I was sitting in my tent as we set up camp for the night. There were several reasons for this: the nights were colder in this part of Australia, nighttime riding would be brutal, Mimosa was still affected by antibiotics, and we had leftover meat. I'd gotten extra deer meat yesterday, so hunting wasn't necessary for me. Mimosa was also unable to hunt, at least for now, and we had time.
After eating, I was simply contemplating things in the dim, warm light of my tent—I had heating pads to keep it cozy—and sipping my cola. My tent smelled like me, strawberries. Staying hydrated and fit was crucial; it was one of the challenges of this trip.
We wouldn't have blood tests or check-ups, fangs in the neck, or tasting blood unless absolutely necessary, but everyone needed to maintain a good fitness level, especially considering the medical examination we might face after the trip.
The warmth of the tent and my strawberry scent made the air a little hot and moist, but I needed to stay warm, and the slight discomfort was not that bad. I could feel the inflatable mattress beneath me; it was truly comfortable and insulated me from the cold perfectly. My pillows were air-filled too; they may not have been perfect, but they were good enough to lean on and rest, not that I was going to sleep.
I had reminisced enough to send my mind into a little bit of a frenzy, so nightmares were a possibility, and I was not going to risk it. I could do without sleep just fine. Every sensation and feeling turned my tent into my den; even though it was movable, my feline side still saw this as my den, my place.
I was surprised when Damon crawled into my tent. He closed the door behind him, sat down, and remarked, "Oh, it's warm in here. How and why?"
"Warming units, reusable," I replied, showing him a few.
He grunted; he hadn't had time to go through my inventory, and I wasn't going to force him. I was simply ensuring my own comfort—I was wearing a nice, warm velour pants and shirt, which caused him to frown.
"How in hell do you still have those horrible clothes? I thought I'd gotten rid of them."
"They're comfy, and I found them in stores," I explained. "They're very useful here. What brings you here?"
Damon said, "Magnum told us about prophecies and whatnot. It was surprising, sure, but according to Mariella, nothing new. She said it's normal for upstairs to have many choices; it doesn't mean the first choice is always best—it's random. The reason for several choices is free will; everyone has choices, and free will dictates everything."
I nodded. "As I said, old clutter in my mind—plenty of it. And as I read, I get more. Sometimes it's just..."
Damon furrowed his brows. "I have a potion here that helps. It fades away the unimportant clutter. Sure, you might have it in your backup, but it's not important to recall. This is Wulfe's doing, not mine; besides, I'm not good with potions."
I nodded, my mind clearing a bit—until I got more stuff in me, that is.
Damon continued, "I know I haven't told you about my time selling myself. Maybe it's because I don't see it as a good time, but then again, you tell me about times that are awful for you, so here goes. I'm trying to tell you something, to show I'm not just manipulating you, digging up dirt, or trying to get one over on Adam. I'm just trying to learn to be a good leader."
My voice slightly amused, I replied, "Well, you really shouldn't ask me. I'm not what one might call a good leader. Sure, I'm a leader who gets everyone on board, but good? Not me. Once, on a mission in Utah—not too early on—Jake and Rob were both involved, and I'd done the work for quite a while, but I wasn't perfect. I'd gotten intel about a place where Krycheck had been seen—shady, with several sightings of him and quite a few other big shots in medical circles, nasty ones. So, of course, it was logical to think it was some kind of evil facility."
I shook my head, still amused by the whole absurd thing. Damon looked at me, waiting for me to continue.
"We planned the hit, of course. It took a lot of manpower and studying; the place was well-guarded, with no public record, no official papers—everything pointed to it being a nasty place."
Damon asked, "Well, wasn't it a nasty place? I would have assumed so."
I smirked. "Oh no, I forgot to check a few things. We rode there at night, and the first clue was the lack of guards, mines, or cameras. I didn't think anything of it, though. I was one of the scouts—we had a new type of attacker who ensured the area was clear. I peered inside through a window," I recalled, the entire scene was vivid.
Damon leaned closer, awaiting my revelation.
"I saw a pretty normal-looking, white room, a sizable bed with shackles, and torture implements on a nearby shelf. I was hidden when I saw the door open and Krycheck walk in, followed by a woman."
I took a breath. "Krycheck suddenly turned, slammed the woman onto the bed, shackled her, then took out his wallet, placed several bills on a nearby table, and began undressing."
Damon smiled. "You mean... he...?"
I nodded. "It wasn't an evil medical facility, but a high-security brothel. Krycheck and other unsavory characters frequented it. I forgot to check one crucial thing: the victims."
Damon laughed. "You... you spent hours planning an attack on a whorehouse? Oh my god, baby... I would have loved to see your expression!"
My face burned with embarrassment as I recalled, "Rob and Jake were on that job, and let me tell you, they had a blast. I told everyone to move out and forget the place."
Damon, on his side, was still laughing, clutching his stomach.
I rolled my eyes. "From then on, we ensured that every target had confirmed victims, guards, surveillance, or evidence—the mere presence of unsavory individuals wasn't enough. Like I said, I'm not a perfect leader."
Damon finally caught his breath. "Oh, baby, it's not about you being a leader, but an operative. How in the hell... did you watch what Krycheck did?"
I glared at my still-amused husband. "Nope, we left pretty damn fast and focused on better targets."
My stomach discomfort intensified, requiring intense focus to treat it as just another sensation. I tricked my mind, this burn, well, I focused my mind to feel it as heat, hotness in my stomach. My appetite was poor, and the attention I received was less than that given to Mimosa, with Mariella a close second due to her demanding nature. A sharp, twisting pain stole my breath. This, though slight, caused Damon to frown.
"Now, wait up, missy," he muttered, "what was that? Something flashed on my radar. What are you doing to yourself?"
I replied, "Nothing. I just adjusted my position. Your radar must be quite sensitive; you might want to adjust it, or you'll be twisting yourself into knots every time someone's hurting."
He looked at me sharply. "I'm not buying that, missy. Cough it up! What was it? Stop hiding it. Let me see. I'm your protector, pack leader, alpha male, husband, and whatnot!" He was now getting anxious. Dr. Damon was emerging.
I took a breath. "It's just sensations. My stomach doesn't agree with the antibiotics. I use an old trick to manage pain—I've used it for decades. I alter my perception of pain, making it just another sensation. See, I am fine, it is just hotness inside my stomach."
Damon's voice was worried. "That stops right now. You hear me? I'll stop that. You've learned from the past what happens when you ignore pain or weakness. You end up in bad shape."
His mental intrusion caused a sharp headache. Just then, Wulfe, as well as number two, entered my already crowded tent. Number Two activated his pendant, and a wave of powerlessness washed over me as Wulfe also probed my mind. I closed my eyes, trying to isolate the headache as a single sensation, but the pain intensified. My stomach ache hit with full force when one of the telepaths discovered and disrupted my pain management technique.
As my pain flooded in, it seeped through our bond into Damon, who felt it acutely, and he had actually never stopped this. As a doctor, it was useful for him to sense the pain too, which helped him pinpoint the problem and its severity.
Damon cursed softly. "Oh, fuck, this is nasty. Can we do anything, or should we let her deal with it?"
Number Two and Wulfe remained silent, as did I. Then, I felt a sharp pain in my wrist as fangs pierced my skin. A flood of velvet washed over my mind, and the pain vanished.
Damon looked at the now unconscious Mimi; Number Two had sedated her, relieving her pain. He had actually tasted bacteria in her blood, meaning there were still some of them in her system, mild infection was brewing. Unfortunately, a slight blood infection necessitated the stronger antibiotics. This realization prompted him to order Number Three to administer the same treatment to Mimosa, who was now also sedated. It was time for them to take a nap while getting better, and no more I'm fine sentences.
"Fine," Damon said, "we'll stay a few days, keeping them isolated to eliminate this infection before continuing. In the meantime, let's check on everyone else; we'll address any problems as they arise. We have time; this isn't disastrous. Let's just get comfortable here. Mimi's tent is good; we can use her reusable heat packs for others and even clone them. This is a suitable location for us. Mariella and Shadow are fine—hunting with Adam and Charles—and there have been no feral altercations."
Wulfe suggested, "I'd recommend that Salvatores start to learn to take, perhaps in avian form, scout the area. We need to ensure there are no dogs and locate prey to maximize efficiency. This is actually fun. I mean, the trip is enjoyable, but it felt a bit boring without any excitement. This adds so much more..."
Number Two smiled. "Exciting, yeah," he agreed. "Adrenaline junkie here, too. It seems we thrive on excitement, and this trip certainly provides the necessary challenges—true survival challenges."
Damon nodded. "Good to know. I've got a few trips planned for us—I won't spoil the surprise—but I envision this becoming our thing. Not just riding, but so much more. And I have plans for our downtime, too."
Number Two just smirked, dropping the subject. Wulfe gazed tenderly at Mimi, sleeping soundly, though her usual weariness was evident. Her skin was flawless, long lashes casting soft shadows. Her pale skin glowing almost otherworldly in dimmness of tent and she looked frail, not so invincble. He was further away than Number Two, who found a blanket and draped it over her.
Number One said, "Someone will stay with Mimi and Mimosa at all times. I'll take the first shift with Mimi. She's exhausted, even sedated. I'll keep her safe and ensure they both rest properly."
Number Two said to Wulfe, "Come on, let's check on everyone else. You can brush up on your medical skills. Let's see if you will be a doctor too one day."
Wulfe reluctantly left, a subtle nudge from Number One, the pack leader, making him roll his eyes as he crawled from Mimi's warmth. Number One settled in beside Mimi, pulling her close. He wrapped himself around her, feeling his soul singing and he was purring softly in tent, keeping his loved one warm, safe and loved.
As the men checked on others, Mariella and the other women were surprised, even irritated—Mariella especially, seeing Mimi claim Number One again, only to leave him later. This, however, gave her another chance to connect with the other Salvatores. It wasn't easy.
The first step was physical. Numbers Four, Two, One, and Ten began examining everyone for deficiencies, infections, or excessive stress. It took time. Now, as they had time to make interventions, oh, they did those. Bloods were tested by tasting, and Salvatores were excellent at tasting who lacked what, and there were some special diets crafted or dentals made. Mariella got a very vinegary tasting solution to be drunk thrice a day, at least for five days, as her minerals were low, and with no mercy, she had to drink it.
Mariella felt a growing unease at the thought of their extended stay in the camp, necessary for Mimi and Mimosa's recovery. She received a course of antibiotics for a separate infection; Number Four's treatment was ruthless, sedating the females without question or choice. Mariella simply fell asleep as Number Four administered a potent, ironically effective, drug—Charles's velvet.
The fact that Charles, her biological half and protector, was involved wasn't as unsettling to Damon as Mimi and Charles's relationship. It did not mean that they were relatives, but their bodies were best suited to help each other, and it was just one facet of the protector-protégé relationship. The supernatural world was sometimes quite wondrous with all kinds of quirks and whatnots.
The pack tended to those who needed care, and once this medical crisis passed, they would resume their journey, facing new challenges and enjoying new experiences. Perhaps there would be revelations, self-exploration, or playful banter.
They might even have a horse race or convince Mimi to teach them about plants, as Wulfe had described her doing for him. The future belonged to them—a pack of immortal shifter vampire chimeras, vampires, wizards, and other supernatural beings, with time abundantly on their side.
Several Salvatores sat around the campfire, recounting past experiences and reminiscing about women—Mimi and Mariella, in particular—and the challenges they'd faced. They reflected on past mistakes, striving to learn from them and improve, but acknowledged the unpredictability of the future.
As a pack of chaos, with Mimi as their alpha—chaos personified—her influence had spread, making them all, to varying degrees, chaotic as well. One recurring problem stemmed from Mimi's multiple powers and her instinctive, often secretive use of them. While highly skilled, she rarely shared her techniques, instead smirking as the others struggled.
Wulfe, sitting quietly, pondered the implications of her pheromone abilities. While beneficial to the pack, their unpredictable reactions made him hesitant. He didn't want Mimi to become upset or for the others to ruin the effect; therefore, he sought a way to lead them to this realization themselves, hoping this might prompt Mimi to reveal her methods.
Wulfe looked at Number Four, the most medically minded of the group, hoping he could offer a solution. Even though the rest of the pack was gathered around the fire—the girls in their tents, the men still chatting—Wulfe turned to Number Four, his expression thoughtful, his voice quiet.
"What is the chemical composition of pheromones? Given their variety, could humans one day manufacture them and use them as weapons? They evoke such strong feelings—imagine the ease of inciting a frenzy in wolves or shifters by simply spraying the air with pheromones. Mimi has often discussed this, using her ability to sense pheromones of agony and suffering to locate dangerous areas."
Number Four furrowed his brow, but it was Number Ten who answered. "Actually, I have no idea if it's possible. First, everyone's pheromones are unique, allowing for identification. However, understanding which pheromones evoke specific feelings would require extensive research. It would be largely trial and error, especially if humans tried to weaponize them. I'm not saying it's impossible, but it's highly unlikely."
Number Four grunted in agreement. "Yeah, but it's a good idea. Perhaps we should investigate our own pheromones to determine their composition and uniqueness."
Number Three suggested, "Let's start by researching existing literature; someone might have already done this work, eliminating the need to reinvent the wheel."
Number Eight, however, frowned irritably. "You're being lazy," he retorted, "always waiting for easy answers and assuming simplicity."
Wulfe watched a group of similar-looking Salvatores conversing. Even though they appeared alike, each man possessed distinct gestures, expressions, and personality traits. Number Three tended to be lazy and hesitant; Number Four preferred to study and investigate; Ten and Nine were more practical, while Eight and Six displayed a skeptical nature, proving difficult to persuade initially.
Wulfe smiled inwardly. This old creature, a wizard vampire over 2,500 years old, had found his pack, and pack life, with all its imperfections, was perfect. He'd witnessed the pack's blunders with Mimi—blunders he'd participated in—but these experiences proved incredibly educational and refreshing.
Making mistakes, seeing his own capacity for error, shattered his self-image of perfection and renewed his zest for life. This spurred him to strive for betterment.
The Salvatores were now discussing chemistry, debating the nature of pheromones, the necessary equipment for their study, extraction methods, and the reasons behind particular scents. A torrent of jargon filled the air.
Wulfe wasn't focused on understanding the specifics, but he recognized the ignited spark of interest and believed he could, in time, guide it constructively, avoiding another blunder in this wonderfully complex pack life.