Werewolf Sings the Blues

by Jennifer Harlow

  I take this chance to study his peaceful face. I’ve tried a few times when he was awake, but he’d notice and turn to glare at me. Don’t think he likes to be looked at. No clue why. He’s fucking gorgeous, especially asleep. Gone is the off-putting menace and thorniness that he always seems to exude, on purpose or not. His lips are a lot fuller than I thought. Pinker too, like the color you’d paint a room when you found out you were having a girl. He has long blonde lashes too. I’m jealous of that front. Add that to the muscles, thick hair, and cutting cheekbones—he’s a babe. I’ll bet he’s fierce in bed too. As take charge and masculine as he was last night when he was fighting for my life. I do like it a little rough sometimes. And we do have days and days of dull driving all alone together. A quickie or two would break the monotony. Not to mention he did save my life and everything. Can’t think of a better way to thank him. I smile at the mere thought of those lips on mine, him stretching me apart as I writhe against him. Damn, I’m wet already. It’s decided then. Before we reach Maryland, I’m gonna ride that man like a rollercoaster.

  The question though is how best to go about seducing him. I wonder what his type is. Flighty and sweet? Damsel in distress? Strong and take charge? Of course he could be gay. Or married. Hell, come to think of it, I don’t know a fucking fact about him. Not even his last name. Not that I get the last names of a lot of the men I sleep with, but still. Might help to know these things for the seduction, if not just in general. The more I know the better I’ll be able to play him in any given situation. You can’t adapt if you don’t know the environment.

  As I’m culling together an interrogation list, his cell phone rings. All that survived our great escape was what he had on him: wallet, cell phone, and Glock with an extra clip. Blondie stirs and opens his eyes on the third ring.

  “Hello?” he croaks before listening to the person on the other end. “Hey, Tate, what’s going on? Is everything alright?” He listens. “Thanks. Appreciate it. It’s good to hear your voice too. How are things there?” Silence as he listens for a full minute. “No, you, Adam, and whoever can stay at my place as long as you need. Sounds cramped at the main house.” More silence. “Yeah, ran into some trouble. No question.” He’s quiet, then glances at me. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” I believe my ears are burning. “Yeah.” He listens. “Don’t know. Think we’re still in Utah on 15 going to 80?” He glances at me, and I nod. “Yeah, probably two days if we don’t stop.” Silence, then he glances at me again. It could be the setting sun, but I do believe his cheeks are turning as pink as his lips. “That is not going to happen.” His mouth sets vice tight. “I’m not you.” Quiet. “I’m hanging up now if—” Silence for a few seconds. “That may be required. Thank you for the offer. I have to go. Talk to you later. Bye.” He ends the call.

  “Your boyfriend okay?” I ask.

  “M-My what?”

  “Boyfriend. Call sounded a little naughty is all. I mean, no judgment here. I live in Southern California, I know more gay people than straight.”

  “I’m not gay,” Jason says, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “Tate is my friend.”

  “Oh. My mistake.” One question ticked off. “So, what’s going on in war-torn Maryland?”

  “Lockdown. The majority of the pack who live within a hundred miles have reached the compound. Families are still arriving though. It’s chaos. They’re having to set up tents outside, RVs on the lawn. Over forty men, women, and children in a house with ten bedrooms.”

  “How many werewolves does my fa—Frank have?”

  “We’re thirty-two strong, spread from Maine to Florida. The Eastern Pack is responsible for all werewolf activity from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic.”

  “And only thirty?”

  “There’s an estimated hundred fifty werewolves in America. Not all are pack because they haven’t made themselves known or did not want to join.”

  “Only a hundred fifty in all of America?”

  “We were once much more, thousands even, but the hunters and witch finders brought us close to extinction. Like the true witches, our ancestors fled to the wilds of Russia, Canada, and the United States, and built from there.”

  “How did you become one? Is it like the movies? Do you have to be bitten?”

  “No, my father was a werewolf. You are either born one or the curse can be transmitted through fluid exchange while in wolf form, when there is a higher concentration of the magic and virus. Most who are attacked fail to survive, and those who do often take their own lives after their first change.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It is difficult to control the beast, even with years of experience. More often than not they don’t know what they’ve become and fail to take the proper precautions. A loved one often dies.”

  “Jesus. That’s terrible.” It is. This werewolf thing sure does sound God-awful. Good thing I only want a one-night stand, not a relationship with one. I pause. “So, your children are werewolves?”

  “If I ever have any, yes. The first change occurs during puberty.”

  No kids. Check. “And the full moon? Silver bullets? It’s all true?”

  “Yes. With practice some can call their beast at will, no matter the phase of the moon, but during the full moon the magic overtakes us, and the change must come. Silver burns and makes it difficult to heal, so we bleed out. Normally we heal ten times faster than humans, we’re immune to most diseases, and we’re five times stronger than you. Our senses are more acute as well, along with our reflexes.”

  “You are the Incredible Hulk,” I say with a smirk.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.” I drop the smile. “So, what do you do when you’re not doing Frank’s bidding? Have a job? A girlfriend? Wife? Hobbies?”

  “No girlfriend or wife.” Double check. Rollercoaster is a go. “My friend Adam and I own a contracting company with a few other wolves. We do home improvement, construction, things like that.”

  “Hobbies?” I prompt.

  “Woodworking. I construct beds, chairs, even a boat once.”

  “Cool. I love men who work with their hands. It’s so … rugged.”

  He glances at me with confusion. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “One I am sure you excel at.”

  His eyes narrow. “What makes you say that? There’s no basis for that statement.”

  “Um …” I have no clue what to say. “I don’t know. You seem like someone who’s good at whatever he sets his mind to. I’ll bet when we get to Maryland, I’ll be proven right.” I glance over at him. His eyes have returned to normal. Guess he buys this. I’ve got him talking now, don’t want to lose the momentum. “Do you have any brothers or sisters or anything?”

  Those eyes become pinpoints again, aimed at me. Now what? “Why do you ask? Why are you asking so many questions? Why do you care?”

  I do a literal double take at his vehemence. “Whoa. Okay, I’m just trying to get to know you. I’m not trying to steal your identity or anything. Chill. God. Are you always this defensive and paranoid?” I shake my head and stare straight ahead. “Forget I asked.”

  I don’t look over, but out of the corner of my eye, I spy Jason studying me again. I pout as if he’s bruised my feelings. He is an odd one. Limited social skills for sure. Good thing I enjoy a challenge from time to time. I pretend to literally shake the negativity off and turn up the radio. He hangs his head a few inches, properly cowed. Works every time. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “It’s fine,” I say, a little short. “Your orders were to protect me, not talk to me, right? You want to remain a grumpy man of mystery, no skin off my nose. Just trying to make the trip more enjoyable. I won’t try to bring you into the fun again.”

  “I didn’t … I …” He stops stammering. “I’m sorry. I … don’t talk much. Especially about myself.”<
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  Oh, my God. He’s shy! Huh. I dig it. I’ve never met anyone as hot as him who was anything but a narcissist. He is so adorable, I could just melt. Must keep this to myself though. I don’t want to scare him back into his hole. “Fair enough. We don’t have to share intimate details if you’re not comfortable yet. I will get it out of you, though.” I raise an eyebrow and smile seductively. “I have ways of making you talk, Blondie.” Damned if he isn’t blushing again. Once again, so adorable it makes a basket of puppies look like a basket of rats. “But I am about ten seconds from falling asleep at the wheel, so as co-pilot it’s your job to entertain me. Them’s the rules.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” I think for a second. “Tell me about my sperm donor.”

  “Da—Frank?”

  “Yeah. What’s he like? Get me prepped for the reunion.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Uh, how’d you meet him? Start at the beginning,” I suggest.

  “It was … complicated.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on, Blondie. You can do better than that. He’s my bio-dad, I kind of have a right to know what he’s been up to since he ditched me.”

  “He didn’t ditch you,” Jason insists.

  “Sure. Whatever.” I roll my eyes again. “So, how’d you meet? When he joined your pack?”

  “No. He brought me in some years later.”

  “He brought you in?”

  “When I was eight. He saved my life,” Jason says.

  “How? What happened?” Jason doesn’t answer. He stares out the window at the brown prairie and rolling hills outside. “Sorry. Too personal, I’m sure. You don’t have to answer.”

  “No,” he says, glancing back at me. “You’re right. You should know what kind of man he is.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Jason’s jaw sets, and all the muscles in his face stand at attention. He hasn’t even begun the story, and he’s already rigid. “My father … was not a good man. Before I was born, he was exiled from his pack in Russia. For the rape of another member. He wasn’t arrested, but he emigrated to America, worked as a translator for the government and later as a bodyguard for the vampire Lord of D.C.”

  “Wait, vampires are real too?”

  “Yes. Our kind doesn’t mix well with theirs. My father was an exception. He was fond of Peter. Loyal, though only to Peter. With everyone else, my mother and myself included, he was brutal. One of my earliest memories is of him beating my mother for making a comment about his haircut. When I was six, I fell asleep to their fighting, and when I woke, she was gone. He claimed she abandoned us, me, but I know now he must have killed her.”

  “Jesus.”

  “For the next two years, I was basically on my own. Alone. The only times my father paid attention to me was to beat me after a stressful day. I took care of myself. Cooking, cleaning. I didn’t go to school, I just stayed in the house watching TV as I was told. No one but him, the odd girlfriend, and colleague ever came over. I’d hide in my room. Then one night, he didn’t return home. I thought nothing of it. He’d been angrier, more agitated than normal for days. I know now he was scared.”

  “Why?” I ask, captivated.

  “Bobby Conlon and Lord Peter had no love lost between them, but they tolerated one another for decades until they both wanted to buy a piece of property in D.C. A few days later, one of the pack was found drained of blood—Abigail was seventeen. Then another wolf was murdered in the same manner. In retaliation, some wolves took it upon themselves to slaughter a few vampires, along with their human companions. That brought in the F.R.E.A.K.S.”

  “The who?”

  “The preternatural police. They investigated, then acted as mediator between our two factions. The men finally agreed to a cease fire when it was uncovered my father was responsible. He’d been dating Abigail, and when she refused him sex one night, he beat and raped her. Fearing she’d talk, knowing she was pack, and that there were tensions between the wolves and vampires, he made her death seem like a retribution vampire attack. Then he murdered another wolf for good measure. When the pack was given definitive proof of his actions, they broke into my house looking for him, your father included. They found me in the closet, clutching a butcher knife.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “They’d invaded my territory. I stabbed R.J., slashed at John. They still bring it up. Still haven’t forgiven me. Your father was the one who grabbed me as I thrashed around. I bit him, scratched him, cut him, but he just hugged me and whispered it’d all be okay until I ran out of energy.”

  Nice of him. “What happened to your father?”

  “In the spirit of their newfound cooperation, Peter informed the pack where he was hiding. Abigail’s father executed him.”

  “I’m … sorry?” Not sure of the appropriate response here.

  “Don’t be. If ever someone needed putting down, it was Ivan. I’m just sorry I wasn’t the one to do it,” Jason says, cold as the Arctic.

  He stares out the window again, deep in thought. I give him a few seconds of reflection before asking, “So, what happened next? The pack invited you in with open arms?”

  He all but jerks at the sound of my voice. I think he forgot I was here. “What? No. Not exactly. I was wild. Assaulted anyone who got close. I wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t put on the clothes they gave me. Wouldn’t speak. I was afraid to go outside. I thought they were going to kill me. Most gave up even trying, except Maureen Blue, her son Adam, and Dad.”

  Huh? “Wait. Dad?”

  Jason glances at me again, I think a little guilty if I’m reading his eyes right, but quickly looks away again. “The others didn’t want me there. Sins of the father and all. A constant reminder of Ivan. I’ve never blamed them for that.” He pauses. “But Dad saw something in me. Maybe he wanted to atone for leaving you, I don’t know. He convinced Bobby not to ship me off to another pack or foster care. He later told me the moment he looked into my eyes when he was holding me that night, he knew I was to be his in all but blood. Just knew, as if God whispered it to him. We werewolves take those instincts seriously,” Jason says with another uncomfortable glance my way. “Dad took things slow, just being in the same room as me so I’d get used to his presence. Then talking, bringing me toys, sometimes he’d even bring Matt so I’d get used to him too. It was about a month before I’d let Dad within a foot of me, and another two weeks before I said a word to him. Almost two months to the day I met him, I moved in with him, Jenny, and Matt. They adopted me. Raised me. As I said, I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Frank Dahl.”

  I stare at him slack jawed. “So … you’re my brother?”

  “Adopted. I guess. Yes.”

  Okay, brain overload. I don’t know how to feel about this information. I mean, I’m more than glad Jason was rescued from that life. No one deserves a father like that. I’m sure as hell shocked he’s turned out as well as he did. It explains a lot too. The social awkwardness. Not wanting to talk about himself. Not to mention I’m hella embarrassed I’m lusting after a relative, but it’s not as if he’s blood, or even that we were raised together. Still. A little fucked up. But, if I’m honest with myself, what’s bubbling most to the surface is … rage. Pure goddamn rage, hot and powerful enough to fuel a power plant.

  And resent. Really fucking resentful. Beside me is my replacement. All the love I should have received went to him. He’s the one who got the bedtime stories. The scoldings for bad grades. The chicken soup for flus. The passing of wisdom. The building of confidence only supplied by unconditional love and a sense of true safety. I always figured Frank had been a selfish bastard incapable of those things. You really can’t fault someone for something when they just don’t have it inside them. It’d be like blaming the deaf for their lack of musical appreciation. But he could. And he did. Just not with me.

 
This time I’m the source of the uncomfortable silence. “I’ve upset you,” Jason says.

  “No,” I lie. “I just … that was a horrible story. I am so sorry you had to go through all that.”

  “It worked out for the best.”

  “Right. I’m glad. For you.” Okay, that’s all the sharing I can stomach for now. I dial up the radio again and keep my eyes straight ahead. Blondie doesn’t take the hint. He stares at me, I think attempting to read my face. I stand the scrutiny for all of thirty seconds. “What?” I snap.

  “You lied.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lied about what upset you.”

  “Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t wish what happened to you on Osama Bin Laden!”

  “I trained myself to recognize subterfuge in others. You just did it again. You lied about lying. So, why did my story upset you?”

  Okay, now I’m just getting annoyed. “Why do you care? It’s not important. Just leave it alone.” He continues staring. Thirty more seconds, then, “What?”

  “You don’t want me as your brother.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the most logical answer,” he says, emotionless. “You reached maximum agitation when I told you that. The muscles in your face tensed and your breathing deepened.”

  Once again I look at him, literally slack jawed. His face is a mask, but when I meet his eyes, my throat tightens. Oh, shit. I’ve hurt his feelings. He thinks my anger is directed at him, not Frank. I’ve learned that there are two reasons people who never show their emotions and act tough do it. One, they’re just a bastard and have none. Blondie and I fit into the second. We feel things too deeply. We’ve had to build a wall, otherwise we’d be nothing but a raw nerve and couldn’t function. I think I just exposed that nerve.

  It couldn’t have been easy being thrown so young into what sounds like such a close-knit group as the pack, especially after what his father did to them. All the looks, all the whispers behind his back. The suspicion. Knowing that, save a few, they didn’t really want him there. That he was an interloper. Called family but not fully embraced by them, no matter how hard he tried. I know exactly how that is. A sliver of him will always be that eight-year-old starved of love and acceptance. And I just slammed a sledgehammer into that part.