Chapter 43- Revelation

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The past cannot be changed.
The future is yet in your power.
-Unknown

Zeke

When I was seven years old my Pop, John Jackson, was alpha of the White River Pack. I remember looking up at this beast of a man in complete awe. Even as his hair lightened and age began to weather his rough features, his presence never weakened. If anything, the pack respected and outsiders feared him more. He and my Gram, Debbie, led our pack for over thirty years before he stepped down, passing the alpha responsibility to my father.

When Pop retired, he and I began to spend a lot of quality time together. He was a master carpenter who specialized in making custom furniture. Every afternoon, I would race along the bank of the lake to his cabin. He had built a large shop nearby and we would meet there for my daily carpentry lesson.

The smell of sawdust greeted me with it's familiar and comforting medley of various hardwoods: maple, oak, cherry, and walnut. I sat, in rapt attention, as Pops' booming voice directed me through each step of woodworking.

"Fine craftsmanship takes time and patience, Ezekiel. Just like when you become Alpha: you must trust your intuition and pay attention to the small details."

As I sit in Pop's old workshop, mine now that he and Gram began traveling the globe, I replay his words of wisdom that dripped with metaphoric life lessons. Sitting on his old stool, focusing on the vacant seat that was my childhood perch, I try to navigate through the information raveled up in my mind.

A loud knock at the open garage door pulls me away from my pondering. "Yo, Zeke-Man," Mason walks in followed by Micah, Trent, and Danny. Lifting my head and looking at their direction, I notice that there's a light drizzle of rain falling outside.

Mason wanders over to my table saw and begins fiddling with the large, electric tool. "We're headed to the air hangar for the interrogation of Hank," he explains as he turns on the loud machine. "You want to ride with us?" he hollers over the roar.

Sighing at the juvenility of him not being able to stay away from shiny objects, I stand up and quickly shut down the motor. "How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff?"

Lifting his hands in defeat, Mason quickly points across the room, "Trent's touching your stuff too!"

Turning around, I see that Trent is in fact handling my caliper. Adjusting the metal, f-shaped tool with a look of amusement on his face. "What the fuck is this for?"

Micah steps to his side and peers at the object. "Not for what your twisted mind is thinking, you sick prick." Laughing, he slaps Trent on the shoulder.

Trent and the rest of us join in his laughter as he puts down the measuring device. "You do have a kickass playroom, Zeke. I could have a lot of fun in here."

Danny sits down on a stool at the workbench and leans his back against the solid frame. Resting his elbows on the wooden surface behind him, he lifts his face and barks out a laugh, "Trent, you are one morbid motherfucker."

With a shrug of his shoulders, Trent inspects my numerous containers of nails and clamps. "We all have our talents," he mumbles, glancing up at all of us, "and I'm not morbid. I'm...creative." His lip lifting at the edge with his final word.

Digging the heels of my palms into my eyes, I shake my head and begin to motion everyone out. "Alright, children, let's go!"

We leave my shop and drive to the airport hangar where Dad, Charlie, Logan, and his son, Nolan, are in the process of interrogating Hank. With the information we gained in Kentucky, Dad is determined to find out who the mysterious "BJ" is and what role he has behind the shifter trafficking.

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