“After everything we did to cover for you, all the money we paid to bury any record of that day, you turn around and pull this stunt?”

Senator Conall Thrope was practically foaming at the mouth. The vein in the center of his forehead was bulging to the point of pulsating as a tightly clenched hand continued to aggressively point at the footage of the Titans on the unnecessarily large television mounted above the marble mantle.

Lincoln wouldn’t have been surprised if the snifter glass gripped in Conall’s opposite hand suddenly collapsed under the strain of the man’s enraged grip. The amber liquor inside sloshed about side to side, each microcosmic wave threatening to escape over the gold-adorned rim and stain the exquisite rug upon which Conall paced.

In the corner, Lycia Thrope sat in a tall armchair that made her diminutive frame appear even smaller than it actually was. Much like Conall’s white hair against his flushed skin, the ghostly pale woman of the house sat in stark contrast to the rich burgundy hue of the cushioned seat that threatened to engulf her at any second. The embroidered and monogrammed handkerchief in her hand was stained from her continual silent sobbing.

“Look at your mother!” Conall ordered, Lincoln winced slightly, refusing to shift his own steely gaze away from his father.

“LOOK AT HER!” Whatever ability there once had been to see logic or reason had suddenly gone out the window.

“Can’t you see how upset you’ve made her, parading around publicly with-” His face had changed several shades of red over the past few minutes, it seemed to be a new shade with every increase of volume as the yelling continued to persist. The once slicked-back silver-flecked dark hair was starting to lose its hold as several strands hung over his forehead. The slow state of dishevelment added a certain amount of derange to the elder Thrope male. To top it all off, the white hair on Conall’s temples only further added contrast against the beet-red skin of his face.

“-With!” Shaw could still barely form the words, “T-those people, those Justice League rejects! You were raised to far exceed that low bar. I know what kind of people that academy recruits, crooks and criminals the lot of them!”

“Then you’d feel right at home.” Lincoln retorted, finally breaking his silence. Conall spun on the heel of his Oxfords, raising the back of his hand as if to strike Lincoln.

“Mind your lip boy, you’re still under my roof and living off of my money.” When the younger man didn’t flinch, Conall pulled back, lowering his hand before straightening the lapels of his waistcoat.

“I’d also remind you, that it was your selfishness and stupidity that brought this curse upon our family.” He stated coldly. “Worse still, by running around with that circus, you showed the world that Lincoln Thrope, the one and only son of Conall and Lycia, is a genuine monster!”

Conall again motioned back to the loop on the television screen.

“Do you know what this has done to my campaign? My standing in the polls has dropped exponentially over the past week, forty percent of my voters have changed their support to other candidates. I at least thought you possessed enough brains to don a mask.” He spat venomously.

“Guess I got my intelligence from your side of the family.”

The slap was practically deafening as it echoed across the spacious living room. Lycia stopped her sobbing long enough to allow her jaw to drop in shock. No sooner had the back of Conall’s hand met Lincoln’s face than did the younger Thrope wrap his hand around his father’s throat. Though roughly equal in size, Lincoln lifted his father with ease. As he did, his gritted teeth became fangs, his ears pointed and the claws that formed at the tips of his fingers slowly began to draw blood from the elder Thrope’s neck.

As suddenly as he had lifted his father, Lincoln dropped the other man, stepping back and reverting form. For a moment the two men locked gazes, their steely blue gazes locking before Lincoln let out a guttural grunt.

“I’m getting some air.”

The garage was pristine as far as human senses were concerned. Its ivory walls were perfectly arranged with numerous tool racks and several shiny, nearly untouched, storage units. There was nary a want in sight as everything a professional pit crew could have possibly needed was stored around his father’s collective Bentleys, Jaguars, and Porsches. It was hard to believe it was a functioning garage at all as not a single tire track was allowed to show on the ebony-panelled floor. The entire place was spotless.

But Lincoln could still smell the stains.

Beneath the layers of potent cleaning solutions and glossy wax, there was still the unmistakable stench of gasoline and oil. Their stains may have been removed from sight, but Link could still detect the residue from the vehicles hiding beneath the seemingly undefiled floors of the Thrope garage.

Though the cars were different makes and models, they all shared a common detail. Each vehicle was wrapped in a matte black finish. Link doubted that even the Batman had so many black cars in his garage. The Wolf inside cried out for Lincoln to give control over to him, to let the claws out and put a deep scratch on each beautiful piece of machinery. But no matter how he felt about his father, Lincoln couldn’t bring himself to take it out on the cars.

Well, maybe the Jags…

Making his way past the row of cars, Lincoln came to a tarped object at the far end of the garage. Here the apparently untarnished illusion of the garage fell away. The tiles around the tarp were cracked from tools and other objects crashing into them. The stains were less hidden, and harder to remove from between the fractures in the obliterated obsidian. Even the tools on the wall showed more signs of scuffing, their layout less aesthetical and more practical. Wrenches and sockets were missing from their spots, no doubt still under the tarp.

A genuine smile filled Link’s face as he lifted the tarp away. A knobby tire held firmly between a fork-mounted sport suspension beneath a set of handlebars greeted the younger Thrope man. A vintage-styled grille was mounted over the singular, rounded headlight that further filled Lincoln with glee.

Reaching toward the wall behind the bike, Link lifted the heavy jacket off its hook, pulling the asymmetrical zipper to the collar of the armoured leather. Trading his shoes for the nearby boots, he kicked his footwear haphazardly away before sliding on the well-worn reinforced high tops.

His father hated this bike.

Lincoln had gotten it the day he turned sixteen and had put countless hours into maintaining, retrofitting, and upgrading the motorcycle. Conall had called it a money pit on numerous occasions, but to Link, it had always been his ticket to freedom.

And if it happened to piss his father off, then that was just a bonus.

Straddling the low-slung saddle, Lincoln dropped a heavy heel on the modded kickstart. It used to take him a lot more effort to turn the motor over; in fact, one time he had almost broken his leg from the kickback, but being cursed had its advantages.

The throaty rumble of the two-cylinder engine sent a shiver of excitement down Link’s spine, his breathing synching up with the vibrations coming from between his legs. Twisting the throttle, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, revving the bike again and Lincoln felt a rush of adrenaline flood through his body.

As the garage door opened, the younger Thrope gave the motorcycle a final rev before squeezing the clutch in and popping his left foot to put the bike into gear. The rear tire squealed, filling the garage with the smell of burnt rubber. The front of the bike lifted into the bike into the air before launching into the night.


The Wolf’s enhanced reflexes, senses and strength all made navigating the bike through the cool darkness much easier than it had ever been in the days before the curse. It didn’t take long for Lincoln to make his way from his parent’s home in Laude, to the Thaxton in the St. Louis’ western downtown.

Architecture from the turn of the twentieth century lined the streets, towering over the young man and his motorcycle. Parking the bike, Link removed his helmet before pulling his phone out and opening the speakeasy’s socials. The Thaxton Speakeasy was a semi-private nightclub, you could only gain entry if you had the password.

Easy enough to get if you knew where to look.

His thumb hesitated on the home page of his phone, hovering over his messages. Expanding the app, Link tapped Kennedy’s conversation, enlarging the photo of her while debating what to send. He missed seeing her smile, and the smell of her perfume when she walked into the room. The tower had felt more like home in the past few weeks than home had in twenty-one years.

The speakeasy probably would have been a lot more fun with her along. Link suddenly found himself wondering what type of music Kennedy liked. It wasn’t something that had ever come up in the Titans’ common rooms.Looking down at his phone, Link scanned the caption of the latest image on the club’s social media. A small smirk crossed his face before he began to toward the door. The password tonight was ‘Injustice’ and Lincoln had just the quote up his sleeve to get in. Approaching the barren arched doorway, the Link stepped between the grey stone walls and knocked on the chestnut door.

A slot sitting around eye level slid open as Link nodded to the doorman on the other side, initiating the conversation.

“Mankind censure injustice, fearing that they may be the victims of it and not because they shrink from committing it.”

Even through the slit of the door, Lincoln could see the bouncer roll his eyes. An exasperated sigh could be heard just above the distant din of music as the larger man opened the door. Raising an eyebrow, Lincoln gave the other man a quick head tilt before the bouncer elaborated.

“You’re not the first rich kid to roll up here tonight quoting Bacon, frankly I’m bored of it”

“Clearly,” Link replied pulling a few crisp bills from his wallet for his cover charge, “Evidently, they don’t pay you enough hazard pay.” He retorted dryly, adding an extra twenty on top for the bouncer before stepping through the door.

It wasn’t a big club, but the Thaxton was out of the way. Here, in St. Louis, Lincoln was more likely to be recognized because of his father, not because he had a body hair problem. He wasn’t sure why, but there was some small comfort in that.

The Thaxton looked like it was straight out of the Prohibition era, it was the kind of classic styling that Lincoln had grown up around with his mother’s side of the family. Approaching the bar, an intoxicating scent caught his attention. Turning, Lincoln’s eyes were drawn to a head of crimson hair. Kennedy had always smelt nice, but this was different, it was almost overwhelming. For the briefest second, her eyes met his and Lincoln felt the Wolf’s hackles go up on the back of his neck.

“Summer!” A voice called out across the bar, reaching just above the din. She winked at Lincoln, long lashes emphasizing the deliberate movement. Turning her head towards the voice, she broke their gaze before Lincoln lost the redheaded woman in the crowd.

"It's unusual, seeing someone your age and stature on a team fighting for Justice. Don't get me wrong. I think it's a sign of excellent character."

The blasé voice caught Lincoln's attention, belonging to an auburn-haired man who had been watching him closely from the moment he stepped foot into the Thaxton. He had been seemingly invisible until he spoke, just another pretentious blurred face among this insufferable crowd. Odd, considering one of his height normally stood out, towering over most at 6 '2". He wore an immaculate navy blue suit, ever so slightly creased due to his arms which were folded over his chest. From memory, he was part of the Lécuyer Family, although he didn't share the sapphire blue eyes that seemed to be a distinguishing feature.

His expression matched his tone, as he pushed himself off the wall, approaching Link with a hand outstretched, "We've met in passing, but I'm not sure we've been formally introduced," his movements were lazy yet still held an element of formality, "Name's Pachid Michaud, Écuyer to the head of the Lécuyer Family."

If Lincoln didn't recognize him by face, he'd surely recognize him by name. Pachid was at the forefront of every single move the Lécuyer made, often acting as a spokesman or liaison between the family and the outside world. He was said to have the most influence within the Family, second only to the Head he supported. His hazel irises scanned Link for a moment as if he were trying to gain an insight into his personality.

"I wonder if you'd let me buy you a drink," he stated, nonchalant as he stuck his hands in his pockets, motioning towards the bar with his head.

“Oaxaca Old-Fashioned, made with the El Buho, the Madre is overpriced and overrated,” Lincoln replied cooly, the Wolf’s hackles still bristling as he sized up Pachid.

“Little ironic a member of the Lécuyer Family commenting on character isn’t it?” Lincoln added as the bartender placed their drinks in front of them. “I guess not having any makes you an expert on recognizing it in others.”

Pachid’s lips twitched upwards at the insult as he motioned to the bartender for two of what the wolfman had ordered.

“Whatever you’re here to offer, you can keep it to yourself.”

He wasn’t surprised when Link immediately turned him down without even hearing the offer, as the Titan turned to leave Pachid spoke up, his tone still lazy as he leaned forward onto one of the tall bar tables,

“I’m offering you a favour. You’d be able to call upon the Lécuyer family for anything you might need, and I mean anything. Any time, any place and at any expense.” He watched intently, looking for any form of hesitation, “And all you’d need to do is lure your teammate Arina to me somehow.”

“Thanks for the drink.” Link replied dismissively, tipping the glass towards Pachid before taking a sip and stepping away from the bar rail.

Collective laughter caught Lincoln’s attention, his keen ears cutting through the noise of the crowd around him. His eyes tracked the noise to a booth where three men were crowding a woman. Her head was slumped to one side, liquor running down her lips and onto her chin from a shot that had just been tilted into her mouth. The straps of her dress had drifted from her shoulders, hovering about halfway down her upper arms making her clearage more than generously revealed. One of the men leaned over, placing his head between her breasts before proceeding to motorboat the semi-conscious woman.

That was enough for Lincoln.

A growl escaped from between his lips as he forcefully pushed his way across the bar. He could feel his canines beginning to ache, expanding in his gumline, the familiar feel of his skull beginning to shift.

It never got any less painful.

“Hey!” Link roared, “I think she’s had enough, time for her to go home.”

“This your bitch?” One of the men asked, the other two moving to flank Lincoln while he continued to stand over the woman. A smile crossed the man’s face, as he sized Lincoln up.

“Nah, you that Senator’s brat,” He laughed, “You look tough, bet you spend a whole lot of time in the gym, got them balloon muscles.” He took a step towards Link. Lincoln watched his hands, noting the right hovering around his right pocket.

“Y’know why they’re balloon muscles?” The man asked, taking another step towards Lincoln. “‘Cause they empty, you’ll pop the minute someone applies a little press-” The right hand lunged, a knife appearing in it. Lincoln had seen it coming, neatly catching the wrist and disarming him. Giving it an extra twist, not to the point of breaking but enough to strain it, he released the man, tossing his hand back to him.

“I think I’m pretty good under pressure.” Link retorted with a growl.

“Oh you have no idea who you’re messing with rich boy,” The man snarled, clutching his wrist against his chest. “Watch your back.” Motioning with his head for his lackeys to follow, they beat a quick retreat as the bouncers pushed through the crowd to the booth.

Scanning the booth, Lincoln picked up her clutch, pulling out a wallet before flicking it open to the ID inside.

“Get Miss Day home,” Lincoln growled, handing her belongings to the bouncer before reaching into his own pocket and passing the other man a few folded bills to cover the fee.

“And add whatever she owes to my friend’s tab,” Link added, gesturing to Pachid who was still at the bar rail. “He has a real heart for helping people.”

“You do know who you just pissed off right?” The bouncer asked stopping Link as the younger man turned to leave.

“Don’t care particularly,” Link retorted.

“Just sayin’ I wouldn’t go out the back door.”


Raoul Lauffrey was fuming.

His wrist was killing him. This was his town, how the hell did some rich white boy disrespect him in front of his boys like that? His good hand kept a firm hold of the grip of his gun tucked into the back of his pants while he watched the door leading back into the speakeasy. Rich boy had to come out sooner or later and when he did, it’d be him being humiliated.

Over the past five years, Raoul had worked his way up the ranks from petty theft to running most of the downtown. Nothing happened in this city without him knowing, and no one had dared to cross him, let alone interrupt a night out with his boys in well over a year. Even the Metro were in his pocket, police had been paid off for quite some time.

So then who the hell did the Senator’s son think he was stepping in like that? They were just having fun, drinks with a pretty girl. No one was being harmed, at least not until the Thrope boy comes out of the Thaxton.

“I can’t believe you walked out, should have wasted that guy right there.” Grift was always the dumb one Raoul noted, wondering if he even needed to humour the man with a response.

“Waste someone, in the middle of the club in the downtown. Wouldn’t make it out the door without the Metro on us, even Raoul’s money only goes so far.”

“Thank you, Dozer,” Raoul replied, opting to respond to an intelligent comment. “At least one of yous has brains.”

A loud growl filled the back alley causing Raoul to freeze at the unexpected noise. Looking around, he pulled the gun out slowly. Another growl echoed through the night air only this one was followed by what could only be described as laughter. Turning to the source of the sound, Raoul didn’t even have a chance to raise the gun before the alley walls were lined with his blood.


Weaving the bike in and out of his lane on the empty, winding road, Lincoln felt the Wolf beginning to recede back into the crevices of his mind. For now, the beast had been satisfied. Revving the engine, Lincoln pushed the accelerator as he came out of another bend, the lone headlight lighting the narrow path ahead of him.

Flashes of red and blue suddenly filled his mirrors as Link let out a heavy sigh and guided the motorcycle off the smooth pavement and onto the loose gravel lining the shoulder. Waiting for the cruiser to go by, Link felt the Wolf suddenly growl defensively as the large sedan pulled in behind him.

Reluctantly removing his helmet, Link watched from his peripheral as the officer stepped out of the vehicle. His nose was abruptly assaulted by a familiar, but overwhelming aroma. An officer with red hair tied back into a tight bun walked alongside the motorcycle, gun already in hand and drawn.

“Lincoln Thrope?” She stated rhetorically. The Wolf was clambering to get out. Lincoln could practically feel its sense of self-preservation clawing at his insides. The officer raised her weapon, pointing it toward Lincoln’s face.

“St. Louis Metropolitan Police, you’re under arrest.”