The Untouchable

Reid

Reid had not taken five steps across the glossy marble tiles in the foyer, his own reflection spilling back to him in tones of amber from the bronzed tinted mirrors that were not all what they seemed, many leading into the monitoring rooms of the 24-hour security team, before he was greeted by his father’s personal assistant, Vincent.

“Master Reid,” Vincent fell into step with Reid as they crossed the foyer and pressed the button for the Morrison’s private elevator. “Your father asked for you.”

Vincent’s hair had begun to recede two decades before, and despite several efforts to resurrect the hairline of his youth, he was fighting a losing battle – something that Vincent found humiliating, Reid suspected, as in his other form, Vincent was an impressively coated wolf. Probably because, from the neck down, Vincent was also an impressively haired man.

Marcella, after a few too many champagnes, had confirmed what Reid had long suspected – that Vincent was a wolf in more than one way, with an aggressive approach and a liking for young lovers. She had said that it wasn’t an encounter that she’d regretted however, and that the werewolf had some moves in the sack – and now Reid had a hard time not speculating about the body beneath the tidy suit that Vincent wore like armour.

“So, my mother said in her message. I was at the Damiano’s club, and headed straight here,” Reid said as the doors opened, and they stepped inside.

“How is Mr Damiano?” Vincent asked as the lift began to rise, the apparently polite enquiry not hiding the disapproval shared by many older werewolves of Marcella’s transition.

“Ms Damiano is excellent,” Reid replied, and couldn’t help but add, mischievously, knowing that the other man would know precisely what he meant by it. “A true artiste, wouldn’t you say?”

Sure enough, in the mirror, Vincent’s eyes flicked his way and then back to the doors, his expression stoic. “I did not know that Marcel painted.”

“I’d call it more… sculpting,” Reid taunted. He waited until the elevator pinged. “With her tongue.”

The doors opened and Reid strode out, with the other werewolf on his heels.

The entrance to their apartment was elegant, scented with the expensive lily floral arrangement that stood upon the marble table, the jewel-toned velvet upholstered chairs casually arranged around a low table artfully disguising that this was, essentially, a waiting room, for those seeking audience with their lead alpha, and as such, was also heavily guarded both by the receptionist who had gone home for the day, leaving her walnut desk glossily tidy, the chair neatly pressed in, and by the ever-present security guards, who opened the door for Reid and Vincent as they stepped out of the elevator.

On the other side of the door was a carefully curated space designed to impress upon those who entered that the lead alpha was not someone to mess with. The reclaimed antique parquetry floor and wood panelled walls holding an array of glass-topped cases displaying weaponry throughout a very long history of Morrison werewolves.

Most of it was fake, Reid knew, the blades blunted, the guns models that were incapable of firing a shot, as it would not do to accidentally arm someone on their way to an audience with the alpha, but the effect was impressive none-the-less, communicating both the antiquity of their people, and their violent natures.

Normally Reid would take the door to the left, which led to the private apartment of his family. However, he had been summoned, and that meant taking the door to the right, instead, to the offices of his father.

Even at the late hour, the office staff, unlike the receptionist, had not gone home. As he passed down the hallway, he saw the reason for the late working night – the pack’s accountant and financial planners were both busily tapping away at their laptops in one of the offices, sitting across from each other, with the office staff hovering in attendance.

“Late night in the office,” Reid commented lightly to Vincent, hoping to shake free a hint of what was going on.

“Mhm,” Vincent agreed unhelpfully before knocking on the double doors at the end of the hallway.

“Enter.”

Vincent opened only one side of the door, and Reid slipped inside. His father’s office, like everything on this side of the private rooms, was designed to impress and intimidate, the wood dark, the shelves heavy with leather bound books and expensive trinkets, the curtains thick and obscuring the city view, and the rugs hand-woven silk.

Claud looked up from his laptop and rose to his feet. A tall, lean man, like Reid, his blonde hair leaning more to silver with age, and his beard neatly maintained. Even at this hour, in his own home, Claud wore a pristine three-piece suit that was so crisp and fresh it might have been freshly donned. His hair was still smoothly tamed back from his sharp boned face and his eyes were just as keen despite the whiskey glass that he held in one hand as they had been in the morning when coffee had been the beverage of choice.

Claud rounded the table in inhaled near Reid. “You’ve been whoring.”

“Expensive whore,” Reid replied. “That’s Indian agarwood, Turkish rose, and sandalwood that you’re smelling. The price tag of that particular scent is enough to make a man weep.” He should know, he’d bought it for Marcella’s birthday.

“Hmm. Where have you been tonight?” Claud leaned his hips against his desk. He did not offer Reid a whiskey.

“The Wicked Moon nightclub,” Reid said without hesitation.

“Hmm. And how is Marcel?”

“Marcella,” Reid corrected. “Is doing well.”

Claud made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “In my day, boys were boys and girls were girls, and there were two genders. Am I wrong, Vincent?”

“Not wrong,” Vincent agreed from where he waited by the door.

“And now werewolf alphas are wearing dresses,” Claud sneered. “And high heels and…” He gestured to Reid.

“Indian agarwood perfume?” Reid suggested mildly well used to the lecture.

“Ridiculous. How Brando and Maria Damiano can hold their heads up in public, I don’t know,” Claud snorted. “Whilst Marcel continues with this ridiculous farce and dress up.”

“Dad,” Reid decided it was time to change the subject. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hmm,” Claud finished his whiskey and rounded his desk, resuming his seat. “I did,” he confirmed as he poured another two fingers into his glass and scrutinized the color of the liquid through the cut crystal. “Two things, Reid. The first is that there is a very important business deal underway. One that the Comptons are trying to undercut us on,” his lip curled.

The Comptons were the other pack that shared the city. It was unheard of for two packs to share territory so closely and was a recipe for disaster. Historically, however, they had been distant neighbours, and had, at that time, been congenial. However, with the growth of the human population, two cities had merged into one, bringing the Comptons, of the West side, against the Morrisons on the East, and neither pack liked the arrangement.

Territory, business, and property was hotly contested, with the arguments occasionally bursting out into violence between pack members.

“Sure, dad,” Reid said automatically. “What’s new?”

“What’s new is that Jasper Compton has just graduated from college and is on his way home,” Claud replied irritably. “Combined with tension over this business deal, it’s important that we remember that business is business, but family is untouchable.”

“Sure dad,” Reid frowned. Business was business, pack or in the human world, but werewolves did not attack the other pack leader’s family and heirs was a rule that historically both packs had agreed to and upheld. “What are you worried about?”

Claud drew in a breath and release it slowly. “I am merely making sure to remind our alphas that no matter how heated things get, Jasper Compton is untouchable.”