Zak Lyconotu
11:47 EST
November 2, 2030
Lyconotu Residence
Pigeon Forge, TN
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Sitting in my small living room, surrounded by binders stacked taller than my coffee table, I flipped through page after page of NAWC inventory, and let me tell you—not impressed. I wanted this concert to be monumental. Portable stage, lighting rigs, projectors, speakers, amps, rigging—the whole nine yards. Instead, I kept stumbling over the disheartening reality: most of our equipment was ancient. The sound system hadn’t seen an upgrade since the 80s, maybe 90s at best. And as for the NAWC’s mentality? Stuck about as far back as the tech was, still clinging to a set of laws my father penned a thousand years ago.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Malachi, my right-hand guy for getting things done when bureaucracy wouldn’t.
“What can I do for you, Sire?” he answered in that smooth, steady tone of his.
“The NAWC’s gear is prehistoric, Malachi. We need sound and stage equipment—and fast. What strings can we pull to make it happen?”
“I’ll make some calls,” he said, unfazed. “When do you need it?”
“Yesterday,” I grumbled, glancing at the folders of outdated specs. “But seriously, if you have to, pull from my personal account. We’re supposed to make this Thanksgiving celebration unforgettable.”
“Understood, Sire. Give me an hour.” He hung up.
Right then, Aura floated out of our bedroom, humming to herself, notepad in hand, eyes glued to whatever she was scribbling. Without missing a beat, she bumped into the kitchen counter, let out an “oof,” then kept on, grabbing a drink from the fridge and heading my way.
She set her drink down on the table, still lost in her work. I grinned. She’d been dreaming up songs for months, and now that we were putting on a concert, she was in her element.
“Making progress?” I asked, watching her scribble with fierce concentration.
“Some,” she said without looking up.
“Care to share?” I nudged.
“Not yet. I’m working on a piece that Star requested for Lyra,” she huffed, still focused.
I chuckled, got up, and grabbed my guitar from its rack next to our enormous sound system—a relic, but it had heart. Sitting back down, I let my fingers pluck a few strings, giving rhythm to the ideas spinning in my head. This was how I sorted things out, let the music piece the puzzle together.
As I strummed, the entire concert began to take shape in my mind—each light setup, speaker placement, every cable laid out just right. I could see it all, like the blueprint of a masterpiece. Right as I struck the last note in my head, my phone rang.
Grabbing the phone off the table, I answered with my best no-nonsense tone. “Lyconotu.”
“Sire, I reached out to the major distributors, but they’re all tapped out. With Thanksgiving coming up, everything’s either been bought or rented,” Malachi reported. Calm, as usual, even with the potential for royal frustration on the line.
I took a deep breath, mentally cursing the logistics gods. “Fine. Send the Night Guardians to my house. If we can’t get this through normal channels, then we’ll need boots on the ground.”
“Yes, Sire. I’ll have them there as soon as possible.” He hung up without another word.
Setting my phone down, I looked at Aura. “I swear, every time I need something done, it turns into a battle. Meanwhile, you seem to have the universe on speed dial.”
She smirked. “Perks of having connections, Your Majesty.”
Not long after, I heard the low rumble of approaching vehicles. My elite guard began showing up, one by one, until the entire unit had assembled in my front yard. I might’ve had a modest house, but land? That, I had in spades. Our small two-bedroom home had plenty of yard space, and I didn’t need the mansion life to feel at ease. I gave the Bracton’s my father’s old mansion, and they were more than happy to have it.
I stepped out onto the porch and barked, “Form up!”
The Guardians fell into formation without hesitation, like a silent wave of black suits cutting through the yellowing grass. Their aviators gleamed under the early afternoon sun. For centuries, they’d served the North American Wolf Council, but now, as King, I commanded their loyalty—and their loyalty was unwavering. They’d follow any order Aura or I gave, no questions asked.
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“Guardians,” I began, meeting each gaze with purpose, “the King and Queen call on you for aid. The President has decided to hold a National Thanksgiving Celebration, and Aura and I will be bringing the entertainment.”
A murmur rippled through them before quieting as I continued.
“But here’s the issue: the NAWC doesn’t have the right equipment, and we can’t pull it from any regular suppliers. So here’s what I need from you. I need you to go forth, find what’s required, and get it here. Use whatever connections or resources you have. Strategically Transfer Equipment to Alternative Location if necessary.” I added, with a pointed look. “My personal account is available if there’s a cost. Just get it done.”
A resounding whoof echoed across the property, their wordless vow that the job would be done.
“Get everything to Knoxville by Tuesday. Now, let the hunt begin.”
With a quick snap of a salute, the Guardians dispersed, each of them taking off with a sense of purpose that would make even the best covert ops unit jealous. I turned back to the house, feeling pretty damn proud of myself, only to find Aura standing there in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
“Did you just rope our elite guard into helping us set up a concert?” she demanded, her eyebrow twitching.
“Yes,” I replied, trying for an innocent tone.
“And did you also, by any chance, suggest they ‘steal’ equipment if necessary?” Her tone was laced with exasperation.
“Maybe…” I shrugged. “We need the gear, and we need it fast.”
Aura dragged a hand down her face, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “I swear, I’m going to maul whichever one of them showed you that guy on YouTube. What’s his name?”
“You mean The Fat Electrician?” I asked, grinning like a wolf who’d just found a rabbit.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah… him.”
“It was Cayro,” I confessed, unable to hide my amusement.
“Of course it was,” she huffed, giving me a look before marching over to the couch. She grabbed my phone and punched in a number with a look of determined fury.
A second later, she was on the line with Christian, the leader of the Night Guardians. “Christian, let me make this clear,” she said, voice calm but unyielding. “If you and the others take anything, you pay for it. The last thing we need is law enforcement sniffing around over a set of pilfered amplifiers.” She hung up, giving me a stern look that was half justice, half amusement.
One thing I loved about Aura? Her sense of fairness. That was her dad’s influence, no doubt about it. A retired chief of police, he’d recently moved to Pigeon Forge, conveniently right next door to Aura’s mother so he could be “closer” to us—which really meant getting regular visits and even more regular lectures.
Ever since he’d discovered those old Thanksgiving photos of Aura and me in turkey costumes, the lectures had been non-stop. For nearly two weeks, we endured his speeches on safe driving and “responsibility,” with enough side commentary to make a preacher proud. The final straw came when he actually tried to enroll Aura in a local safe driving class. Let’s just say that didn’t end well.
Now that werewolves and other supernaturals were out in the open, Aura and I were public knowledge as “werewolf royalty.” The local PD relied on us to help keep werewolves in line, which apparently also meant signing us up for their Emergency Vehicle Operations Course. Coincidentally, I had a sneaking suspicion Aura’s dad had a hand in that too.
Now, thanks to a few unfortunate influences (read: Lyra and her maniacal driving), my Chevy Silverado 2500 and Aura’s Mustang were both decked out with emergency lights and sirens. Once upon a time, we’d been able to keep our driving habits under the radar, but that all ended the day Cayro and Star caught wind of Lyra’s “enthusiasm” behind the wheel. It was only a matter of time before they found an outlet for their hellion Beta, and thank Luna for that. I could only hope she wasn’t tasked with transporting Thanksgiving dinner, or we’d be down a feast before it ever hit the table.
I sat down next to Aura, who was cross-legged on the couch, intently jotting in her notebook. Just as I got ready to settle in and strum my guitar, my phone rang again, right beside her. She picked it up, answering with a tone as serious as mine had been earlier.
“Lyconotu,” she said, listening for a moment before handing it over. “It’s Cayro.”
“Hey, bro! What’s up?” I greeted him.
“I need a favor,” he said, and I could practically hear the exhaustion in his voice.
“Sure thing, what do you need?”
“Any chance you and Aura could write some unit songs for the 102nd?”
I paused. “Uh…yeah, I guess. How many songs are we talking here?”
“Seven,” he replied without a hint of hesitation. “One for each unit: the 102nd itself, the 588th Night Witches Stealth Wing, the 781st Transportation Pack, the 152nd Special Tactics Squadron, the 254th Infantry Pack, the 77th Armor Regiment, and the 318th Tactical Air Wing.”
Seven? I grabbed a notepad and jotted down the list, mentally doing the math on how much extra work he’d just thrown at us. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it! Scuzball will send you the unit details. Thanks, man!” And with that, he hung up.
I stared at the phone, blinking in surprise. Did he just hang up on me? Shaking my head, I set the phone down and showed Aura the notepad.
“What was that about?” she asked, feigning ignorance even though she’d probably heard everything.
“Cayro wants songs for each of the 102nd’s units,” I explained, handing her the notepad.
She glanced at the list, a look of amused disbelief crossing her face. “Seven unique songs?”
“Apparently.”
She sighed and took the notepad, scribbling her own notes beside the unit names. We already had a few ideas for the 102nd, the 588th, and the 254th, but the other units? Lyra’s 781st was practically brand-new, and while we knew Raven led the 152nd, the only solid intel we had was that they were absolute beasts on skyboards. The 77th Armor and 318th Tactical were newly attached and pretty much blank slates.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, trying to figure out how we’d manage to pull off this creative miracle. Just as I leaned back, my phone buzzed again. For Luna’s sake, what now? This time, it wasn’t a call but a flood of emails—half a dozen of them, all courtesy of Scuzball.
Each email was labeled with a unit number and title, and opening the first one revealed a novel-length history of the 102nd in exhaustive detail. Staring at the screen, I felt my eye start to twitch. What had started as a simple concert idea was quickly turning into an epic nightmare.