Roc

by Robert M Kerns

  “The hotel offers a continental breakfast,” Burke replied, “but thank you.”

  Oh, yeah… I did vaguely remember something about that when I first moved to Precious. Excellent! Less work for me and more time to wake up. I withdrew a cup from the cupboard and added enough honey to it I could be mistaken for a bear shifter. I slid the cup under the brew nozzle, closed the device’s lid, and pressed the ‘Brew’ button.

  I shuffled over to the conventional coffee maker and started the process of brewing my ladies’ preferred nectar of the gods. I couldn’t stand the stuff, myself. Yeah… certain blends of coffee smelled kind of nice—while others smelled downright heavenly—if you didn’t burn it like it was damned, but I never found the right combination of additives to make it taste appealing.

  And I’ve always been of the mind that any drink people called an ‘acquired taste’ wasn’t worth acquiring in the first place.

  As soon as I set the coffee to brewing, I turned back to my cup and retrieved it from its brewer, then joined Hauser and Burke at the bar that divided the kitchen from the family room. I pulled myself onto a barstool and swirled a stainless steel stirrer to distribute the heat and honey in a semi-even manner. Then I chugged half the cup. Yum. Pure ambrosia. Those coffee heathens didn’t know what they were missing.

  I felt life and awareness begin growing in my mind, and I no longer had to spend effort to remember who these guests were. A huge yawn interrupted the moment, and I took another swig of tea.

  “So, Nathanson said you’d probably be a bit unhappy that I called him last night,” I remarked as the first hints of coffee reached my nose. I gave my ladies no more than ten minutes before their blessed brew brought them shambling like zombies to the kitchen.

  My comment re-awakened Hauser’s ire, and she glared at me. “Damn right I’m unhappy. My work habits are none of your business, Mister Magnusson. I’d like to know just what gives you the right to interfere in my professional life.”

  “You’re my friend, Hauser, and I don’t want you to get hurt because you’re exhausted. We’ve shared a few adventures, and I think you’re a good person. I like knowing good people. Same goes for you, too, Burke. And no, I don’t mean anything more than just a friend. Three women have already staked a claim on me, and I don’t really need any more.”

  By the time I reached the end of my rambling answer, Hauser lost her ire. She slumped on her barstool and frowned. “That’s so not fair. No one has ever been able to guilt me into taking time off like that.”

  “What… it’s not fair that I want you alive and well among humans as long as possible? Or it’s not fair that I’m not afraid to tell you?”

  “Either. Both.”

  I chuckled as I dove in for another swallow of tea. I started to say more, but Karleen leading my ladies into the kitchen interrupted me. They all wore robes, so I assumed they heard us talking when the coffee woke them. Or maybe they were easing Lyssa into her place with us. I know Karleen, Gabrielle, and I never worried about robes when it was just the three of us here.

  Each of my ladies retrieved a mug and doctored their brews to their respective satisfaction before joining us at the bar. After a few cautious sips, Gabrielle looked to the agents, asking, “So, came to read Wyatt the riot act for butting into your business?”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t work. He pulled the friend card.”

  All three of my ladies beamed. Karleen said, “Yeah, he’s a master at fighting dirty when he chooses.”

  “So, what’s your plan?” I asked, the severe lack of a transition or segue brought on because I still worked through my morning wake-up procedure and didn’t feel fully personable yet. I abandoned my barstool to prep my brewer for another cup of tea.

  “Our supervisor instructed us to report to you for three days of low-stress rest and relaxation,” Burke supplied, as my brewer refilled my cup with my ambrosia. “He said he would be—and I quote—quite wroth if we did otherwise—end quote.”

  Huh… I wonder if Nathanson or his supervisor called him after being woken up in the night. That thought made me chuckle a bit as I returned to the bar while I stirred my tea. As I ascended my barstool, I pondered the stray thought of whether walking while stirring my tea provided ample evidence that I could walk and chew bubble gum at the same time.

  Guess I still had a ways to go before I was ‘awake.’ That kind of nonsense didn’t usually intrude once I completed my daily boot-up cycle.

  “So, what do you have in store for us?” Hauser asked.

  I finished my first swallow of tea from the second cup and considered the question. “Well, I suppose that depends entirely on what you like to do that isn’t work. We could go hiking. We could introduce you to some pups and cubs, if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to pet a baby wolf or lion or whatever; we’ll have to be careful about that, though. It’s second nature for the kids to play fight, and we don’t want them biting or scratching you. I’m sure your boss would prefer you return rested, healthy, and… not a shifter.”

  Hauser and Burke shared a look before Burke said, “You know, the regs don’t explicitly state that agents have to be human, and the Secret Service is openly trying to recruit shifters. Do we have any in Paranormal Branch?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Hauser replied, “but it wouldn’t surprise me. And I’m not sure anyone could say anything if you wanted to become a shifter. As long as you put in for sick leave or vacation or however they wanted you to record the time off, I’d think it would be your personal choice.”

  I watched a thoughtful expression take over Burke’s face, and I suspected I’d be getting yelled at by someone in her chain of command at some point in the future. I wasn’t going to be the one to turn her, though. Nope, not at all. The end result if I—as a primogenitor—turned someone was too much of an unknown subject for my liking. Based on how things usually went, she’d come out a primogenitor like me, but that meant I should have been a cougar. And I wasn’t.

  It was simply too much of a risk in my eyes to try turning someone into a shifter.

  “Well, first things first, we should probably update Sloane on her situation,” I interjected.

  “That is an excellent idea,” Karleen opined, “but let’s do it after breakfast.”

  When both Gabrielle and Lyssa added their support to Karleen’s statement, I exercised my nascent wisdom and asked them what they wanted to eat.

  Sloane looked at the handwritten note she found slipped under the door of her hotel room.

  Please, join Alpha Wyatt in the town hall at your earliest convenience after nine tomorrow morning.

  The penmanship of the note approached the decorative and artistic quality of calligraphy, and the notecard itself was premium card stock, heavier than normal paper by a considerable margin. Perhaps just thin enough to fit between the door and the carpet. The reverse side of the card was blank. There was no signature, no mention of a delivery time.

  She turned, and her eyes locked on the clock hanging on the room’s far wall. Ten minutes after nine. Damn. Sloane heaved a sigh and crossed to the suitcase that served as her closet, retrieving fresh clothing that she laid on the bed. A brief shower later, she dressed as quickly as she could without risking mishaps and pulled a brush through her hair a couple times.

  The reflection staring back at her out of the mirror wasn’t ready for any red carpets or award banquets, but it was the best she could do in the time she had. Sloane double-checked to ensure she carried one of the two keycards for the room, then left to find out what awaited her.

  * * *

  She stepped out of the hotel and into a bright, sunny day. She afforded a quick glance at the sky as she crossed the sidewalk to the curb and did not see a single cloud anywhere. Glancing both ways, Sloane crossed the street and noticed that this was not one of the busier mornings she’d seen since arriving Precious. Whereas some days cars lined either side of Main Street, parked vehicles merely dotted the parking spaces that morning.
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  A young man sat behind the reception desk when Sloane entered the lobby of the town’s administration building, and she crossed the short distance and presented the card. He read the note and pointed to the hallway on his right.

  “Go all the way down the hallway and through the double doors at the end.”

  Sloane thanked him with a nod and a smile as she moved to follow his directions. The double doors opened to reveal a space that looked very reminiscent of a courtroom. A gallery of benches occupied two thirds of the room with a wide aisle down the center, ending at a decorative wooden balustrade. A few chairs sat just beyond the balustrade, and an oval-shaped conference table with chairs along the back faced the gallery. Wyatt, Karleen, Gabrielle, Lyssa, and two women Sloane didn’t know occupied seats at the table.

  “Someone slipped this card under my door,” Sloane said as she arrived at the table’s edge.

  Wyatt grinned. “Yes. That was Melody, acting on a note I left for her after she went off-shift last night. We have an update for you. The new faces are Special Agents Winnifred Hauser and Edwina Burke.”

  “Hello, Ms. Martinez,” the lady introduced as Agent Hauser said. “Special Agent Burke and I visited Nebraska to speak with the officers in charge of the Higgins case. It took quite a bit of talking, because Deputy Marks seemed rather fixated on you for some reason, but all warrants, bulletins, and/or advisories involving you in relation to the Higgins case have been revoked. You’ll still appear in the case file of course, but otherwise, you’re free and clear.”

  Relief. That was the only word that came to mind for the complex cocktail of emotions that surged through Sloane’s psyche. Her legs trembled, and she staggered to one of the chairs against the balustrade and sat—pretty much fell—into it. It was over. She could visit a town or city or anywhere she chose now without fear of being arrested if someone ran her identification.

  She pulled her eyes back to the people in front of her and offered a weak smile. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  It was time to decide what came next.

  25

  The morning after Hauser and Burke left town, I started my day with the usual tea. In my quasi-awake state, the desire for an egg and cheese sandwich on toast with lettuce, ketchup, and mayonnaise dawned bright and clear in my mind. So, with the courage buoyed by my conviction that I could surely figure out making such a sandwich if I could setup complex data networks, I proceeded to prove my thesis by creating a masterpiece of edible perfection.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time…

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Karleen shouted over the shrieking alarm as each of my ladies worked a separate task to achieve the overall goal of eradicating the cloud of smoke dominating the top three inches of the kitchen’s air space, thereby silencing the rude alarm intended to save our lives in the case of an uncontrolled fire… or a half-asleep Smilodon trying to make breakfast.

  The offending skillet now lay in the backyard where Karleen chucked it before grabbing a large dishtowel to fan the alarm’s sensor. Flames no longer reached skyward from the blackened mass of (possibly) organic material coating the (supposedly) non-stick surface, but it hadn’t quite cooled. A column of smoke about as thick as my wrist continued to waft upward even yet… as if life in general chose to thumb its nose at my well-laid plan.

  “I thought we had a deal, Wyatt,” Gabrielle growled amid coughs as she placed a large box fan on a stand in the open doorway that led to the back deck. She plugged it into a nearby outlet and switched it to its highest setting. The roar of its motor did little to drown out her continued speech. “You make your tea however you like it and start a pot of coffee brewing for us, and one of us or more handles everything else. That’s how breakfast—well, any meal around here, really—has always worked. Yes… you may touch the toaster, too, but that’s it!”

  Lyssa arrived with a second box fan, and Gabrielle opened a window to receive the fan while I looked on from my perch atop a barstool on the opposite side of the bar from the kitchen. The two times I had attempted to enter the kitchen to assist in cleaning up my own mess, both Gabrielle and Karleen gave me very firm looks and pointed at the stool where I now sat. They also informed me in no uncertain terms that they revoked my kitchen privileges until further notice.

  Over the next few minutes, the near-permacloud above our heads faded to the point that the alarm felt safe in ceasing its rude wailing, and each of us expressed our relief at the progression toward residential peace. Karleen stopped fanning her dishtowel, and just as the towel left her hand on its way toward the countertop, there was a knock at the door.

  “Is everyone okay in there?” Sheriff Clyde asked, his voice almost a shout.

  So much for the morning’s achievement remaining a secret in the family…

  I pushed off the barstool and trudged to the front door. I opened it and waved for Sheriff Clyde to follow as I went back to my barstool.

  Sheriff Clyde stopped a few feet from the bar that separated the family room from the kitchen and examined the scene with his keen eyes, honed across decades of small-town law enforcement in shifter communities. After assessing the visible evidence around the scene, he grunted his conclusion for peer review.

  “Huh… Wyatt tried cooking unsupervised again?”

  “Yes,” Gabrielle and Karleen answered almost in unison while shooting me a glare that threatened dire consequences for any future culinary experiments.

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No,” Karleen answered.

  Lyssa interjected, her tone dancing the crest of the fence between normal speech and growl, “Unless you count rudely interrupted sleep.”

  Gabrielle and Karleen both admitted the accuracy of Lyssa’s qualification and nodded their agreement.

  Sheriff Clyde nodded. “Well, a couple people called in the smoke and the alarm, so I thought I should check. Good luck with your morning.”

  I walked him to the door and thanked him for checking on us. Before he left, Sheriff Clyde extracted a promise from me that I wouldn’t try cooking without supervision again for the sake of the town and ambled down the walk to his waiting SUV. I watched him pull a U-turn in the street and head back toward his office before I closed the door and returned to my perch.

  * * *

  As short time later, the four of us walked into Gladys’s diner after quick showers to remove the worst of the smoke. It seemed to me like everyone sent accusatory stares my way, but that was probably just my embarrassment talking. While we debated our table preference, a hand shot into the air and waved us over, and we found Sloane sitting by herself.

  “Wanna join me?” Sloane asked when we neared her table.

  The ladies were already in motion to pick their seats before I could twitch my shoulders in an answering shrug, so I simply followed suit.

  “How are you doing on deciding what’s next?” I asked as my ladies gave their drink orders and accepted menus for us.

  Sloane gave me a sheepish half-smile. “That’s kinda why I wanted to talk with you. I want to try living here for a while. It’s been so long since I had roots of any kind, and I’ve never really lived in a shifter community.”

  My immediate thought was to wonder why she’d need to talk to me about it. I mean, she was her own person. Then, my mind caught up with reality and the nature of the shifter world. Of course, she wanted to talk to me about moving to Precious… because I was the Alpha of Precious. Damn. I was still a sleep-idiot. I should have done a better job of waking up before venturing out into polite society.

  I was just glad I didn’t actually voice my thought process that time.

  “Sure,” I answered. “You’ll have a place here as long as you want one, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Sloane smiled her response.

  The server returned with our drinks, but we’d been too invested in the conversation with Sloane to make any decisions about food. So, we asked for a few more minutes. As the server nodded and moved off to
check on another table, the bell over the diner’s door rang. Sheriff Clyde entered the diner with someone sandwiched between him and one of his deputies. The trio approached our table, and the sheriff stepped aside to reveal Thomas Carlyle.

  An irrational surge of anger filled me, and I frowned. Was it really that irrational? The minute Doc said Carlyle was healthy enough to be on his own, we shipped his ass out of town. Where’d he go? Don’t know; don’t care. I hadn’t said that he wasn’t welcome back in Precious, but I kinda thought that was implied in the manner of his send-off.

  “Well, I can’t say that I expected to see you again,” I remarked. “What brings you back to Precious?”

  “Alpha Wyatt,” Carlyle began, his voice tentative and cautious, “may I have a moment of your time?”

  “You’re speaking. I’m listening.”

  “Uhm... maybe in private, please?”

  I snorted. “Whatever you have to say, you can say here or shout from the county line. Your choice.”

  Carlyle scanned the dining room with his eyes, and it was plain he hadn’t expected to have an audience. Tough shit. He should be thanking whatever deity he worships that I didn’t just drag his mangy ass back through the diner’s door and rip out his throat for him to die in the street.

  When it became apparent that my answer wasn’t changing any time soon, he sighed, then squared his shoulders. “I came to beg your mercy, Alpha Wyatt. In the weeks since I left here, I have found no place I have been welcome. Not even with my family. I’ve spent most of the time living in my vehicle. I have no right to ask this, I know, but I thought... I thought maybe I could earn my way back to at least acceptance among shifters here.”

  I wanted to smart off to him about how he maybe should have paid a little more attention to the people he passed on his way up the social ladder, because he saw those same people when he came sliding back down. But I didn’t. As I sat there, considering what he said, I spent the seconds looking him over. The signs of being at the end of his rope became apparent when I paid any attention to his clothes and hygiene... instead of who he was.