy's tiny fingers and offered parenting advice, Ginny was quietly acting as a human polygraph. She analyzed their scents for unnatural spikes of anxiety, listened to their hushed side-conversations when they thought she was distracted by the baby, and noted exactly who seemed genuinely joyous versus who was constantly looking over their shoulder.
Leela took the active approach. The pregnant Luna was the radiant, welcoming face of the entire Blackwood territory. With Caspian and Briar securely strapped into their double stroller and happily babbling at anyone who made eye contact, Leela roamed the sprawling grounds and the long hallways of the guest wings. Under the guise of checking on everyone's accommodations and letting the twins stretch their legs, she was meticulously mapping the social dynamics of the invasion. She watched exactly how the visiting entourages interacted with the Blackwood Omegas and guards—looking for anyone acting overly paranoid, isolating themselves from the group, or treating the staff with the dismissive, entitled arrogance typical of High Council loyalists.
Together, the three women formed an invisible, impenetrable net of hospitality. They were just as lethal as their mates, simply operating on a different battlefield. If the High Council had managed to plant a spy or turn an ally hidden among the silk dresses and baby gifts, the Blackwood Matriarchs were going to find her long before the first match was ever struck at the bonfire.
"That makes fifteen," Leela murmured quietly, ensuring her voice didn't carry past the heavy velvet curtains. She watched a heavily scarred Alpha from the northern territories enthusiastically clap one of Fennigan’s guards on the shoulder. "If even one of them is compromised... if the Council reached out to just one of these packs after Damon’s body arrived in the capital..."
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't have to. If a single Alpha in that locked study tonight decided to use the slaughterhouse ledgers to buy favor with the High Council instead of joining the rebellion, it wouldn't obliterate the Blackwood pack—Fennigan's forces were far too massive and lethal for that. But it would instantly drag them into a brutal, bloody battle right here on their own soil, turning their home and their sanctuary into a war zone.
Elana set her delicate teacup down on the saucer with a soft, definitive clink. The older woman’s posture was relaxed, but the aura radiating from her wheelchair was pure, unadulterated steel.
"They won't," Elana stated, her voice a calm, lethal certainty. "I've spent the last three hours pouring tea for their Lunas and mothers. Ginny has had every single one of their younger females cooing over Iggy. And you've walked these halls watching their guards."