Chapter 89

Charles slams his fist down on the desk in his hotel room. He's transcended beyond fury and has reached some sort of state of near hysteria. How is it that all of his plans go so terribly wrong?

He had been evacuated from the mansion the night of the fire, the same as everyone else, but it took until morning for him to get any definitive news on the outcome of what should have been his most foolproof plot yet.

Dr. Evelyn is still alive. How? It boggles the mind. He had the lock changed on her door, so that no one but him would be able to enter it. He set the fire at two o'clock in the morning, a time when no one should have been awake soon enough to detect it, locate its source, and get her out alive.

But, of course, no. Fate worked against him once again. Marcus just happened to be still awake and magically known to high-tail it over. Marcus had to play the hero, figure out the door lock was rigged, and break down the goddamn door with his brute strength.

It was ridiculous. Charles is never going to catch a break, not at this rate. Time is running out, too; he doesn't need yet another lecture from Amos to know that. All he gets are lectures from Amos, these days.

Lectures and threats, more like. If Charles can't pull something off soon, he's going to be the next target.

He knows they know, as well. They must know, at this point, who is behind these attacks. Why he hasn't been arrested in the dead of night and pulled in front of the Werewolf Council, he can't say.

"It's because they don't have enough definitive proof, you ignorant fool," Amos snaps from where he's sitting in Charles's hotel suite. He's been watching Charles march around fruitlessly, pulling at his hair, for the past half hour.

Charles glares at him. "I didn't say anything."

"It's written all over you, boy," Amos says. "You need a better poker face. You're an idiot and a fool, and not a very subtle one at that."

"Why would they need proof?" Charles challenges, changing the subject away from himself. He's in no mood to be told how stupid and inefficient he is yet again. He's been beating himself up enough, and he's sick of all the insults.

"Why wouldn't they need proof?" Amos asks. "Do you think they can just haul you in and fling you in prison, what, on a hunch?"

"Maybe not human prison," Charles says, "but surely your Werewolf Council isn't beholden to the same rigorous proceedings the way that –"

"Oh, I see what you mean," Amos says, now just sounding disgusted. "You really are a prejudiced little toad, aren't you, Charles? You think that werewolves are archaic, medieval monsters, that our legal systems are little more sophisticated than the Spanish Inquisition."

"I, well, I didn't say that," Charles sputters, feeling unexpectedly wrong-footed. You'd think he'd be used to feeling wrong-footed by now, but somehow, it continues to take him by surprise every time.

"Oh, yes, you did," Amos growls. Now it's his turn to stand up and pace. "You're rude, ignorant, and - I don't know if 'racist' is quite the term for it, but something akin to that. Thinking us barbarians, just because we're wolf shapeshifters.

"Well, but you're racist against your fellow humans, too, aren't you? All that talk about the gang members - some of the language you use about those lads is enough to make my hair curl." Amos shakes his head. "You're a disgrace, Charles. A worm."

"Listen, here," Charles says hotly. "I am getting sick and tired of you coming in here to insult me every five minutes. I'm doing my best, and it's not my fault that nothing seems to go right–"

"Oh, it's your fault all right. For your information, Charles, no. Werewolves are not some witch-hunting mob of old. We don't just seize people on suspicion and chop off their heads. We're better than that.

"Besides, even if we wanted to, we couldn't. We can't allow the human authorities any reason to suspect us, to come after us. Do you know how difficult it was for us to go mainstream? How careful every single one of us has to be at all times, in a world dominated by humans?"

"Of course you don't. You don't think. You have no curiosity, no care beyond your own selfish, short-sighted interests. You disgust me," Amos repeats. "You truly do." He spits at Charles's feet.

Charles recoils in disgust and anger at the gesture, but decides to hold his tongue. If Amos did get out of control and were to kill him, he somehow doubted that the Alpha's family would try very hard to figure out what happened to him. They'd likely be happy to let him vanish into thin air.

"Well, what do you expect me to do now?" Charles asks. "They're at the hotel now. They're all more protected than they've ever been. Unless we blow up the entire floor with explosives, we're not getting anywhere near them."

Amos's eyes gleam, and Charles eyes him warily. Suspicion dawns on him, and he begins shaking his head wildly.

"No. Absolutely not. I don't even know how to rig a bomb, for one thing, and how would we ever get away with something like that? Who else might get harmed in the process? You said we were supposed to keep this in house – not get caught up with innocent bystanders.

"If we kill a bunch of random civilians, the human authorities are going to go wild. I'll be caught for sure. This is madness, Amos. It can't happen."

"You should have thought of that before you bungled everything so badly from the start," Amos says. "And don't be stupid, Charles. We're not going to blow up the entire goodman hotel."

"We're not?" Charles asks. "Then what do you have in mind?"

"We're going to find a way to plant explosives in each of their rooms," Amos says simply. "It shouldn't be too difficult. The room service trays, for example. They won't be expecting it, and they'll have no reason to deny a hotel employee entry with an expected food cart."

"How do we know they'll order room service?"

"We don't. You'd just better pray that they do. Now, sit down. We have some planning to accomplish, and you have to get it right this time. I'm sending you in to do the job yourself.."

"Me?" Charles squeaks. "I set the fire, and look how that turned out. I thought you didn't trust me with any of this anymore."

"I don't," Amos says. "But I don't have anyone else we can rely on last minute. You've burned too many bridges with all of your screw ups. Besides, this is your very last chance, Charles. Maybe if you're put in charge of it, knowing it's now or never, you'll feel the incentive to get it right."

"Do you honestly think I haven't felt that incentive before?" Charles almost shouts, feeling the hysteria rising in him again. What the hell does he know about planting bombs or sneaking room service carts into rooms, after all?

"I don't know with you," Amos answers, sounding honest. "For so many murder attempts to go so wrong, each and every time…it seems less like chronic poor luck and more like deliberate self-sabotage, from where I'm standing."

"Well, it's not! I murdered my own mother, for Christ's sake. How much more dedicated could I be?"

"You murdered your mother to save your own ass," Amos points out. "That had nothing to do with what's going on in the Alpha's home. You did that to cover up that you framed your dead ex-girlfriend for drug possession."

"Well, I, that may be true, but –"

"Save it. I'm tired of your excuses. Now, sit down, shut up, and let's figure out how to salvage this situation before both our asses get fried."