by Sharon Joss
There was a flicker of motion to his right, and Mike caught a glimpse of Rafe and Silas in the doorway. Both of them stared at him with shocked expressions. The pressure to kneel increased. Instinctively, he knew that walking away was not an option. He clenched his fists. I’m not backing down to a goddam wolf pup.
Impulsively, he grabbed the bigger man by the neck, just under the jaw. He stepped into Trick, squeezing upward on the pressure points of the were’s massive neck. The lycan grabbed him by the wrist, and he squeezed harder. The helpless were-man froze and the pressure around them evaporated.
He could feel Trick’s panicked pulse beneath his fingers. He kept his voice low. “The thumb is an amazing appendage, isn’t it? In the right situation, sometimes a little thumb pressure in the right place is all that’s needed. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Trick’s throat convulsed with a soundless swallow.
With minimal pressure, he pulled the taller man’s head down to whisper into his ear. “I’ll bet you feel pretty stupid right now. You’ve pissed off a guy who’s had a really bad fucking day, and I reacted without thinking. And now we have a situation where neither one of us can reasonably back down. Entirely my fault. I can tell you didn’t mean it, am I right? Blink twice for yes, once for no.”
Trick blinked several times in frantic succession.
“So in order for both of us save face here, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to laugh and let you go, and you’re going to laugh even louder, like I just said the funniest thing you ever heard. Then you’re going to go back to your table, and I’m going to finish my beer and leave.” He snatched the rolled up newspaper out of the other man’s hand. “And before you answer, consider this. I’ve already ripped the head off of one werewolf today; one more isn’t going to matter to me one way or another. Do we have an understanding?”
Two careful blinks.
Mike could feel the cat’s humor bubbling up inside him. He threw his head back and laughed as he released his grip on Trick.
The other man gasped for breath, then tagged him with a semi-serious thump to the chest before swaggering over to join his buddies at the table. Angry red welts striped his neck where Mike had grabbed him.
Sore loser. Mike wanted to rub his chest, but thought better of it. It hurt, but the last thing he was going to do was give that bottom-feeder the satisfaction. Somebody dropped a token into the jukebox, and the moment passed. He took a seat at the bar next to Silas. Taffy came over and put a fresh pint in front of each of them, then wordlessly followed Rafe through the kitchen door into the back.
“Nice job.” Silas jerked his head toward Trick and his pals. “That Trick is too powerful for his own good. One of these days that hot temper of his is going to land him in real trouble.”
Mike bit his lips shut. The pressure of the day was getting to him. He wanted to hit something. He stared at the empty rug one last time, then downed half the pint in front of him in a single long swallow.
“You ought to come work for us. We could use a cool head like yours.”
His eyes strayed to the vacant rug in corner. Maybe Farley was at home. If he left now, he’d have to concede the bar to Trick and his pals. Five more minutes. “How the hell can you stand to let those vampires feed on you?”
Silas shook his head. “Man you don’t know anything. They don’t feed on us. They can’t. Vamps can’t digest ALVS-infected blood properly. That’s what blood stewards are for. It’s one of the reasons weres and vamps work well together. We look out for each other.”
The realization hit him hard. His lip curled in disgust. “That’s why Rafe comes here, isn’t it. Taffy’s just another blood meal to him. Fae blood is like shark chum for vampires, right?”
Silas frowned. “It’s not like that. Rafe doesn’t use blood stewards. He doesn’t have to. He’s just doing this as favor to help Taffy.”
“A favor!” Heat rushed into his face. This was too much. It was time to go. Not trusting himself to speak, he pushed himself away from the bar. A soothing coolness flowed over him, stopping him cold.
Silas put a placating hand on his shoulder. “Hold on a minute, would you?”
Standing there in a werewolf dive bar suddenly felt like the most Zen-like place on the planet. How the hell did werewolves do that?
“Let me tell you a couple things about blood stewards. They all have their own reasons for wanting to be bound to a vampire, and by law, blood stewards have to volunteer and sign a contract. If you have a problem with Taffy, take it up with Taffy. As vampires go, the ones at Mythica aren’t much different than we are.”
Mike gave him a look. “They’re dead.”
“They pay me to protect them,” Silas countered. “Good money.”
“Nobody in their right mind would work for a vampire.” It came out harsher than he intended, but Silas didn’t seem to take offense.
“Hey, Rafe is a good guy. I don’t have to tell you this, you know it. Everybody does.”
He had to admit it. There was something sort of likable about Rafe’s obvious phoniness. It worked for him. He had utter confidence that he was this really cool guy, and in a way, he sort of was. He wondered what Rafe had been like when he was alive. He shrugged reluctantly, his anger evaporated. “He’s an Elvis man. It goes without saying.”
Silas nodded at the paper lying on the bar. “I heard what happened.”
He drained his beer. “Everybody did, apparently.”
“You alright?”
Mike bit back a retort. Silas hadn’t done anything to deserve it. Any other night, he might have been tempted to stay and hoist a few; something he never would have considered in Queens. “I’ll live. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for my dog.”
CHAPTER 11 : AMBROSE
Ambrose Van Cleve sat at a card table in the warming room and considered the puzzle piece in his hand for a moment. He smiled has he placed it correctly into its proper position. The puzzle was a new one; a two thousand piece landscape of the tulips and windmills of his homeland.
The warming room was the place they gathered after waking every evening. The furniture was worn but comfortable, and there was a microwave in the kitchenette for warming up the bags of donor blood. After the initial feed of the evening, Ambrose usually lingered, taking his ease in this snug room before heading upstairs to the demands of the noisy hubbub of the park.
Tonight, however the tension in this room distracted him from the puzzle. Cobb and Vince were at odds again. Ambrose hated to go against his Alpha werewolf, Vince, but Cobb was his first-made son. Family interests had to come first.
“You already agreed we need more pack members, Vince.” Cobb waved the front page of the newspaper in front of Vince’s face. “What’s wrong with this guy?”
Vince smirked and slapped it away. “The guy’s a were-cat. You can’t bring a cat into a pack of wolves. It’s all wrong.”
“I don’t see the problem,” Ambrose said.
“At the heart of any functional pack is group of hunters working cooperatively for a common goal; ultimately the good of the pack and the protection of the territory. Cats don’t think like wolves, they don’t hunt like wolves. I won’t have it.”
“A were is a were, Vince.” Cobb smoothed the newspaper across the coffee table. “Don’t be so quick to turn your nose up at this guy. He’d be a great addition to your little team.”
Ambrose pressed his lips together. As often as he had warned Cobb against it, his eldest enjoyed baiting Vince. He gazed at Cobb over the top of his reading glasses. “Cobb, I daresay our Alpha wolf knows more about running a wolf pack than we do.”
“Thank you, Ambrose,” Vince said. “For werewolves, hunting is what drives us. Hunting as a pack builds the bonds of interdependence and trust between us. Cats don’t do that. We hunt cooperatively by trailing our prey to the point of fatigue. Cats can’t do that. Our physiology allows us to keep pace with our intended victim over long distances. We can keep it up for
days. Cats won’t do that. Pack membership is cemented through the ritual of the hunt. The pack will never accept any member who cannot hunt with the pack. Cats are loners. The pack bond is communal; it’s everything.”
“Okay, so make him a lone wolf,” Cobb countered. “Loners don’t hunt with the pack.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Vince’s normally impassive face. “Lone wolf status is a reserved courtesy for friends and family. We don’t know anything about this guy. Let me do my job, Ambrose. You put me in charge of security for a reason. I can’t let a guy like this onto the estate.”
“You didn’t even read this,” Cobb argued. “Says right here he was Army Special Forces. Two tours of duty in the drug wars in South America. Decorated twice for valor. He’s an ex-cop. Hell, you should love this guy.”
Ambrose interrupted before Vince could explode. “That’s enough Cobb. Calm down, Vince. He’s right. I had Felix check out our Mr. Bane. He’s got everything you always look for in an officer, and he’s discreet. As an undercover narcotics officer, he kept his condition hidden from NYPD for years.”
“You’re always yammering about control, Vince.” Cobb tapped the paper in front of him. “This guy has it in spades.”
“Cobb.” Ambrose regretted the irritation in his voice. That vamp could try the patience of a saint. “The point is, Vince, we’re still a little short of wolves around here, and Rafe isn’t happy with Trick. What about the female?”
Vince shook his head. “Absolutely not. Yolanda is hasn’t decided to join the pack yet. I’ll raise Silas to Beta status. He and Rafe get along great, and Silas has the maturity and experience to merit the Beta position. It’ll be good for the pack.”
An icy chill washed over Ambrose. Over my dead body. No matter how much Vince favored him, he could never allow the Mythica pack to be led by a blackie. Not as an Alpha, not as a Beta. He pushed himself away from the puzzle and took off his glasses.
“You know how I feel about that one. We’ve been through this before; I am not going to change my mind. The topic is not open for discussion.” After living with slaves for three hundred years, one didn’t change one’s opinions of them after a few decades of emancipation. “Trick will be named as Beta.”
Vince held himself rigidly. “We’ve been over this already, Ambrose. Trick lacks experience. He’s still too much of a hothead.”
“Give Trick to me,” Cobb said. “Tryffin doesn’t need a personal bodyguard anyway.”
“Shut it, Cobb. I won’t say it again.” Ambrose sighed. “I grow tired of your protests, Vince. The summit is coming up in a few weeks and we’re running out of time. We need the pack at double capacity if we’re going to make the case for Cobb to get his own territory. We do not have the luxury of turning our collective noses up at such an obvious asset.”
“It’s my pack. My decision.”
Yes, but Mythica belongs to me, my pet. “Of course it is. I know you don’t like me interfering, but I’m just trying to help. It’s settled then. Mr. Bane will come onboard as a lone wolf for Rafe.”
Vince stood stiffly. “As you say. Just for the record, I don’t think this is a good idea. The pack will never accept him. Rafe is your partner, Ambrose. He’s never had anything less than a Beta for his bodyguard. He’ll never accept a low-ranking loner like Bane.”
Ambrose smiled and placed another puzzle piece into position. “He already has.
CHAPTER 12 : TO BE OR NOT TO BE
The warm touch of a woman’s hand on his arm brought Mike back from a light doze. Dr. Sarah Power’s face hovered uncomfortably close, her extraordinary blue-green eyes inches from his own. The bones in her hand seemed as fragile as a bird’s. Embarrassed, he pulled away, relieved to see he was still in human form.
He’d let the cat out last night, hoping the feline’s superior senses could find the mutt, or at least figure out where he’d gone. But the jaguar hadn’t gotten the message, and had been delighted at the prospect of being out on the Tor. In spite of his entreaties to search for Farley, the jaguar spent half the night scent-marking new territory. Then he’d found a vantage point near a deer trail where he’d settled and refused to budge. After two hours of waiting, he finally ambushed an unwary boar raccoon, which he devoured with all the gusto of a gourmand for French cuisine.
After another lengthy grooming session during which Mike’s anxiety reached a fever pitch, the cat had finally sauntered home near dawn. The cat was miffed at Farley’s absence, but they were both exhausted and fell asleep quickly. The alarm clock went off an hour later. He’d stayed awake in the visitor room through the surgery, but must have dropped off.
“I told the nurse I’d come get you,” Dr. Powers said. “Tom is awake. He’s asking for you.”
“Thanks, um.” Mike scrambled to his feet. She’d dropped by the waiting room several times throughout the day, and had been there when Dr. Singh had come out after the operation to say that the surgery had gone well. Mike had tried to brush off her attempts at chattiness, but she seemed determined to offer moral support, despite his protestations that he didn’t need any company. She even brought him a sandwich from the cafeteria, which made him feel guilty for being rude. But her nearness bothered him more.
“Please call me Sarah,” she’d told him. “We’re going to become very good friends, I’m certain.”
But he couldn’t do it. Sarah was far too tender a name to say out loud. He realized he was comparing her to prey, and was appalled.
The Intensive Care nurse told him Dr. Singh would be stopping by to talk to him, and cautioned Mike not to stay too long or over-stimulate the patient. She told him Tom would not be able to speak, but could communicate by writing on a notepad.
He swallowed an involuntary moan when he saw Tom’s bruised and purpled face. Both eyes were blackened and Frankenstein stitches stretched across his nose. His throat and one shoulder were swathed in bandages, and a breathing tube was in place. An intravenous drip was attached to one arm.
“Hey Pops.” He pulled the nearby chair closer, so that Tom needn’t try to turn his head. “They said you’re doing fine. I’m so sorry.” He lowered his head and kissed the older man’s too-cool hand. He smelled faded and weak. That scared him more than anything. “Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?”
Tom’s eyes smiled back at him, and he motioned to the pencil and pad on the nightstand. Mike handed it to him and Tom scribbled a short question. “AM I WOLF?”
Oh jeeze. “They aren’t sure yet. It’s too soon to tell. Try not to worry.”
Tom scratched out another question. “SHOP?”
“Locked up tight. The front window was broken, but I got the glazier to come right away. There’s a brand-new front window there now.” He gave Tom a brief rundown of everything that happened, telling him not to believe anything written in the papers. He didn’t want him to worry.
“FARLEY?”
He rubbed his jaw uncomfortably. “Oh, he’s fine,” he answered, with a confidence he didn’t feel. “He’s probably out on the Tor right now. I expect him back tonight.” Tom shrugged, as if to indicate it wasn’t the first time the mutt hadn’t come home.
“NO INSRNCE!” Tom stabbed at the notepad, breaking the pencil point.
Mike sighed. “It’ll be okay. I put up the cottage as collateral. I’ll take care of everything. The only thing you need to do is rest and get better.”
Tom shook his head and struggled to sit up.
“No, wait. Relax! What is it? Here. Write it here.” He held the notepad at a better angle for Tom. This time the message was longer.
“CAN’T SELL - TOR LAND - BLNGS 2 FAE!!!”
Tom’s face reddened; his eyes looked bright with worry.
Oh, right. The land was a special easement within the Tor; granted as a wedding gift to his parents. He was making a complete mess of everything. It broke his heart to see the man who’d raised him so upset. “I’m so sorry, Pops. Try not to worry.” He remembered the offer from Sila
s. “I might have a line on a job over at Mythica.”
Tom slapped him with the notepad, making his disapproval clear. The nurse came in, and seeing her patient’s distress, told Mike to get out. He protested, but she wouldn’t hear it.
Feeling as if his head was about to explode, he ran into Dr. Singh at the nurse’s station. The surgeon informed him that the operation had gone smoothly, and that Tom was doing better than expected.
“So does the have the virus or not?”
Singh made a face and shook his head. “He’s done very well, but not beyond the capabilities of what can be explained by a normal healing process. He still has a slight fever, which indicates that infection is still present. It’s still too early to say.”
“Well, when can he come home?”
“Not for another four or five days, at least. Of course, it all depends on him. We won’t keep him any longer than necessary.”
“For his sake, I hope he doesn’t heal too fast.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Bane.”
* * *
Mike arrived at Beasties a little after midnight, and updated Taffy on Tom’s condition. The bar was nearly empty, and Taffy had sent Sheila home for the night, so he helped his uncle clean the place.
“Silas offered me a job at Mythica.” He watched Taffy for his reaction, but the barman merely nodded. The silence stretched between them.
There was no polite way to say it. “I know you’re Rafe’s blood steward.”
Taffy glared at him. “He tell you that?”
“No, I figured it out on my own.”
Taffy attacked one of the tables with a wet bar towel, rubbing the surface with a lot more vigor than it needed. “You always were a clever lad. No doubt you want to offer your condolences. Well don’t bother. I don’t want your sympathy.”
“Sympathy? How could you let him do that to you? Doesn’t it bother you that he’s feeding off you like some leech?”
