ruthless if i must.

Four wives and n children are far too many to fit into Lukas's M3. So when he drives Sampson's family to visit his grave, which he does every few weeks or so, he rents a van and piles them all in.

His respects are paid to his packmates in private, silently, and in solitude. When he takes the vanful of kin and potential-future-Garou to the Caern, he stays just outside the graveyard, watchful of any who might try to bar the kin from the Graves. Sometimes the wind blows right and he can hear a snatch of conversation, though never in a language he understands.

When they come out of the graveyard tonight, the sun is setting. The small troupe heads back toward the edge of the bawn in a loose file, children clinging to their mothers' hands, Lukas bringing up the rear. It's a slow progression past shambling hangars with pigeons roosting in the rafters, over stretches of broken tarmac.

As they near the border, Chepchumba hands her child to her sister and slows her pace, eventually falling abreast of Lukas. It's obvious she wants to say something. He looks at her, curious, waiting, but when she doesn't find the words immediately -- this trained barrister, this glib and eloquent orator of a woman -- he looks away to give her time.

The setting sun paints her face in dusky golds and roses; highlights the creases of her frown. It's a warm day, but Sampson's second wife folds her lean arms around herself as though she were cold, or as though she were protecting her unborn child.

"I have been hearing things, Lukas," she says at last, "and you will not like what is being said."

The Shadow Lord turns back to her, eyebrows raised: a silent tell me more.

"There's been talk amongst the kin. I hear it when I visit the Brotherhood and Hill House. It is being said that you are dangerous, driven, not one to be crossed. That people should either fall in or get out of the way."

Lukas huffs a faint laugh. "People always say things like that about Shadow Lords, Chepchumba. I don't mind the reputation. Determination doesn't make me a tyrant. My honor still speaks for itself."

Chepchumba shakes her head, insisting, "No -- that's the point. There's more. It is known that your pack has seen many Alphas in recent months. It is known that Edward vanished and Katherine did not lead long. That you took command when she went away, and did not cede it back when she returned. It is known that Mrena, Sam and Sampson all challenged you for your position. And of that list, two are dead and one is expelled."

Lukas is frowning now, but he waits for her to say it. It takes her a moment.

"It is being said that you are responsible. That you wear an honorable face while you eliminate your enemies one by one. It is being said that you killed -- "

"I understand," Lukas breaks in, very quietly. He's silent for a moment, eyes narrowed toward the setting sun. Then, "From whom did you first hear this?"

--

The bathrooms at Hill House are a hell lot nicer than that giant, ghetto, cavernous high-school-gym affair at the Brotherhood. Here the bathrooms are segregated by sex, and every one is its own, private, self-contained little room with a sink, a toilet, a urinal that doesn't stink, and automatic flushers and paper dispensers and water faucets.

Jones likes them a lot better than the ones at BroHo. They give him a chance to take a moment. To give himself a little breather before heading back out there to face down the other kin and their nonstop babymama drama, and the Garou and their goddamn tempers. It gives him a moment to wash his hands -- with good moisturizing handwash, not the bars of lye that pass for soap at BroHo -- and rub his face and lean over the sink to rest his forehead against the mirror for a second.

When he opens his eyes, he's not alone anymore. He recognizes the pale blue eyes and the black hair, the height, and the rage, my god, the rage. He recognizes these things if only because he's been gabbing about them so damn often recently, always out of his hearing, of course, but the trouble with rumors is that they spread and ripple and chain-effect and

what goes around comes around.

Jones doesn't even pretend this is a nice social visit. He averts his eyes and heads for the door, pretending Lukas doesn't exist, pretending with the desperate determination of a man totally unable to cope with the thought of his own and very likely imminent demise that he can just walk away and this will disappear.

He takes two steps, which takes him exactly as far across the room that he's in the clear, he won't be able to hit the walls or the sinks or the mirrors and make a commotion even if he flailed with arms and legs outstretched. The Ahroun is on him then, grabs him around the middle and lifts him clear off the ground, clamps his hand over his mouth and pinches his nose shut.

And Jones does flail. His arms and legs swing wildly at empty air. He's trying to scream -- for help or mercy or something of the sort -- but with his airways firmly blocked he can't even make the breath in his lungs move far enough to vibrate his vocal cords. The only sound in the bathroom is the rustling of fabric, the occasional thud of a limb connecting with a head, a torso.

Lukas holds him there, suspended, asphyxiating, while the struggling mounts, turns panicked, loses coherence, starts to fade. Seconds before blackout, the Ahroun lets the kinsman go, drops him in a haphazard sprawl on the bathroom floor.

Hauls him back up. Puts his back to the wall, grasps his shoulders like a man might a misbehaving child.

"You have been telling lies about my packmates and I," he says, level and low, "and they are unforgiveably insulting.

"You have taken my packmates' memories, their sacrifices, the final worth of entire lifetimes dedicated to a war fought for your sake ... and reduced them to some sordid little story about power struggles and betrayal. You've done this in blatant disrespect of me, my packmates, and our tribal ties to Thunder. You've done this, as far as I can tell, for your own twisted amusement.

"If I were half so vindictive as you think, you'd drown in your own blood now."

A beat.

"But I'm not.

"This rumor ends now. You started this fire. You're an imaginative, creative little bastard. You can find a way to put it out.

"Do it because you believe me. Do it because you believe in my honor, the proof of which is in your continued little existence. Or do it because you don't believe me. Do it because you have enough sense to understand basic logic."

Lukas's hands shift. Tighten. He locks Jones's head in place, crowds him to the wall, lowers his head and gets right in his face. The blue eyes are fierce, fixed, anger within control like a fire in the heart of a glacier. His tone is velvet soft.

"Because if you think I'd kill my own packmates, the blood of my blood, for opposing me ... what do you think I'd do to a pathetic, traitorous little cockroach like you?"

Another second ticks by. Ten. Then, abruptly, the Shadow Lord releases his kinsman. Jones is swaying on his feet, ashen-faced, sweating. He stares at Lukas, pants for breath, edges sideways one step at a time, watching for reaction. There is none. Jones gets around Lukas and makes for the door again, quicker now, and when Lukas drops a hand to his shoulder he lets out a hoarse, startled yelp.

"One more thing," Lukas says. "I'd be quick about shutting your friends up, if I were you. Because if I hear this rumor or anything like it again, anywhere, I'm going to assume you're still talking."