Chapter 204: Damon Plots

Third Person

James's job, initially dangerous but straightforward, had become a logistical nightmare. He'd started by landing his plane on the coast, camouflaging it with tarps and vegetation, and trekking twenty miles inland to a village inn where Sinclair's spy network ferried hunted shifters to safety. After the handover, James would escort the refugees back to the coast.

A few encounters had been harrowing—like the time Sadie's parents were followed by Damon's agents, resulting in a deadly skirmish. While such incidents were thankfully rare, the refugees lived in constant fear, only relaxing upon reaching the hidden territories. This was when James still had the time to learn each face and name, each harrowing tale.

Everything changed when humans discovered shifters. The once-deserted coast was now teeming with people, eliminating the need for the inland trek. Landings had become perilous gauntlets, with terrified refugees scrambling for space, making it difficult to clear a safe landing strip. James feared hitting someone. Despite the extra planes and pilots Gabriel supplied, it was never enough. They could transport a hundred people daily, but thousands—exhausted, starving, and injured—waited. He knew the operation was growing too large to remain secret, and lived in constant fear of Damon's retaliatory strike. The only mitigating factor was that Damon's forces were preoccupied with the havoc they'd created, leaving few soldiers to spare.

While assisting injured shifters and families with young children onto the plane, preoccupied with the desperate pleas of those left behind, James failed to notice an extra passenger sneaking aboard. He didn't see the man slink to the back, huddle beneath an emergency blanket, or the dangerous glint in his eyes as he surveyed the passengers. Upon landing, James didn't realize one passenger hadn't thanked him.

The man slipped into the triage tents, observing intently, listening carefully. He gave a false name at registration, accepted his tent assignment, and disappeared into the camp—a silent ghost.

"They're here," Damon—Emperor Damon, the Usurper, or, his least favorite, His Royal Fuckwit—roared, slamming his fist on his desk. "I knew it! That bastard Gabriel must be hiding them!" His voice was so loud the man on the other end of the phone flinched. "Have you seen them?"

"No, I'm still in the refugee camp," his spy replied. "But I have plenty to report. This place is brimming with intel; these idealistic fools never suspected me."

"Get on with it," Damon ordered, pacing his room.

"Sinclair is building alliances with the Vanaran Alphas," the spy reported, his tone dripping with disdain. "The rest of his delegation remains behind. Sinclair and his Luna visit the camp daily; the King and that traitor, Roger, are finding local families to host the refugees."

"Anything else?" Damon growled, his fury escalating. "Are the alliances successful? Are they building an army?"

"I don't know, but there's a major political summit next week," the spy answered. "Every Alpha on the continent will gather in the capital to pledge their support or refuse. It's a lavish affair—excursions, survivor testimonies, feasts, even a grand ball."

"Typical Sinclair—wining and dining grown men like girlfriends," Damon sneered, grinding his teeth. "Does he understand nothing about war?" The thought of Sinclair's potential success filled him with dread. Vanaran technology could obliterate his armies. "I should have remembered their history. I thought they'd simply gone to ground!"

"The Vanarans aren't your only problem," the spy said hesitantly. "They might not even be the biggest."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Damon hissed.

"The biggest rumor is that they've discovered Sinclair's Luna is King Xavier's long-lost daughter," the spy revealed, struggling to contain his excitement.

"Nonsense," Damon scoffed, though he rubbed his neck, vaguely recalling a past pregnancy or stillbirth. "Xavier and Reina never had children. Everyone knows that. There's no way they could have had a pup without anyone knowing, let alone her ending up in a human orphanage."

"Apparently, the Goddess ordained her concealment," the spy explained, referring to the widely circulated hypnosis session details.

"Absolute nonsense," Damon dismissed. "That's a childish fairy tale."

"But how could a human child know about wolves? About a king and queen, about anything beyond the human world?" the spy challenged.

"Kids are creative," Damon scoffed. "My son spoke to an imaginary cowboy all day last week."

"They call her a demigoddess," the spy revealed. "They believe she was sent to save them. She's even more popular than Sinclair."

"Eliminate her," Damon commanded. "If they lose hope, they lose their will to fight. End her before it's too late."

"Do we even know if she can be killed?" the spy asked uncertainly. "If she's truly the—"

"Everyone and everything can be killed," Damon snapped. "Sinclair isn't there to protect her, and she's apparently running around the refugee camp unguarded. Just do it."

"I didn't sign up for assassinations," the man countered. "This was intelligence gathering."

"Oh, like you haven't killed for me before," Damon reminded him. "Don't tell me you're balking because she's breeding."

"No but I'm not eager to kill the Goddess's child," he corrected.

"You can't believe that nonsense," Damon exploded. "She's not a fucking unicorn; she's a she-wolf with a grandiose personality disorder."

"I won't do it," the spy insisted. "Even if I could, she's constantly surrounded. Imagine the consequences of killing their savior."

"Fine. Kill Sinclair while he's away from reinforcements," Damon suggested. "He's vulnerable, traveling through unsecured areas. Plant an explosive on the road."

"That assumes I can acquire their weapons and track him," the spy explained. "It's a question of price. My fee for killing an Alpha just increased."

"Is that a no?" Damon snarled.

"No," the spy clarified. "It's a question of your willingness to pay."