by H. D. Gordon
“Which news would that be?” I ask.
Say it, you smug bastard, I think. You want to bring it up, then at least have the balls to talk straight.
Humphrey’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, my hackles rising at the accusation veiled there. “The video of you in that convenience store,” he says. “That news.”
I nod slowly. “Am I in some kind of trouble?” I ask.
Humphrey tents his hands in front of him, as though he’s deep in thought. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“Well, no,” he says. “I just wasn’t aware that you weren’t…” He trails off, looking at me as if I should finish his sentence.
Fuck that.
“That I’m not what?” I ask.
His lips purse. “Human,” he says. “That you’re not human.”
Now the wolf in me is having a hard time keeping cool. That’s the thing about werewolves; we can be temperamental creatures.
I bite down on the alpha bitch inside me that wants to snap, and instead say, “Is that a problem, Mr. Humphrey?”
He is silent a tick too long, and part of me hates him for it. “That is what I’d like to know, Miss Beauregard,” he says. “If your…otherness is going to be a problem”
Otherness.
The word hits me in the gut, but one would not know it from my face.
“I don’t see why,” I say.
Mr. Humphrey sucks his teeth, then opens back up his laptop. I sit for a moment longer before taking that as my dismissal.
I’m almost out the door when he adds, “Miss Beauregard?”
I turn back to face him, and I wonder if he is smart enough to sense the predator behind my pretty face.
“Make sure that it’s not,” he says, and looks back at his screen.
I make my escape before I do something I’d later regret.
4
12:15 p.m.
“That Oompa Loompa motherfucker!” Lucy exclaims, biting into her cheesesteak with enough vigor for grease to run down her chin.
She talks around the food, looking like a chipmunk for the effort. “He’s got that little-man-syndrome thing—that, what’s it called? Napoleon Syndrome! I swear to the Gods.”
I glance at the tables around us, cringing a little at Lucy’s tone. I love her to death, but Lucy Tran is the kind of friend who ends up embarrassing you no matter where you are, and what situation you’re in. She’s just loud and socially oblivious like that.
She’s got long, black hair and creamy skin, her features revealing her Asian descent.
Also, she’s a fire demon.
And the only other supernatural that I know of in my office.
Around another enormous bite of food, she adds, “The nerve of that little gremlin. He has no reason to treat you any different.”
I sigh. “When have people needed a reason to mistreat those who are different from them?”
Lu shoves some fries into her already stuffed mouth. “Don’t make it right,” she grumbles.
Around us, the hospital cafeteria is beginning to fill up, the chatter loud enough to keep our conversation mostly private. Lucy and I work in the hospital’s IT department, the next building over from the one we’re currently in, and she’s the only person at work I consider a friend.
Lucy’s voice lowers as she leans forward over the table between us. “Man, when I saw that video, I damn near shit my pants for you,” she says. “I was like, welp, that cat is out of the bag. I gotta say, dude, I don’t envy you.”
I shake my head. “It sucks… I did that dude a favor by stopping that robber. Why turn the video over to the press?”
Lucy snorts. “People are assholes, man. Sometimes that’s all there is to it.”
Lazarus slithers out of her shirt pocket and perches on her shoulder. He’s Lucy’s familiar, a tiny dragon-like creature that is always with her, and can only be seen by those Lazarus wants to be seen by. I consider myself privileged to be on that short list.
Of course, as he slithers over to me, his red, barbed tail flicking happily behind him, and I share a fair chunk of my cheeseburger, I suspect his favor is because I’m always feeding the cute little bastard.
Laz gulps down my offering and flits back over to Lucy, who strokes the underside of his maw absentmindedly before he disappears back into her shirt pocket.
“Well, if the sonofabitch tries to fire you or something, you might have a lawsuit on your hands,” Lucy says.
I sigh. I don’t want a lawsuit. I don’t want to deal with this at all. I want my secret to go back to being my secret.
“That Carver case isn’t even through the courts yet,” I say, referring to a civil rights for supernaturals case that was currently caught up in the US court system. The decision in that case would affect all of us who aren’t human, and with the way things were going, I didn’t have much hope for the immediate future.
“The arch of progress is long,” Lucy tells me, “but it bends toward justice.” She wags her eyebrows, clearly pleased with herself. “Martin Luther King said that.”
I chuckle. “Thanks for the history lesson.”
Lucy glances at her phone. “Uhhhghhh,” she groans. “I don’t want to go back to work. Let’s just run away together.”
A smile pulls up my lips despite the weight that seems to have fallen upon my shoulders since this day started. I gather my food tray and follow her to the trashcans and out the door of the cafeteria.
“Would if I could, Lu,” I say. “Would if I could.”
I may be a supernatural, a werewolf with superior senses, speed and strength, and with the ability to shift into my wolf form upon command, but these damn bills weren’t gonna pay themselves.
So whether I like it or not, I need this job. For a moment, I find it almost funny that certain humans despise us, when our problems are pretty much the same. I need a roof, food, and acceptance, same as they do.
Just get to 5:00 p.m., I tell myself. That’s all I gotta do.
5
1:15 p.m.
I’m sitting in my cubicle finalizing a monthly report when a figure appears outside my cube.
I don’t recognize the male, only that he’s white, balding and not overweight but not muscled, and wearing a suit. Those qualities alone likely qualify him for upper management.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into my workspace.
“Hey,” I reply.
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet. “The other execs and I missed lunch,” he says. “I need you to go find a sandwich tray or something, as quickly as you can.”
I don’t even know this fool’s name, and he’s in here trying to send me out to get lunch? I blink at him from where I sit.
“Can you do that?” he asks when I don’t respond, like I might be dense.
“I can…” I say.
“Great.” He tosses his credit card on my desk. It takes all the strength of my will not to snap at him, to bare my teeth and growl.
Because he clearly lacks basic survival instincts, he adds, “Oh, and make sure you fetch some diet coke while you’re at it. It’s Gary’s favorite.”
With that, he turns on his heels and is gone, leaving me to stare down at the credit card he tossed on my desk.
Fetch? Did this fool really just tell me to fetch some diet coke?
Maybe I’m being sensitive, I think as my blood boils in my veins. Maybe he meant nothing by it. Of course, fetching lunch is not in my job description, and I could just go find the asshole and tell him to get his own damn sandwich, but on the other hand, I wouldn’t mind escaping the building for a bit, getting away from all the prying eyes and whispered gossip I’ve been ignoring all morning.
Sometimes super hearing is a curse as much as it is a blessing.
One guess as to what the hot topic of the day is.
That’s right. Ya girl Harper muthafuckin’ Beauregard making headlines!
Gods, sometimes I hate humans the same as they seem to hate me.
I snatch up the credit card and grab my phone and car keys. Then I’m out the door.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
Riding through the city with my windows down and my radio up, I feel less like an animal in a cage, and more like myself than I have all day.
Here was glass half full for that ass! Instead of getting pissed off (or maybe alongside getting pissed off would be more accurate) I was out of the office, enjoying the summer sun and listening to Shawn Mendez sing his heart out on the radio. Not so bad after all.
I still wasn’t happy about any of the day’s developments, and I may only be a couple years shy of thirty, but I knew enough about existing to know that sometimes one had to find the good in the bad.
Today was one of those days.
I get the sandwiches—and the dumbass diet coke—and head back to the office, glad for the opportunity to get away for a bit. That fleeting happiness evaporates as soon as I reenter the building, food and drinks dangling from my hands in plastic bags.
I feel like a damn idiot. Harper Beauregard: Werewolf and Errand Girl. There was a tagline for you. Ugh.
Just drop off the food and move on with the day, Harp, I tell myself. Who cares what those men think about you? Who cares if you had to “fetch” their food? If you wanted to, you could make a meal out of them.
Right, I tell myself. Damn right.
This was a job, and I needed the money. Throughout the history of capitalism, that very thought has been the driving force in the lives of so many. A little degrading? Maybe, but degrading beats unemployed when a bitch has to eat, ya dig?
I reach the conference room where the men are, including the one who’d come into my cubicle and tossed me his credit card. Without looking at them, I set the bags of food on the table and lay out the spread. While I’m setting out the cups and the drinks, I pick up bits of conversation that I know are not meant for me.
There are six executives in the room (including Mark Humphrey), and they are at the opposite end of where I’m setting up the food, though I can feel their gazes on my back like a touch. With the dimensions of the space, the conversation between two of the men that I pick up really wouldn’t be audible to a human. But to my wolf ears, the words are clear as day.
“A supe,” says Chris Dendler, a tall, thin white man with beady, watchful eyes and strange yellow-orange hair. “You saw the video?”
Jon Sherr, a short, bearded white mine who is fond of suspenders, nods. I don’t see the action, but I can hear it in the movement of the air, even with my back turned away from them.
“Fuckin’ crazy,” Jon mumbles.
“Fuckin’ scary is more like it,” Chris replies. “You really can’t trust anyone nowadays. There’s no way to know what you’re dealing with.” His voice lowers further still. “You see how she disarmed that guy and knocked him out? The way she crushed that gun in her hand? We had a name for that back in our day.”
Jon nods again. “Sure did.”
Together, they say, “Freak.”
I finish what I’m doing and move toward the door. I need to get out of here before I do something I regret.
“I don’t even know if we should eat that food she brought,” I hear Chris say as I slip out.
“Hey, sweetheart!” I hear from within the room.
Keep walking, Harp, I tell myself. Your name is not “sweetheart” so you do not have to respond to that shit.
“Harper!”
That’s Mark Humphrey’s voice calling me back. Fuck. There’s a split second where I consider how much I really need this job.
Then I turn on my heels and poke my head back in, forcing a smile to my lips.
“Yes, Mr. Humphrey?” I say.
Damn if I know how my voice manages to come out normal and not a feral growl. I’m pretty sure my smile is a little toothy, though.
Mr. Humphrey looks at the man who’d sent me on the errand in the first place, who must’ve been the one who’d called out “sweetheart” in an attempt to get my attention.
“Where’s my card?” says the man. “And the receipt?”
I point to the table where I’d laid out the food. Also where I’d left his stupid credit card and receipt.
“Great. Thanks,” he says, and with a flick of his hand, I’m dismissed.
6
1:45 p.m.
And, that, right there, is how a muthafucka gets ate up.
I wish I would see one of them wandering through the forest at night. I’d Bid Bad Wolf their asses before they could close their little red capes.
Gods! Would this day never end? I’d rather sell my soul to the devil than sit in this cubicle one moment longer. This thought has me pushing away from my desk and poking my head out into the hallway.
Coast clear.
I make it almost all the way to the stairwell before someone says my name in a mock whisper.
“Harper. Hey, Harp.”
I glance over my shoulder, ready to snap, but I relax when I see that it’s only Grayson. He and I are cool. Or so I still hope. I’m sure he’s heard about my little news debut just like everyone else.
But it’s a smile Grayson greets me with, and there is no wariness in his eyes, despite the fact that Grayson is undeniably human. Now that I think of it, he’s the first human in the office today to look at me the same way he did yesterday.
I don’t tell him how grateful I am for this. I’m not sure I could get the words out, anyway.
“Going for a walk?” he asks.
I nod. “I need some fresh air.”
“Want some company?”
I almost say no, but it’s that trusting, open expression behind his eyes that makes me say the opposite.
A few minutes later, we escape the walls of the office and emerge into the hot, dense air of summertime in Philadelphia. We usually walk around the block a couple times, chatting about nonsense, so this is familiar ground.
He’s halfway through an analysis of the Marvel cinematic universe when I cut him off.
“Aren’t you gonna ask?” I say.
Grayson blinks at me. He’s nearly six feet tall, with tousled brown hair, an athletic build, and big blue eyes. I’m pretty sure all the girls at work have a crush on him, and I’m even more sure that he has a crush on me, but I have a rule about shitting where I eat. I learned that lesson the hard way.
So we’re just friends, forevermore.
“Ask what?” he says.
I scoff. “So you didn’t see the news?”
“What news?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Oh,” he says, “you mean that video of you kicking that guy’s ass in the convenience store that they were playing over and over again on all the major networks this morning?”
I make a noise low in my throat. “Yes,” I say. “That’s the one.”
“Of course I saw it.”
I toss up my hands. “So why aren’t you asking me questions about what I am and looking at me all side-eyed like I might sneak into your house at night and steal your children from their beds?”
Grayson is silent for a moment, and then he bursts into laughter. It’s contagious. I laugh a little too because I can’t help it.
“Well,” he says once he starts to sober, “firstly, I could tell that you were unhappy when I saw you in the hallway, and I figured it had to have something to do with your newfound infamy, and second, because I don’t have children, so my unborn are safe from your wicked ways.”
My throat gets a little tight at the fact that Grayson knows me well enough to be able to tell when I’m upset, and that he cares enough to try to make me feel better.
Yesterday, such a sentiment would not have struck me so deeply. Though I’ve only been at the company six months, Grayson and I have spent a good deal of time together as coworkers. We’ve shared stories and bonded over mutual disgruntlements. We’ve laughed over nonsense and joked in good nature at one another’s expense.
Today, however, he knows my deepest sec
ret, along with the rest of the humans I work with…and he’s not treating me any differently.
If I didn’t have the strict don’t-shit-where-you-eat policy, I might just kiss him for this alone.
Instead, I say, in a half-joking manner in order to hide the heart beneath the words, “Just when I start to lose faith in humanity…”
A rare silence falls between us for a time. Then, in a tone soft enough to make me tilt my head, Grayson says, “You could’ve told me, you know?”
It’s not until this very moment that I realize that Grayson really is my friend, and that I really could have told him. There’s some deeper truth behind the way he speaks the words, and I can only turn away from it.
“I never tell anyone,” I say. “Other supernaturals usually sense it on me, the way I sense it on them, but humans are left largely out of the loop.” I pause, sigh. “Well, at least, they were, until the cover was blown. Now the whole damn world knows.”
I feel Grayson’s eyes on me. We walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the sidewalk, passing under trees that help shield us from the heat of the sun. On the street, cars roll past and a stray cat darts around an oncoming truck, narrowly escaping with its life.
“What?” I say when Grayson just keeps staring.
He shrugs. “I just…I guess I didn’t think about how hard it must be for people like you right now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “People like me?”
Grayson scoots a little closer and puts his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen, as this is outside our protocol.
But, then, I find it easier than I should to relax inside his friendly embrace.
“You know what I mean, Harp,” he says. “There are a lot of hateful people in this world, and they seem to be seeping out of the woodworks more and more nowadays. And supernaturals are their new targets.”
He’s right, but there isn’t much to be done about it, and I say so.
“Just be extra careful,” he says, and gives my shoulders a squeeze before dropping the hold, putting us back in familiar territory. “Okay?”
