Chapter 233: 233 Old Enemies

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233: Old Enemies 233: Old Enemies The summit dissolved into tactical planning.

Delegates splitting into groups, some continuing policy discussions, others joining the rescue operation.

Bruce found himself at the center of a rapidly forming strike team, going over maps and intelligence reports that Frank had compiled.

Emma appeared at his elbow.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“I can trace magical signatures.

If Mishka’s been collared, the collar will have a distinctive resonance.

I might be able to sense it even through wards and shielding.” Emma’s expression was determined.

“You need me, Bruce.”

“Your parents—”

“Will understand.

Mom’s terrified, but she knows what’s at stake.

And Dad told me this morning that if I could help, I should.” Emma pulled out her notebook, showing Bruce diagrams of collar magic.

“I’ve been studying the collars since the auction house.

I think I know how to disrupt them, at least temporarily.

Long enough for someone to escape.”

Bruce looked at this fifteen-year-old girl who’d already been through so much, who was offering to walk into even greater danger.

Every protective instinct said no.

But they needed every advantage, and Emma’s Resonant abilities might be the key to finding Mishka.

“You stay behind me at all times,” Bruce said finally.

“Any sign of danger, you retreat.

Understood?”

“Understood.”

Frank’s voice came through Bruce’s earpiece—Chen had given them all secure communications.

“I’ve got something.

One of my informants just reported unusual activity at a warehouse complex outside Trois-Rivières.

Heavy security, recent equipment deliveries, and—this is the important part—someone reported hearing screaming.

Supernatural in nature.”

Bruce’s froze.

“How far?”

“Ninety minutes from Montreal.

It’s the best lead we have.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.” Bruce looked at his assembled team—werewolves, vampires, witches, shapeshifters.

Fourteen volunteers total, united by loss and determination.

“We leave in thirty minutes.

Frank, send all intelligence to our devices.

Vera, coordinate with the other teams.

Everyone else, prepare for combat.

We’re getting our people back.”

As the team dispersed to gather equipment, Emma stayed by Bruce’s side.

“We’ll find her,” the young witch said quietly.

“Mishka’s strong.

She’ll hold on until we get there.”

Bruce wished he shared her confidence.

But he’d seen the look in Jean’s eyes that morning—cold, triumphant, utterly certain of her victory.

Twenty-three days until Jean’s countdown reached zero.

But Mishka might not have twenty-three days.

She might not even have twenty-three hours.

Bruce sent a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening, then began preparing for the most important mission of his life.

Hold on, Mishka, he thought.

I’m coming.

Just hold on.

The afternoon session of the summit reconvened after a tense lunch break.

Bruce had wanted to leave immediately for Trois-Rivières, but Director Chen insisted they needed proper intelligence and coordination first.

“Rushing in unprepared is how rescue missions become suicide missions,” she’d said.

So Bruce forced himself to sit through another session of political debate while every muscle in his body screamed to move, to act, to save Mishka.

The conference room had reorganized itself.

Delegates who supported aggressive action sat on one side, those advocating caution on the other.

In the middle sat the undecided, and at the far end, a group Bruce was only now beginning to recognize as actively hostile to the entire integration movement.

“Before we continue with strategic planning,” Director Chen said, “we have several delegations from communities that have chosen different paths.

I’ve invited them to share their perspectives.”

A tall vampire stood from the hostile section.

He was ancient—Bruce could smell it on him, centuries of power and blood.

His clothing was impeccable, his manner aristocratic and utterly contemptuous.

“I am Lord Aleksander Volkov of the Old World Conclave,” the vampire announced.

“We represent supernatural communities that have thrived for millennia by maintaining strict separation from human society.

We do not ‘integrate.’ We do not apologize for our nature.

We rule our territories as we always have—with strength, with tradition, with the understanding that supernatural beings are superior to humans, not equal to them.”

Bruce felt Emma tense beside him.

This was exactly the kind of rhetoric that Jean used to justify her trafficking network—the belief that supernatural beings were inherently better, that they had the right to dominate.

“The Old World Conclave has watched your integration experiment with great interest,” Aleksander continued, his voice dripping with disdain.

“And with great disappointment.

You have weakened yourselves by mingling with humans.

You have exposed our existence to a species that has hunted us for millennia.

And now you face the consequences—communities destroyed, your people captured and enslaved, your leaders hunted like animals.”

“We’re facing organized attacks by Jean Rousseau,” Vera Santos said coldly.

“Not consequences of integration.

There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Aleksander smiled, showing fangs.

“Jean Rousseau is a symptom, not the disease.

The disease is your fundamental misunderstanding of the supernatural-human dynamic.

We are predators.

They are prey.

No amount of progressive rhetoric changes that basic truth.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thinking that leads to the trafficking of supernatural beings,” Emma said, her young voice steady despite facing a vampire lord who could kill her with a thought.

“If we see ourselves as superior, as having the right to dominate, then what’s to stop us from dominating each other?

Jean’s network doesn’t just target humans—it captures and enslaves supernatural beings too.”

“Because she lacks proper control and hierarchy,” Aleksander said dismissively.

“In the Old World Conclave, we maintain order through ancient bloodlines and established power structures.

Everyone knows their place.

There is no chaos, no trafficking, no integration disasters like Eldergrove.”

“Eldergrove,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl, “is not a disaster.

It’s a community where people of different species live together peacefully.

Until Jean attacked it.”

“Ah yes, Eldergrove.” Aleksander’s expression turned calculating.

“The community built on lies.

Tell me, Mr.

Thornton, did you know when you moved there that your family was magically imprisoned?

That you’ve been bound to that place since before you were born?”

The room went silent.

Bruce felt every eye turn to him.

“I found out recently,” Bruce said carefully.

“And yes, it’s a betrayal.

A terrible mistake made by Eldergrove’s founder.

But we’re working to fix it—to break the binding and give those families their freedom.”

“How noble.” Aleksander’s tone made it clear he thought it was anything but.

“You discover you’ve been imprisoned your entire life, and your response is to stay and help your captors.

That is the weakness integration breeds—you’ve lost your pride, your anger, your sense of self-preservation.”

“I’ve gained something better,” Bruce shot back.

“Community.

Purpose.

People worth fighting for.

You can sneer at integration all you want, but at least we’re trying to build something better than the endless cycle of predator and prey.”

“And how is that working out?” Another voice, this time from a delegation Bruce hadn’t noticed before.

A woman stood—human in appearance but with eyes that swirled with dark magic.

“I’m Magdalena Cross, representative of the Isolation Movement.

We believe supernatural beings and humans should have no contact whatsoever.

Separate territories, separate governments, complete and total separation.”

“That’s impossible,” Julian said from his security post.

“There are billions of humans and maybe millions of supernatural beings.

We can’t just carve out territory—”

“Can’t we?” Magdalena smiled coldly.

“Humans already cluster in cities, in population centers.

Give them those.

Let supernatural beings reclaim the wilderness, the forests, the places they inhabited before human expansion drove them into hiding.

It’s not impossible—it’s the only solution that preserves both species.”

“By ensuring we never interact, never learn from each other, never build anything together,” Emma said.

“That’s not preservation.

That’s stagnation.”

“Better stagnation than extinction,” Magdalena countered.

“Look around this room.

How many communities have fallen in the past year?

How many supernatural beings have been killed or captured?

Integration makes you visible, and visibility makes you vulnerable.

The Isolation Movement has no such problems.

We live apart, we stay hidden, and we survive.”

“You hide,” Vera Santos said.

“There’s a difference between surviving and living.”

The debate was spiraling into philosophical territory, and Bruce could feel his patience evaporating.

They didn’t have time for this.

Mishka was out there, suffering, while they argued about ideology.

“This is pointless,” Bruce said, standing abruptly.

“You’re here to undermine integration, not to help defend it.

Why did Chen even invite you?”

“Because ignoring opposing viewpoints doesn’t make them go away,” Director Chen said calmly.

“Lord Aleksander and Ms.

Cross represent significant factions within the supernatural world.

If we can’t address their concerns, we can’t build a unified defense.”

“We’re not here to join your defense,” Aleksander said.

“We’re here to extend an invitation.

The Old World Conclave is willing to accept refugees from failed integration communities.

You’ll live under our laws, our hierarchy, but you’ll be safe from Jean Rousseau’s attacks.”

“At what cost?” Bruce demanded.

“Obedience.

Loyalty.

And an end to this integration foolishness.” Aleksander’s gaze swept the room.

“Jean Rousseau will destroy every integration community in North America within the year.

Those of you with sense will accept our offer before it’s too late.”

“And those of us with principles will keep fighting,” Vera Santos said.

“Integration isn’t just a political experiment, Lord Aleksander.

It’s about basic dignity.

The right to choose how we live, who we associate with, what kind of world we want to build.

Your Old World Conclave might offer safety, but it comes at the cost of freedom.”

“Freedom is overrated when you’re dead,” Magdalena Cross said.

“The Isolation Movement offers the same choice—safety in exchange for separation.

No hierarchy like the Conclave, just sustainable distance from humans and their wars.”

“You’re both offering different flavors of surrender,” Emma said, her voice carrying surprising authority.

“Give up integration, give up freedom, give up the idea that we can build something better.

But surrender is exactly what Jean wants.

She wants us fractured, fighting among ourselves, too weak to resist her network.”

“Jean Rousseau is a symptom,” Aleksander repeated.

“Remove her, and another will rise.

The fundamental problem remains—supernatural beings and humans cannot coexist as equals.

Someone must dominate.

We prefer it to be us.”

Bruce had heard enough.

He stood, his werewolf nature barely contained.

“Then you’re no different from Jean.

You both believe in dominance, in control, in the strong ruling the weak.

The only difference is you dress it up in tradition instead of collars.”

Aleksander’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“Careful, young wolf.

I am five hundred years old.

I have crushed upstarts like you for far less disrespect.”

“Try it,” Bruce growled.

“I’d love an excuse.”

“Enough!” Director Chen’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Lord Aleksander, Ms.

Cross, thank you for your presentations.

We’ll consider your offers, though I suspect you know what our answer will be.

This summit remains committed to integration, to cooperation, to building a world where supernatural beings and humans can coexist peacefully.”

“Then this summit remains committed to failure,” Aleksander said.

He stood, gathering his delegation.

“When Jean destroys your last community, when you have nowhere left to run, remember that the Old World Conclave offered sanctuary.

The offer will not be extended twice.”

He swept from the room, his vampire entourage following.

Magdalena Cross lingered a moment longer.

“Integration is a beautiful dream,” she said, almost sadly.

“But dreams end when you wake up to reality.

The Isolation Movement will be waiting for those wise enough to choose survival over ideology.”

She left, and the room erupted in competing voices.

Some delegates were shaken by the presentations, others outraged, still others thoughtful.

Bruce couldn’t focus on any of it.

His phone buzzed—a text from Frank.

‘Team is assembled.

Intelligence updated.

We’re ready to move on Trois-Rivières.

Waiting on your order.’

Bruce looked at Director Chen, who nodded.

“Go.

The summit will continue without you.

Bring Mishka home.”

Bruce gestured to Emma and Julian.

“Let’s move.”

As they headed for the exit, Vera Santos caught Bruce’s arm.

“Lord Aleksander is dangerous.

Not just politically, but personally.

He’s killed challengers before.

If he sees you as a threat to his influence…”

“Let him try,” Bruce said.

“Right now, the only threat I care about is Jean Rousseau.

Everything else is noise.”

But as they left the conference room, Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that Aleksander’s presentation had been perfectly timed.

Jean attacks, integration communities struggle, and suddenly the Old World Conclave appears offering sanctuary—but only if they abandon their principles.

It was too convenient.

Too coordinated.

“Emma,” Bruce said as they hurried through the Covenant headquarters, “could Lord Aleksander be working with Jean?”

Emma considered.

“It would make sense strategically.

Jean weakens integration, the Conclave offers an alternative, and supernatural beings end up under Aleksander’s control either way.

But I can’t prove it.”

“We don’t need proof right now.

We need to rescue Mishka and the others.” Bruce pushed open the door to the garage where their strike team waited.

“But after we do, we’re going to take a very close look at the Old World Conclave and their convenient timing.”

The team was ready—fourteen supernatural beings armed with weapons both mundane and magical.

Three vehicles, each with a designated driver and navigator.

Frank had sent detailed maps of the warehouse complex, guard positions based on surveillance, and estimated response times if things went wrong.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” Bruce told his assembled volunteers.

“Jean’s forces are professional, well-equipped, and utterly ruthless.

Some of us might not make it back.”

“Then we’d better make it count,” one of the Portland volunteers said—a werewolf named Marcus who’d lost his sister to Jean’s network two months ago.

They loaded into the vehicles.

Bruce took the lead car with Emma, Julian, and two combat specialists from the Covenant.

As they pulled out of the garage into Montreal’s afternoon traffic, Bruce felt his wolf nature surging, demanding action, demanding vengeance.

Hold on, Mishka, he thought as they merged onto the highway toward Trois-Rivières.

I’m coming.

Just hold on a little longer.

Behind them, the summit continued.

Debates about policy, philosophy, the future of integration.

Important discussions, necessary work.

But Bruce had only one mission now: rescue the woman he loved before Jean broke her beyond repair.

Twenty-three days until the countdown reached zero.

But for Mishka, every hour in Jean’s custody might as well be a lifetime.

The warehouse complex was ninety minutes away.

Bruce intended to make it in seventy.