Heir of The Werewolf Blood

Chapter 9 Harry's Revenge

“Do you realize, Harry,” Arthur’s voice trembled, strained by ragged breaths, “that one more step back there… we both wouldn't have walked out alive?”

Harry didn't answer.

He pulled Arthur away from the ruins of the old building, where stone, iron, and dust mingled with the faint, metallic scent of fresh blood. The place that, minutes earlier, had almost become their tomb.

Every one of his wolf instincts screamed for him to return, to finish Marcus off right there and end it all.

But he forced himself to keep running.

Fleeing from that confrontation was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

They didn't stop until they reached a new hideout, a small warehouse behind a long-abandoned fish market.

The pungent, fishy odor stung the air, mingling with the scent of old burlap sacks and rotting wooden crates. The place wasn't worthy of being called home, but it was secluded enough from the Black Hand, who were clearly watching the harbor.

Arthur collapsed onto a pile of sacks, gasping for breath, his face ghostly pale. “You… you were a storm,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You almost killed him.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Harry answered sharply. He stood in the corner of the warehouse, his back pressed against the cold wall. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the raw energy still surging through his veins. “I just made sure he couldn’t move.”

“And you almost lost yourself,” Arthur countered sharply.

Harry turned to face him. Arthur’s aged eyes were filled with fear, not for Marcus, but for Harry himself.

“The way you looked at him back there,” Arthur continued in a lower voice, “that wasn’t just revenge. That was hunger.”

Harry closed his eyes. The word struck him harder than any physical blow. He felt guilt creep in slowly, mingling with the last remnants of his unquenched rage.

“I can’t control everything,” he said at last. “He mentioned my name. My family name. He was there, Arthur. He knows.”

“He also mentioned Thorne,” Arthur cut in. His tone turned serious. “But that should have been enough to make you stop.”

Harry opened his eyes. “No.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, crumpled newspaper. He spread it across the dirty warehouse floor, sending dust motes flying.

“Look at this,” Harry said. “Investigation halted. Technical failure. It’s a lie.”

Arthur leaned in, his thick glasses slipping down as he re-read the headline. He fell silent for a long time.

“This was years ago,” he muttered. “Years.”

“But this necklace,” Harry said, pulling the silver locket out from beneath his shirt. The small oil lamp cast a glint off its surface. “My father wore this. He wouldn’t have worn it if this were just a simple accident.”

Arthur stared at the necklace. Then at Harry.

For the first time, his gaze changed. He no longer saw the wild child he was protecting, but someone who had lost everything without ever being given a choice.

“If this wasn’t an accident,” Arthur said quietly, “then someone wanted what your father possessed.”

Harry nodded. “Whoever they are, they’re powerful enough to silence the police.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “The Aubrey family wasn’t just anyone. For them to fall so quickly, this wasn't ordinary business competition.”

Harry felt something solidify within him. His anger was no longer wild. It was cold. Targeted.

“Who’s the most powerful in this city?” he asked. “Who can shut down an investigation with just one phone call?”

Arthur fell silent for a long time. His hands massaged his temples, as if warding off an old headache that had returned.

“There are many names,” he said finally. “Old tycoons. Old syndicates. But in the last few years… only one name always surfaces.”

He lowered his voice, almost whispering. “The Black Hand.”

The name hung heavy in the air.

“Black Hand,” Harry repeated. There was something about the name that felt wrong. Dark. Organized. “What are they?”

“They aren’t street-level mafia,” Arthur answered. “They *are* the system. They buy the law. If anyone gets in their way… they get cleaned up.”

Harry looked at the newspaper again. Technical failure.

“My father was fighting them,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a guess. It was a certainty.

Arthur didn’t deny it.

“Then,” Harry continued, his voice growing harder, “they’re the ones who killed my family. They’re the ones who sent Marcus.”

“Harry, this is too big!” Arthur practically pleaded. “These aren't people you can just fight and walk away from.”

Harry stood up. His body ached, but his mind was perfectly clear.

“I don’t care,” he said. “They took everything from me.”

He touched the necklace. “And they’re afraid of what I carry.”

“I won’t go back to the forest,” he continued. “I won’t run.”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. He knew, in that instant, there was nothing left to stop Harry.

“I am Harry Aubrey,” Harry said quietly, full of conviction. “And I will avenge what they did.”

Silence filled the warehouse.

“We need proof,” Harry said then. “Proof they can’t buy.”

Arthur nodded weakly. “I don’t know where those archives are. But I know someone who might.”

“Who?”

“Wallace Grey,” Arthur replied. “An old detective. He investigated the Aubrey case… then disappeared.”

The name instantly fixed itself in Harry’s mind.

“Marcus knows,” Harry hissed suddenly. “He was there.”

Arthur flinched. “Don’t, Harry…”

“I have to go back to those ruins,” Harry cut in. “I need leads. Evidence.”

“No!” Arthur stood up with difficulty. “They’ll be waiting for you!”

Harry was already heading for the door. “If I don’t come back,” he said without turning, “find Wallace Grey.”

He paused for a moment, then said quietly, “And Arthur… if I’m right…”

He turned back, his eyes burning.

“It means they aren’t done with me.”

The warehouse door closed softly behind him.

Outside, the city waited,cold, dark, and full of secrets.

And somewhere, someone was already preparin

g to greet his return.

“Report,” the voice said on the phone. “He’s returning to the ruins.”