by Sharon Joss
“Take it easy, Pops.” Mike put a calming hand on his arm. “I don’t need a job just yet. I need a little time to figure things out, that’s all.”
Tom pressed his lips into a firm line. The last thing that boy needs is time on his hands to brood. A sudden inspiration struck him. “Hey, I got it. I had McNabb’s grandson all lined up to make my bait deliveries for the summer, but he’s met some girl up near Syracuse and backed out at the last minute. It’s been a real pain for me. Would you do it?”
The boyish grin he remembered flashed across Mike’s face.
“It’s only three days a week. You’ll be done by mid-morning, latest. You already know most of the route. It’ll be like old times. Say yes. Make an old man happy.”
“Don’t give me that old man shit. You’ve barely aged a day since I’ve been gone. You’ve got almost as much Fae blood in you as I do.”
“Come on. I’ve got nobody else and you’ve got plenty of time on your hands.”
“Sure Pops; no problem.” Mike popped him playfully in the shoulder.
“Good. It’s settled then.”
Farley heaved a contented sigh and farted.
CHAPTER 3 : THE HAPPY HUNTER
Mike stalked the rooms of the cottage while Farley snored soundly in the middle of the king-sized bed in the larger of the two bedrooms. The house was much as he remembered, although he hadn’t been back since he’d become a shifter. He’d set up the cage in the smaller bedroom; empty except for a beat-up wooden desk and chair. Thick shrubbery covered most of the front of the house, shielding it from the frontage road and keeping the room preternaturally dark.
The cage was six by six foot square and four feet high. It was actually a lion cage made with a stainless steel knotted wire rope mesh; the same mesh used for animal enclosures by zoos. He’d had the cage custom made of six panels that he could assemble with a socket wrench in about twenty minutes. A simple mechanism kept the cat safely contained; a human thumb was required to open the door. The enclosure was a hated reminder of his condition; but he’d been sleeping in the cage nearly half his life.
Mike could feel the cat’s restlessness inside him. If the cat wasn’t allowed to roam free for a few hours every four or five days, the tenuous truce between them started to fall apart. Tom had urged him to let the cat do a little investigation of the territory, and maybe he was right. It wouldn’t hurt to let the cat out before he locked himself inside the cage for the night. In the city, the closest wilderness area took at least two hours to get to. He’d drive to Moose River or the Adirondacks whenever he could, but working undercover made it difficult to keep to a schedule that kept the cat happy. And keeping the cat happy was paramount.
He checked to make sure the back yard gate was locked; not that it mattered. The closest house was a quarter mile up the road. No six-foot fence would hold him, and the cat was an excellent swimmer. He loved the water, and the property had its own private dock.
Seated on the faded blue divan on the sun porch, where they’d hoisted beers and filled their bellies earlier, Mike stripped out of his clothes and folded them neatly beside him. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.
The melting sensation flowed through him, familiar and soothing now, after all those wasted years he’d spent fighting it. Instead of the bone-breaking agony the werewolves had to endure, his cat came forth like the unfurling of a flag. Only the final sensation of fur emerging through his skin tickled, but a good shake always put him right. That was one of the few blessings that came with being a shape-shifter rather than a werewolf.
All lycanthropes were shape-shifters, but not all shape-shifters were lycanthropes. Acquired Lycanthropy Virus Syndrome was a disease that altered the genetics of the afflicted. People with ALVS lost control over their ability to maintain their inherent species form, particularly during stressful conditions such as rage or the three nights of the full moon.
In spite of the brutality of the manner in which he’d acquired his shifting abilities, Mike appreciated that he had no such tie with the cycles of the moon, and felt no physical discomfort with the change. The Nagual had come to him as two separate spirits. The jaguar was one of them. Unlike the weres, the big cat’s body, mind and thoughts were separate from his own.
The cat stretched fully, and trotted out the door to one of the big pines in the back yard. With his front paws, he reached as high as he could stretch and dug his claws into the rough bark. Clots of bark and dried pitch flew out from the trunk as he drew his claws deep into the tree and scratched deep grooves into the wood. The gouge pattern mirrored the landscape of the Finger Lakes the region; the long narrow glacial lakes that that local legends said were made by the claws of the Great Bear spirit of the Senequois Fae clan.
The sharp tang of fresh evergreen stung the air, dulling the scent of fresh blood and fish scraps wafting out from the garbage can. The jaguar dropped to the ground and rolled in the grass, exorcising the pent-up stress of the day. The cat liked this place, he could tell.
Seeing the world through his beast’s eyes never failed to thrill him. Unlike the weres, he retained complete memory of every moment spent in jaguar form. He didn’t control the big guy’s actions or thinking; it was more like riding shotgun in some armored ATV in the jungle whenever the cat went hunting. He could make general suggestions, but the cat was always in control.
The jaguar’s night vision was every bit as good as human vision, although the cat’s sense of color was more subdued. When the cat was in charge, his color spectrum was limited to greens, blues, purples, and greys. The cat was uncomfortable in open spaces, and would avoid them whenever possible. The concept of terrain was physical texture that only mattered where it touched him. He rubbed against rough pillars of tree trunks and slunk his way through cheek-high grasses as he sought dense shrubs for hiding under.
The cat’s ability to track and scent prey never failed to amaze him, and for such a big animal, he made very little noise. The cat was careful and cautious in the new environment, but there was nothing for him to fear.
The big guy was an ambush hunter. He preferred to wait for his prey to come to him, although he’d surprised and successfully brought down deer and even a bear once. His favored prey was rabbits, turkey, opossums, and if he could find them, turtles, but he wasn’t really picky. If he didn’t make a kill, he went hungry, but that was a rare occurrence. After all the fish Mike had eaten at dinner, the cat wouldn’t be interested in hunting tonight.
After a quick dip in the lake, the cat settled beneath a dogwood tree and began to groom himself. Mike could feel the jaguar’s deep satisfaction and contentment in a way that he’d never experienced before. With the bats calling overhead as they plucked mosquitoes out of the night sky, the enchantment of the lake settled over them.
If only it could stay like this. He’d forgotten how peaceful life was on the lake. If only it was just the cat and me. We could live a pretty good life like this. Things would be different this time. Maybe Tehuantl would succumb to the magic of this place and settle down, too. If he could keep the cat content, there would be no way for the psychotic shaman spirit to manifest. Tehuantl, sacred priest of the ancient Jaguar-people of Central America, was unstoppable once he came out. When Tehuantl came out, people died.
Mike shivered at a phantom memory of the taste of Hector Clemente’s brains. He’d been damn lucky it was a drug dealer and not somebody’s mother, he thought. I was kidding myself, thinking I could keep it a secret. But it was too late now; everyone assumed he had ALVS.
The landmark case of Stubbs versus the State of Tennessee had changed everything. William Stubbs, a US Army veteran, had sued the state of Tennessee for wrongful termination when he was laid off from his job for excessive sick days. He’d claimed the State had discriminated against him due to his ALVS by counting his moon-days as sick days. The State counter-sued, claiming that lycanthropes weren’t human, and therefore not entitled to the same benefits. They pointed to the definiti
on of ‘man’ in the US Constitution, the differences in DNA, the unique blood type, and the fact that transplant organs from lycanthropes were always rejected when used on humans. The State of Tennessee won, and the appeal was upheld by the US Supreme Court. Four short years later, the 28th amendment redefined the term ‘man’ to exclude homo lycanthropus.
Lycans had had their citizenship downgraded to permanent resident status. They’d had their passports revoked, lost the right to vote, put on the no-fly list, and had to have a green card in order to get a job. They had a curfew. Discrimination was rampant; not even contact lenses could hide a 28-inch neck. Mike had been on the force when the amendment passed, and decided to keep his status as a shape-shifter to himself. Even so, the guy from Brothers of the Fang hadn’t believed him when he’d told him he wasn’t a werewolf. He’d hoped to lay low here for a while until things blew over. Until Tom confirmed it, he hadn’t really believed the area had become such a haven for werewolves.
So be it. At least I’ve come to the right place. No more living undercover.
Tom was right. He’d kept the cat caged far too much. Besides, if there were that many wolves running loose down here, why shouldn’t the cat be allowed the same privilege?
As long as the cat was happy, it was the two of them against Tehuantl, and that was all that really mattered. And that meant letting the jaguar out on a regular basis.
The sound of a lone wolf howl echoed across the Tor. The cat paused his grooming to listen, but it was not repeated.
I’m not like them. They can’t control themselves, they’re animals. I don’t have a disease. I’m still human, or at least partly. Clemente had been an aberration; the disastrous result of extraordinary circumstances. If I’d shot him, they’d have given me a medal and I’d still be a damn good cop.
The cat yawned and stretched, then sauntered toward the house. It paused in the sun porch, and Mike mentally nudged at the cat to release him, but the feline resisted, moseying instead past the cage toward the back bedroom. It stopped in the doorway to the master bedroom as Farley whimpered in sleep in the middle of the bed. The cat’s ears pricked forward at the sound.
Too late, Mike realized that this could end very badly. He pushed harder against the cat. The cat knew the drill here; it was just being stubborn. Into the cage, pal.
In a single leap, the jaguar cleared the distance and landed on the bed next to the curled-up canine. The deerhound cracked an eye, but didn’t move. Carefully, the cat settled up against the warm dog and a rumbled purr arose from the deep inside his chest.
Relief flooded through Mike. Well what do you know. He likes dogs.
CHAPTER 4 : BEASTIES TAVERN
Mike drove his truck north along the eastern shore of Canandaigua Lake. Of all the lakes the legendary Great Bear had clawed deep into the earth of central New York, Mike thought Canandaigua was by far the prettiest. Roughly sixteen miles long and more than a mile at its widest point, it was the fourth largest of the Finger Lakes. The area was mostly pristine wilderness; other than a few scattered cottages, beer bars, and bait shops, only the town of Canandaigua, at the north end of the lake hosted a clustered population. His father’s place was located near the southern tip of the lake at the end of a private drive, on the border of the High Tor Wildlife Management Area. Tom Jolley’s Outdoor Outfitters was located on the eastern shoreline some eight miles north.
Located halfway between the cottage and Tom’s bait shop, Beastie’s Tavern squatted like a lone troll by the side of the frontage road. From the outside, Beasties resembled an Olde English Brew Pub, but no one sober would ever mistake the place for being anything else but a dive bar.
The ripe smell of the place greeted him; an odd blend of stale beer, sawdust, corn nuts, and wet dog. Mike stood in the doorway as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Blood-red vinyl barstools and benches stood bolted to the floors. The padded, upholstered walls were stained and patched with layer upon layer of silver duct tape, bearing the unmistakable scars and bites of past battles and celebrations. Behind a partition of sturdy chicken wire, three pool tables lined up, awaiting the crush of rowdy patrons. A half-dozen thick-necked toughs with amber eyes watched him suspiciously over a table strewn with half-empty glasses and a fresh pitcher of beer. The old place had become a werewolf bar.
“Mikey boy. I heard you were back.” His Uncle Taffy smirked and nodded to a corner where Farley lay snoozing on a worn rug.
So that’s where he goes. I should have known. Mike took a seat at the bar. “Taffy, you old fire plug. You haven’t aged a bit.” Taped to the cash register, he recognized a couple of post cards he’d sent from his tours in Venezuela and Costa Rica. From nearly twenty years ago.
“You look like shit. Your skin’s hangin’ on you like an old suit.” Taffy wore his long auburn hair pulled into a tail that flowed bright as brandy down his back.
Mike swallowed his reaction. The reminder of his ordeal at the hands of Hector Clemente brought acid up the back of his throat. It would be weeks yet before his clothes fit properly again. “Good to see you too, you old fart.”
His uncle’s hand gripped his warmly. “Watch your mouth, lad. You’re not too big to spank.”
Mike bared his teeth. “I’d like to see you try.”
Taffy sniffed. “His nibs here has been beside himself. You must be running him ragged. What’ll you have?”
A new start. “Something dark. You still brew that porter?”
“Always.” Taffy opened the tap against a glass and let the thick chocolate-colored brew slowly fill the pint. “Never thought we’d see you back here again.”
Here we go. The old hurts never healed. He should have said good-bye before he enlisted. He should have called. The postcards on the register told him as much. “I couldn’t stand it any more. My mistake cost him everything. I had to go. The Army was my ticket out of here.”
“You were his flesh and blood. He never thought twice about it.”
“I couldn’t stay.” Everyone in town knew that Farley Bane had taken on his son’s punishment for trespassing onto the Tor in human form. “I ruined his life, Taff.”
“Bullshit.” His uncle set the pint of beer in front of him. “When you were wounded in Veracruz, you said you were afraid you’d hurt us if you came home. Staying away hurt us more.”
The blood rose in his face as he stared into Taffy’s reproachful eyes. This is why I didn’t come back. Because the old wounds never heal. Because you never really leave your mistakes behind when you run away. They just wait in the hearts and minds of those you love, to wound you when you’re down and least expect it. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “I already ruined my father’s life. If I’d come home and hurt you or Pops or somebody else, I’d never be able to live with myself.”
“The dog is not the problem, lad.”
Mike rubbed his jaw and looked away. Coming here was a bad idea. His uncle had twenty years of pent-up resentment waiting to be unleashed, and he had nothing but excuses for answers. Seeing the reproach in Taffy’s eyes brought back all the old anguish; the weight of his own guilt. He hated it.
He leaned over the bar, his face hot. “No, the problem is that I’ve been outed in every tabloid imaginable as the frickin’ man-eating werewolf. I’m out of a job and nobody’s going to hire me. There’s no place else to go, Taff. So yeah, I’m back now. You happy? If you’ve got anything else to say about it, you might as well get it off your chest right now.”
Taffy shook his head. “No, no, I think that about covers it. Nice to see they haven’t taken your balls yet.” He grinned and pulled a short pint for himself and raised his glass. “Good to have you back where you belong.”
Mike drank, mirroring Taffy’s action, swallow for swallow. The beer was better than he remembered. He set his glass down and wiped his upper lip. “Love what you’ve done to the place.”
Taffy’s eye’s gleamed with fierce pride. “It’s the only were-bar in the Finger Lakes. I didn’t plan it
this way, but it’s workin’ out just fine. Got a better class of clientele.”
“Any chance I can give you a hand in the kitchen or behind the bar?”
Taffy shook his head. “Not without putting your cousin Sheila out in the street. You’d be better off trying your luck at Mythica.”
Mike searched his memory. “The old Van Cleve estate? I don’t get it.”
“They run a private club up there in the summer.” Taffy’s eye’s drifted over to the toughs, now shooting pool. “Those boys all work over there.”
Mike glanced at them over his shoulder. Something about the were-men rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn’t just their stiff-legged arrogance and posturing that bothered him. There was an aura of aloofness about them that appeared almost tribal in nature; like a clan or a clique. He considered going over to talk to them, but his uncle forestalled him.
“Don’t bother; they’re just grunts. Stick around. Rafe will be in later, I’ll introduce you.”
In the corner, Farley woke up and stretched. His jaws widened into a smile when he saw Mike, and he ambled over to curl up at the foot of his barstool.
* * *
Several hours later, the bar was packed; the lively beat of an old Stray Cats tune harmonized well with the sounds of pinball machines and the crack of billiards. The patrons were mostly were-men, but a there were more than a few non-weres, as well. Hard-looking women laughed loudly as they vied for attention. Wolf-girls, they were called; werewolf groupies attracted to the allure of the ultimate bad-boy. At the bar, three or four old-timers, loyal locals from the old days, hunched gloomily over their beers.
Taffy sent Sheila over with a huge bowl of steaming beef stew with carrots and peas and barley and a hunk of homemade soda bread. He ate it like a starving man, even wiping the bowl clean with the heel of bread.
