by Willa Okati
Chance protested wordlessly, his strength surprising as he pulled away from Allen. Allen wouldn’t take no for an answer, though, and kept on yanking, um, doggedly. “Chance, come,” he ordered. “Get back over here. I still have my cell phone in my pocket; that is, if it survived the fire. We’ll call 9-1-1.”
“You won’t get a signal out here. And it wouldn’t make a difference anyway.” Chance giggled a little crazily. “They’re out there, and they’re coming. I know it.”
Visions of Deliverance flitted through Allen’s mind. “Your, er, brothers, you mean? Those guys who called themselves pack? Like the Rat Pack? What are they, gang boys? What kind of mess are you dealing with?”
“Nothing I got into by choice.” Chance shook his head. “I don’t have time to explain it right now. I’m sorry.”
Allen cursed himself for not thinking things through before he’d gotten involved in this whole crazy night. “This has happened to you before. What the fuck do you do when this kind of thing starts up?”
Chance’s voice shook as he answered. “Usually? Run. But not with you or Spot to protect. This is my space. I’ve marked it and everything. They’re breaking the rules to come in like this. But they don’t care about rules, except the ones they like.”
“Chance, I do know a good lawyer if you’re in trouble,” Allen began, thinking of Simon. The man had been acting kind of mopey lately. Maybe a good case would a) help him shake off the doldrums and b) get Chance’s ass out of the frying pan. “We can make a break for my car and I’ll drive you back into the city. Put you up for the night. There’s no reason to stay here waiting for something big and bad to come rushing in.”
“Every reason.” Chance swallowed, the gulp audible to Allen, who winced in dry-throated sympathy. “If we go outside, we don’t even have the protection of these four walls. And I’m not sure whether they’ll come inside.”
A roll of laughter sounded from the heart of the fog. A deep, nasty, sniggering sound.
“But then again, they might,” Allen said, voice clipped, feeling his lips thin out over his teeth. “I say we should run.”
Chance trembled just as Spot had. “We can’t,” he said in seeming desperation. “They’ll just follow us. And they’re faster on four feet than we’d be on wheels in this pea soup.”
“Four feet?” Allen’s eyebrow lifted. Chance had already moved on from trembling to shaking hard, though, and his darn protective instincts kicked in once again. Allen sighed, dropped the question and gathered Chance into his arms, stroking down the younger man’s bare back. “Stop it now, stop it,” he chided gently. “So we’re stuck in a cabin with some possibly armed crazies outside. It could be worse. Granted, it couldn’t be much worse, but...”
The sound of a gun cocking snapped through the air.
“I had to say it,” Allen mumbled. “Get down!” He threw his weight forward against Chance, taking him down to the charred floor just before a shot rang through the window and shattered still more glass. Allen swore as a few shards found a new home in his back, but Chance was okay. That was what mattered.
Still, now they’d pissed Allen off. “Gun,” he said firmly, grasping Chance’s chin and refusing to let him look away. “Please tell me that at least you have some kind of firearm around here.”
Chance looked guilty. “Don’t tell them. I’m not supposed to.”
“I won’t say a word. I’ll let my friend Mr. Ballistics say it all for me. Hey, hey.” He gave Chance’s chin a light shake. “How will they know I didn’t bring it with me?”
“The smell...”
“Screw the smell. Just tell me where it is.”
Chance looked pale, but nodded. “Under my bed. I’m supposed to hunt with them, but I don’t use it for actual hunting, I mean, I don’t think it’s ever been fired, but it’s under my bed and, oh, God, you’re going to shoot them, aren’t you?” He shook hard. “Allen, they’ll kill you.”
“They can try,” Allen said grimly. He rolled off Chance and crawled hastily to the bed, avoiding the glass bits, and reached underneath. To his pleasure, he got lucky on his first rapid sweep; his hand closed on the stock of a revolver. It’d been so long since he’d been out to a shooting range that he didn’t recognize the make or model, but at least he knew how to check for ammo and remembered how to squeeze the trigger, so he was still in the game. “You keep this thing loaded?” he queried, incredulous. “Chance, that’s just asking for trouble.”
“I’m asking for trouble if I don’t keep it loaded. Allen, please watch yourself here. I don’t know what they’ll try with an outsider.”
“We’re about to find out.” Standing back up, gun in hand, Allen stomped carefully to the side of the window and fired off a warning shot before ducking back against the wall for cover. “Do you feel lucky, punks?” he shouted into the night in his best Dirty Harry imitation. “Well? Do you?”
A wave of angry grumbling answered him. Apparently they didn’t appreciate his humor. Allen aimed the gun out what was left of the window. “Next one doesn’t go over your heads,” he warned loudly. Then, quieter, “Chance, do you have more bullets for this?”
Chance nodded. “I’ll get them.” He crawled away, obedient again as if they were still playing their games -- although the way he moved, quick and silent, proved he was taking this seriously.
The rumbling outside settled down to a low hum. Allen settled into place with some cover but still managed to get a decent view. He put his finger on the trigger. These bastards might think they had Chance completely cowed, but one indignant vet -- an outsider, like Chance said -- might make them think twice.
“Send out the runt,” a voice called. It sounded suspiciously like Buzz-cut from the parking lot at the vet’s office. “We won’t hurt him. Honest.”
Allen snorted. “Yeah. That’s convincing.” He aimed and fired the revolver into the fog. A startled yelp followed the painfully loud blast. Allen rubbed his ears as the animal noise faded into a human’s blue-tinted chorus of rough yelling. “Anyone else feel like a taste of this?”
Something tugged at the remains of Allen’s pants. He glanced down to see Chance holding up a box of bullets. “Thanks,” Allen whispered. “Hang on to those until I give the word.”
Chance nodded, his blue eyes full of unwavering faith.
No pressure, Allen griped to himself. He steadied his gun and began to speak, raising his voice to the greatest possible volume. “No one’s sending anybody to you. Who the hell is out there?”
More grumbling. “We’re his family,” protested someone who sounded like Scraggly. “We just want to talk with him.”
Allen shot again just for shits and giggles. “Family doesn’t throw a Molotov cocktail through each other’s windows. Try again.”
“Send out the runt!” Buzz-cut demanded again. “Damn faggot. And you, too. You both have a good fuck tonight?”
“Not that it’s any of your business but, hell, yes.” Allen sighted down the barrel, trying to pinpoint the source of Buzz-cut’s voice. “Chance is better than any of you put together, not that I’d touch your nasty asses with a ten-foot pole. Bullets, though, I can hook you up with those.”
Chance tugged at him, quick and anxious. “Allen,” he whispered.
Allen glanced down. “What?”
Chance tackled his ankles. “Get down!”
A second blast of gunshot roared through the window, smashing still more glass.
Okay. Now he was really teed off. Allen rose from the ground a little clumsily, but the way he fired off his remaining bullets? Pure poetry in motion. He heard both Buzz-cut and Scraggly yelling in pain. Bullseyes, he thought with a dash of dark humor. Grabbing the box of shells, he started to reload. “Get the hell out of here. I hit you once. I can do it again.”
The rumbling noise increased, rising and falling like ocean waves. At this point, Allen would realize later, he made his big mistake of moving a couple of steps to the side as he reloaded. The zinging noise of
a third shot, directly through the hole caused by the firebomb, didn’t register until his arm jerked back and he let out a startled yell. When he looked at his arm, he saw blood blossoming red and sticky from a flesh wound.
The veterinarian in Allen immediately began to assess the damage. The stunned man stared in dumb disbelief.
Chance, however... He went absolutely ape-shit.
Rising from the floor in one smooth motion, Chance tore the revolver from Allen’s hands, wrestled the barrel back into place, and started firing like Dirty Harry. He barely paused to reload. “My mate! Mine!” he yelled like a man possessed, shouting it over and over again between blasts. “Get back!”
Yelps and yowls sounded from what Allen was beginning to suspect was just the two folks out for more of the blood they’d already spilled. He applied pressure to his wound, which was bleeding like a sonofabitch, and watched stupidly as Chance continued to go nuts in front of his eyes.
And speaking of eyes...
Allen jerked back with a startled sound as he looked at Chance’s face. Those baby blues had changed from the color of a summer sky to a deep golden green, the iris covering the whites.
“Fuck off!” Chance shouted, the sound more like a howl. “Mine!”
“Aw, lookit the kiddie fight,” a voice jeered in between rounds. “Think you can hit me?”
Chance fired off a shot. “Yeah,” he answered grimly when the man’s taunting changed to a scream. “I do.”
“Fuck this,” Buzz-cut said. He sounded a little shaky despite his bravado. “We’ll come back tomorrow. The runt better be alone. We’ll take care of him then.”
“And his little dog, too?” Allen mocked. “Get out of here. Get!”
“The hell with you,” Buzz-cut snarled, but that was the last of it. Feet scuffled on hard-packed earth, the sounds of men moving in a hurry, an indignant if prideful retreat. There were dragging noises, as if they hauled damaged limbs along with them. Pained sounds.
And then... silence.
Allen put a hand on Chance’s shoulder, then jerked back with his hands up as his lover rounded fiercely on him. The younger man’s eyes were still a freaky shade of green and gold mixed together, and his lips were pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. “What?”
“Chance!” Allen said, thinking fast. “It’s just me, Allen! Put the gun down. They’re gone.”
Chance shook his head, then blinked. His eyes bled back to clear, crystal blue. “Allen?” He shivered as adrenaline must have started its fade into ball-numbing terror. “Oh, God. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not a big wound.” Allen stared at Chance’s face, deep thoughts running through his mind at lightning pace. After a few seconds, though, he tossed them aside to be sorted through later. “You think we can get out of here now?”
“Yeah.” Chance laughed shakily. He set the gun down carefully. “I think that might be a good idea. If it was just me, it wouldn’t matter how far I ran. But I have you, and you have a car. Let’s go.”
“If they didn’t shoot out the tires,” Allen grumbled. “We’re not taking any chances, though. I’ll find some kind of leash for Spot, and you get dressed real quick, huh?” He shook his head at the sight of Chance wearing nothing but some gunpowder and the skin he was born in. “Hurry up.”
“There’s a spare leash in his box.” Chance pointed. “By the wall, near the door.”
“Let’s go to it, then.”
While Allen searched among the rawhide toys and bags of treats for the leash, and then coaxed Spot out from the corner he’d buried himself in, Chance ran to the wall with clothing hanging on its nails. He tried a T-shirt first, then tossed it aside when his hands didn’t seem to work right. Next up was a faded blue flannel bathrobe, which he knotted around his waist.
“Oh, that’s inconspicuous.” Allen sighed. “I’m not complaining, though. Let’s go. And you hang on to my hand when we go through that damn maze, you hear? I’m not losing track of you now.”
“No way.” Chance sounded fierce, then worried. “Allen... you’re not upset? I mean, about the fight and...” He waved his fingers at his face. “You’re not scared?”
“Didn’t say that, but there’s a time and place for everything. Right now, my money’s on getting out of Dodge. Will they be waiting for us?”
Chance tilted his head and inhaled deeply, for all the world like a dog -- or wolf -- scenting the air. After a moment, he shook it. “I don’t think anyone’s outside. I can’t hear them or smell them.”
“We are going to have a talk, mind you.” Allen held out one hand. “You say they’re gone; I trust you that they are. We hit that door running, we get through that damn labyrinth, and we don’t look back, understand?”
Chance took Allen’s hand and nodded. “I’m with you.” He made it sound like more than a simple promise. “Let’s go.”
Allen pointed them toward the door. “One -- two -- three -- run like fuck!”
They ran, Spot barking all the way.
Chapter Eight
“Well, this is it,” Allen said unnecessarily as he dug in his charred pocket for the keys to his apartment. He glanced at Chance, who looked like he was freezing to death in the thin robe, and sighed. There were just a world of questions humming in his thoughts, but where did he even choose a place to start?
Chance, are you a werewolf? Oh, yeah. That’d be a great opener. Allen wondered, not for the first time that night, if he were going crazy. Still, he hadn’t been drunk or high on anything, and he’d seen what he’d seen. Didn’t mean it made any kind of sense to him, though.
Another sigh. Conversations about life, the universe, and everything were best left for another time. He’d better get Chance inside before some nosy neighbor peeked their head out of a door. Allen slid his key into the lock and listened to the tumblers turn over. He pushed the entrance open.
“Come in, Chance,” he said, just in case werewo -- er, okay, maybe it was like vampires -- oh, no, because of the not-dead thing... oh, hell. “Go on inside, now.”
Chance gave him a quick hunted look, like a dog who knew it was about to get paddled with a newspaper, and hustled in with Spot on his heels. The dog at least had some spring to his step, pausing to lick Allen’s hand and get it all slobbery before he pranced indoors.
Allen hoped to God that Spot would keep quiet; leave it to him to pick an apartment building that didn’t allow pets. Wasn’t his first choice, being a veterinarian and all, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and this was the place that had the most space for his books, plus a home office for writing his column in.
At least he could have fish.
Stepping into the foyer, he glanced into the small cube he called a den and saw Chance gazing at the ten-gallon aquarium with something akin to awe. Allen’s single Betta fish swam around and around in circles, looking downright perky. Spot’s attention was riveted on the other aquarium filled with African dwarf frogs, tiny quarter-sized things that bounced up and down their little rocks and into the shallow water.
Allen couldn’t help a small chuckle at he watched the two. No pets, huh? What about possible boyfriends who could be...
He steered himself away from the thought, still not quite ready to contemplate what might be his new reality. Instead, he focused on the good things. How they’d managed to navigate the labyrinth with no problems; Allen had a nasty suspicion about the thing being there to keep Chance even more isolated from the world and at far greater risk to himself. No hassling from the gun-toting peanut gallery. The way the unnatural-seeming fog had lifted on their way back home until, by the time they reached Charleston proper, they were driving on clear streets.
How Chance had kissed him when he finally believed they were safe. Allen had nearly run off the road but, in retrospect, a kiss like that one -- sweet, hot, and full of excitement -- might have been worth a little fender-bender, even in his beloved classic car.
Yeah... there were things to be grateful for. Allen tossed his keys
onto a side table and crossed his arms over his bare chest. The small brown-and-white room with its sparse furnishings of a plain dun futon and a nondescript beanbag looked much more like a home with someone else in them.
With Chance there.
Grinning to himself, Allen slipped up behind Chance and wrapped his arms around the young man, pressing his stomach to Chance’s back. “Hey, there,” he whispered in Chance’s ear.
Chance turned his head so that those amazing blue eyes -- yep, still blue -- were gazing up into Allen’s. “I heard you, you know,” he said in a soft voice. “You can’t sneak up on me.”
“So I can’t ever surprise you with breakfast in bed.” Allen rocked them back and forth. “Doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy trying.”
Chance’s expression turned troubled. “Am I going to be around that long? Allen, you shouldn’t ever have found out. They’ll be back, and maybe they won’t run away this time.”
Okay, so it looked like the time for discussions was coming sooner rather than later. Allen turned Chance around so that they were chest to chest. Dozens of ideas flashed through Allen’s mind as possible conversation starters, but after sorting through the lot he discarded them.
“It doesn’t matter,” Allen said simply. “Not right now. You are what you are, and I don’t care what that might happen to be. It’ll take me some time to get over what went down tonight. No getting past that. But a mild case of the creeps about what I saw won’t keep me from being at your side.” Allen paused, frowning. “Unless you actually stop and think about how I’m too old for you.”
“Would you stop saying that?” Chance pushed at Allen. “You’re not too old. Have you ever stopped to consider that I might like a guy with some experience?” He folded his arms over that ridiculous bathrobe, still managing to look tasty enough to eat while being wholly indignant. “The guys my age -- they’re all, wham, bam, see you later, when they don’t really mean a word they say.”
