Strive to Survive

“No, no!” snarled the werewolf of gold and silver. A blur of motion, he wrapped his claws around the female’s wrists and yanked them lower. “Don’t be so concerned with guarding your face, Austin. Keep your defenses over your heart. If you’re so concerned with keeping pretty, you shouldn’t be joining the Order in the first place.”

Like curtains being drawn, the female’s black muzzle revealed a flash of teeth, but she complied with the instructions. Few were brazen enough to accuse Reilly Austin of vanity, though the man in front of her could beat her half to death and she would probably end up thanking him. Robert “Hatchet” Hackett was a legend amongst the soldiers of the Order. Hell, he had set the standard for the Order post-World War Two. She had been hunting for the Order for a year, now, and a near-disaster taking on a band of vampires, she realized she still had much to learn. Thankfully, he had chosen her uncle’s ranch for the place of his retirement. She considered herself fortunate to be able to ask him for help.

But still… she wasn’t about to let any man smack-talk her. “Just so long as I don’t come out looking like you, Mister Scar-Tissue, I’ll be fine.”

Their sparring continued. Reilly attacked Hatchet head-on, but found herself flipping through the air and landing on her back. Before she could recover, his foot came down on her collarbone, pinning her. Hatchet rarely held back in his training, but she knew if this had been a real fight, his foot would be on her softer throat, not the sturdier bone.

After a tense moment, the foot lifted and the elder werewolf offered her a hand up. “Why do you want this so badly? Girl like you could be the heir to your father’s pack.”

She helped her self up and slapped the dirt out of her fur before it could work its way deeper into her coat and aggravate her. “Because I’ve had everything handed to me all my life. I need to earn something for myself, just like Uncle Nicholas did before he became alpha of Argo.”

Hatchet grunted. He didn’t seem as impressed with her answer as she’d expected. “Your Uncle was only in the Order for two years before he realized it wasn’t for him. It’s not an easy job. It ruins a lot of lives, and I’d hate to see it ruin yours.”

“You saying I’m not up to it?” she growled.

“No one is. Those of us who made it through barely scraped by. You think I don’t know exactly what went down in Belize?”

Reilly tried to answer, but only stammered. How had he known about that? Of course, the answer was obvious. He was Hatchet, one of the Chosen. Even if he no longer fought for the Order, he still had his connections within.

Hatchet placed a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. Right in the eye, allowing her to peak at the echoes of fire and mayhem, carnage and bloodlust that had burned itself into his retinas after nearly a century. She had wanted it so badly, the excitement, the glory. In Belize, she had learned that it came with a cost… and Hatchet was the living example of that cost.

“Just because your uncle named you Fortune, doesn’t mean your luck is infinite. I’d just hate to lose you, girl. Your family would be devastated even more so… and a certain young man in this pack would be missing out.”

“Wait, what?” she asked. What young man? Hatchet knowing about the machinations of the Order, she could understand. But how could she know about that?

“I may be an old man, but I’m no fool. I see the way he looks at you.”

Reilly took a step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you, now?” Hatchet grinned savagely… and then spun her around, wrapped his arms around her, and pinned her to the ground.
She barely had enough wind in her lungs to scream “Hey!” He was supposed to warn her before the sparring started again.

But this wasn’t a sparring session. His grip tightened. “Come on and say it, girl.”

“Say what!”

“I know that you like him.”

“I don’t!”

“You do!” With each denial, his grip tightened.

“Crazy old man! How is it any of your business, anyway?”

“You asked me to train you. You’ll have a much better chance of surviving out there if you have someone to live for. Trust me on this.”

She considered his words a moment, and realized he was right. She didn’t want to die before she had a chance to talk to him. Damn Hatchet for being right.

“Okay, okay!” she exclaimed. “Let me up and I’ll say it.”

“Say it, and I’ll let you up.”

She snarled, and then screamed “Fine! I like Samson! Are you happy?”

“Samson!?” Hatchet peeled himself off her. “I thought you liked Gerry.”

“Gerry?” She pushed herself up and didn’t know whether to glare at him or look at him incredulously. She wasn’t sure what her face settled itself into. “That smarmy wannabe womanizer?”

Hatchet lifted his hands, presenting his palms in concession. “Maybe I am getting to be an old man.”

“Yeah, and senile too.”

“Okay, maybe I deserved that one. So… you want to learn how to rip a vampire’s heart out with one move?”

“Fine.” She settled into a combat stance.

“Not here. I have some practice dummies in the barn.” They began walking towards the barn when he mumbled, “So… Samson, huh? Didn’t you break his arm once?”

 “Shut up,” she growled.