Chapter 101 You Better Have a Plan B
Downstairs, the silence was heavy and brittle, a suffocating blanket that settled over the room like the calm after a bomb had gone off. The distant, jarring sound of shattered glass still seemed to echo in the hallway, a testament to the Alpha’s rare and terrifying loss of control. The family had retreated to the living room, putting physical distance between themselves and the violence of the study, but the tension had followed them like smoke.
Elana stood in the center of the Persian rug, her posture rigid. Her knitting—usually a source of comfort—lay abandoned on the armchair, a tangled heap of yellow yarn that looked as chaotic as the evening had become. She crossed her arms tight over her chest, her fingers digging into her sleeves, anchoring herself. She looked from Damon to Jax, her eyes narrowing dangerously, stripping away their defenses.
"Talk," Elana commanded. Her voice was low, barely a whisper, but it vibrated with the absolute authority of a matriarch who had led this pack for thirty years. "Fennigan doesn't lose control like that. He is the most disciplined man I know. He doesn't throw glasses. He doesn't pin Elders to the wall unless he feels cornered like a rat. What did you say to him?"
Ginny sat on the edge of the sofa, looking small and pale. Her hand rested protectively on the high curve of her belly, her eyes wide and wet as she looked between the men, terrified of the answer.
Damon sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his skin down, looking every day of his age. He glanced at Elder Thorpe, who was standing near the fireplace, adjusting his torn lapel with trembling hands, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
"They pushed him, Elana," Damon said heavily, stepping to her side, his loyalty clear. "We were discussing the Lex Terrae. The Law of the Land."
"I know the law," Elana pressed, her gaze never wavering. "And?"
"And the only way to trigger it," Jax cut in, his voice hard and brittle with his own suppressed anger, "is to have a witness who connects to the soil of Whisper Wind. A witness who can channel the destruction so the Tribunal can feel the earth scream."
Ginny gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Her hand flew to her mouth as the implication landed. "Leela."
"They want to send her back," Jax confirmed, shooting a glare of pure venom at the Elders. "They told Fennigan that the only way to win this war is to take Leela—pregnant, traumatized Leela—and march her right back into the Dead Zone to act as a magical conduit."
Elana went still. Absolute, statue-still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, sucking the warmth from the hearth. She turned slowly, pivoting on her heel to face Elder Thorpe and Elder Horne. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of cold porcelain.
"You want her to do what?" Elana asked, her voice dangerously soft, like the quiet slide of a blade leaving a sheath.
"It is a matter of necessity, Elana," Elder Horne said, leaning heavily on his cane. He straightened his back, though he had the grace to look uncomfortable under her dissecting gaze. "We understand the risk. We know the history. But Vane is closing in. Without the Lex Terrae, we have no legal foothold. We are out of options. Using the Elemental’s connection to the land is the only solution we have found."
"The only solution?" Elana repeated, stepping closer to them.
The words triggered a cascade of memories she had tried to bury. She remembered that night. She remembered the metallic smell of blood mixed with ozone. She remembered screaming for Magda until her throat bled while Fennigan roared in panic, holding a fading Leela in his arms. She remembered the terrifying silence of the nursery before the first cry. She remembered holding those tiny, babies—Caspian and Briar—praying to the Moon that they would take their first breath, their lives almost stolen before they began because of that cursed land.
The memory ignited a fire in her chest that burned hotter than any dragon.
"You sat at my table," Elana spat, her voice rising with every word, shaking the crystal drops on the chandelier. "You ate my food. You drank my wine. You watched those twins blow raspberries and laugh in my kitchen. And then... you walked into that study and suggested we put their mother back in the electric chair that almost killed them?"
"We are trying to save the pack!" Thorpe protested weakly, taking a step back.
"You are trying to save your seats!" Elana countered, advancing on him. She pointed a shaking finger at the stairs where her son and daughter-in-law had disappeared—the sanctuary they had been forced to flee to.
"That girl is not a battery for your laws," Elana hissed, her eyes flashing with a mother's feral instinct. "She is a mother. She is carrying my grandchild. And my son... my son almost died of grief the first time. He barely survived watching her fade. If you think for one second that we will risk her life to fix your political mess, you are senile."
"But Elana," Horne tried again, desperation creeping into his rasp, "if we don't act, Vane wins. It is the only—"
"Well, you better find another one," Elana cut him off, her voice cracking like a whip through the room.
She stepped back, standing beside Damon. He placed a hand on the small of her back, and together they presented a united front of pure iron—the unbreakable foundation of the Blackwood line.
"You are the Elders of the High Council," Elana hissed, looking at them with utter disdain. "You were the original Elementals. You are supposed to be the wisest wolves in existence. So use those brains and find a loophole that doesn't involve sacrificing my daughter-in-law on an altar of bureaucracy."
She gestured sharply to the guest hallway, dismissing them as if they were unruly pups.
"Go to bed. Sleep on it. And when you come down for breakfast tomorrow, you better have a Plan B. Because if you suggest Plan A again... Fennigan won't be the only Blackwood you have to worry about. I will tear you apart myself."