by A. J. Colby
The urge to turn and run was strong, but the wolf balked at the idea of such weakness. She knew as well as I did that if I wanted any chance of figuring out what was happening I needed to talk to the pack master.
“Suck it up, Buttercup,” I muttered to myself, giving my shirt one last futile tug before pushing my way through the crowd to the door.
Opening the door I was met by a dizzying array of scents. The rich aroma of brewing coffee pulled me forward before I even realized what my feet were doing. Beyond the mouthwatering smell of coffee and fresh pastries, was the hot spiciness of weres, the earthy scent of magi, and the scents of a dozen other supes I wasn’t familiar with. It was a heady perfume that, although foreign, somehow felt like home.
The Vine was considered a bastion of the supernatural community. Lauded as being the first business in the state to be owned and run by a supe, it had been featured multiple times on recent news reports talking about the push for equal rights. More importantly, I’d also heard that they had the best damn coffee in town.
Though the coffee I had at Cordova’s might give them a run for their money.
Moving into the hot press of bodies just inside the door, I cast my gaze over the random spread of tables. I’d seen pictures of the pack master splashed across the news over the last couple years, but it was the aura of power he gave off that made it easy to spot him in the crowd.
The energy radiating from him lapped at the edge of my consciousness as if he were scenting me, gauging my strength. I knew so little about other weres and the full breadth of their talents that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he really was scenting me, hoping to get a rise out of me. As much as I hated to admit it, I was intrigued by him and could already feel the wolf stirring inside.
Moving towards him, my footsteps faltered when our eyes across the café. There was a flicker of recognition in his gaze and in that fleeting instant our wolves reached out and scented each other. It felt as though the world had dropped out from beneath my feet, leaving a feeling of weightlessness in the pit of my stomach. No one else existed beyond him, and I was overcome by the urge to fall down to my knees and pledge my undying allegiance to him.
What the fuck? I thought, finding even that small glimmer of coherence hard to hold onto.
Another, stronger wave of energy flowed over me, driving the air from my lungs, compressing them into useless fleshy bags in my chest. I would have toppled over then and there if I hadn’t been surrounded by a half dozen other people waiting for a table to open up. The shoulders and backs of strangers pressing against me was the only thing keeping me on my feet. Breathless from the immense weight of his power, I struggled to clear my thoughts but found my body unwilling—or unable—to obey my commands. A panicked sweat bloomed on my skin, covering me from head to toe while the hairs rose on the back of my neck.
Time stopped, leaving me suspended in the moment, unable to breathe and barely even able to think. I knew inaction meant death, but I had no idea what to do, or how to fight against him. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone in the prison of my body.
My wolf stirred, and relief swept through me. She was a reassuring entity in the back of my mind, full of strength and confidence. Where I was afraid and soft, she was bold and unmoved by his display of authority. Her presence leant unfathomable strength that made human emotions seem frail and small.
Invigorated by her presence, I grit my teeth and pushed back against the weight of his energy. I had no idea if it was the right thing to do; all I knew was that if I didn’t fight back he would squeeze the life out of me. My muscles were sluggish and slow to respond at first, but by some miracle I was able to tear my eyes away from his, breaking the connection between us.
The sudden absence of his presence pushing down on me left me lightheaded. My first breath was a ragged gasp that drew curious looks from the people around me, but I didn’t have the energy to worry about what they thought. Drawing another blessed breath, the air burning all the way down into my lungs, I sagged with the relief of being in control of myself.
Gradually, other sensations crept back into my awareness. I felt the stinging burn in my palms where my skin was healing the quartet of crescent shaped cuts my nails had dug into my flesh. Flexing my stiff fingers I dared to meet the pack master’s gaze again and found an expression of mild surprise reflected in their pale blue depths. I got the impression I’d just experienced some kind of test, but I had no idea if I’d passed or failed.
At any other time I might have spared a thought for why he’d tested me and what the results meant, but all I could think about was the fact he’d violated me without provocation. My knowledge of the supernatural world was limited, but even with my paltry understanding of were culture I knew that what he had done was a big no-no. It wasn’t uncommon for a dominant were to exert his will over a lesser wolf; being able to control the wolves under his rule was an essential part of being a pack master. Without someone to keep them in-line, chaos was sure to break out in the blink of an eye. Trying to control a wolf outside of the pack, however, was both bold and against the rules of etiquette. The wolf’s simplistic view of black and white colored my thoughts, unleashing a surge of anger that warmed my blood.
Pushing through the people between me and the pack master, I wove a path between the tables, ignoring the way my knees trembled and the fresh layer of sweat cooling on my back.
The name Hank conjured up images of a middle aged man with a pot belly and receding hairline, but I knew from the glimpses I’d seen of him in the news that the pack master was anything but the stereotype. The bronze skinned giant that sat at the small café table belonged on the cover of a trashy romance novel, but even his chiseled features couldn’t erase my irritation at his little display of superiority.
Why do the hot ones always have to be such assholes?
It wasn’t hard to see why he’d become the poster child for weres—his angular jaw, expressive eyes ringed in thick lashes, and dark gold hair pulled back into a short ponytail placed him somewhere between handsome and beautiful. It took little effort to imagine him stretched across the pages of a beefcake calendar. I’d caught a few of his interviews, and even I had to admit that he was far from the gorgeous dimwit his looks made him appear to be.
And I bet he’s got a harem of nubile young wolves throwing themselves at his feet.
He rose from the table as I approached, a mountain of rippling muscles contained in a tight, dark grey t-shirt and low slung, hip-hugging jeans.
“Nice party trick,” I sneered before he had a chance to say anything. “Now that I’ve passed your little test, can we get down to business?”
“Who says you passed?” he asked in reply, the warmth of his smile the only thing keeping me from taking his words as an outright insult. Noticing that my frown was still in place, he had the decency to look a little chagrined. “Forgive me. I’ve heard rumors and had to see for myself.”
“See what? Whether I’d kneel like all the other good little wolves? Is this what you do to make up for your small dick?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a flicker of regret. It didn’t matter that he was being a jerk and deserved it; it was beyond stupid to bait the pack master of Denver. As I waited for him to decide whether or not he was going to rip out my throat for such blatant disrespect, I momentarily wished I had a filter for my verbal diarrhea. Before I could sink too far into regret I decided that I didn’t care after all. He really was being an ass.
A long moment, fraught with tension and uncertainty, stretched out between us. He was assessing me as much as he had with his little power trick, and it was anyone’s guess which way he was leaning. After a slow blink that I was sure was designed to test my nerves, he let out a low rumbling chuckle.
“The famous Riley Cray of course,” he said with a smile that gracefully dismissed my insult, though the tightness around his eyes let me know he was holding something back.
I wasn’t in the mood to play some screwed up game to prove if I
was worthy of his time. The events of my life had proven without a doubt that I wasn’t some doe-eyed little girl. I’d been through hell and lived to tell the tale. I’d be damned if I’d let him—or anyone—make me feel the need to prove myself.
Making no move to sit down in the empty chair opposite him, I said, “Looks like we’ve both earned ourselves a small amount of infamy.”
“Yes it does.” He almost sounded proud of the fact.
From anyone else it would have come across as cocky, but there was something in the unapologetic tone of his voice that led me to believe he accepted the limelight that came along with his status without arrogance. I envied him that level of comfort. Even after almost ten years, I still wasn’t sure I’d accepted the fact that my life would never be wholly my own again.
His smile deepened, losing its tightness, as he extended his hand across the table towards me, and for a moment I let it hang there. After the obvious display of power, I was leery of touching him and wondered if it would be anything like the prickling energy I felt every time Holbrook and I touched. Or worse yet, that I would feel the pull of his energy again, and have to fight for breath. I was still shaking from his earlier display of power and wasn’t sure I had the strength to beat him back again.
Reaching out to him made my heart thump harder in my chest. I watched my fingers disappear into his massive hand and braced myself for the flood of his energy to flow into me. I felt a tendril of his power slip into my fingers, but it was little more than a faint tingle along my arm. Bearable, and not entirely unpleasant. I wasn’t overcome with the need to bow to him and declare my allegiance, nor did I feel the air being sucked from my lungs, but I didn’t release my breath until he let go, and I withdrew my hand to wipe my damp palm on my jeans.
A faint but unmistakable grunt of disgust drew my gaze to the man standing behind Hank’s right shoulder, watching our interaction with narrowed eyes, gleaming wolf gold. While Hank was all golden skin and dazzling smiles, the other man was a portrait of severity. Smooth ebony skin gleamed under the overhead lights, his golden eyes appearing to glow. Thick, dark dreadlocks decorated with beads made of wood, bone, and leather hung down his back and were secured by a simple leather tie. He didn’t look like the kind of guy I’d want to mess with, and he didn’t seem at all happy to see me.
Who pissed in his Wheaties this morning?
“Please, have a seat, Riley,” Hank said, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. “Can I call you Riley?”
“Knock yourself out,” I replied as I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of the chair.
Sliding into the chair I tugged my shirt down to cover my midriff, once again wishing I’d gone with something less flashy. I’d had some insane desire to impress the pack master, but now I was more inclined to smack him in his pretty face and get the hell out of there. I hoped the wetness I could feel beneath my arms and down my spine didn’t show through the shirt’s thin fabric, giving away my anxiety and irritation, though I had no doubt that both men could smell the sweat on me.
“This is my second, Metembe Olujimi. Say hello, Metembe.”
“Forgive me, Mon Roi, but I will not speak to the mutt,” the dark man replied, his thick African accent giving his voice an exotic, melodic sound. Unfortunately, even the beautiful timbre of his voice could not camouflage his obvious disdain for me.
I cringed at his use of the slur, the name for a were who was bitten, not born. I’d heard the insult a few times before, even been called it once or twice by Chrismer, but I just took it as the asinine banter it was meant to be from the Day Servant. Coming from another were, there was a lot more weight and venom behind the word. As if dealing with the prejudices of the anti-supe whackos from Humans for Humanity wasn’t enough, it looked like I would also have to defend my existence to my fellow weres, too.
Well, isn’t he just one big fucking ray of sunshine?
Hank frowned, giving his second a warning look, but said nothing to him. Instead he turned back to me and said, “Please excuse Metembe. He abides by the old ways.”
“Old ways?” I asked, not missing the smug sneer Metembe threw in my direction at my ignorance.
“The old ways say a mutt is a mistake, an aberration that is to be undone,” Hank said quietly.
Undone didn’t sound like a good thing, and I had a pretty good idea of what it might mean, but my curiosity prompted me to find out for sure. “Undone?”
“Destroyed by the one foolish enough to make him,” Hank replied.
Yup, definitely not a good thing.
Even as his words set off warning bells in my mind, his voice lacked the sharpness I would have expected if he had believed them. I got the feeling they were words recited from memory, rather than conviction.
“Well then, I’m glad you’re not ignorant enough to follow the old ways, Hank,” I said, then paused, my unease remaining. “You don’t, do you?”
Laughing a deep and rich belly laugh he said, “No, I believe in a united pack.”
Behind him, Metembe scowled as he crossed thick muscled arms over his chest. His frown said he didn’t agree with his pack master, but he wouldn’t press the point. I smiled sweetly at him.
“What can I help you with, Riley?”
“Alyssa didn’t explain on the phone?”
“She mentioned something about vampires turning up dead, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
Ah, another test. Great.
“The Shepherd of the City believes that a were is killing his vamps,” I said bluntly. If he wanted to waste my time with his alpha bullshit, that was his problem. I just wanted to figure this mess out, get paid, and go back to avoiding vamps and weres along with the rest of humanity.
“I can assure you it was not one of my wolves,” Hank said, his voice full of conviction.
“You know that for a fact? The Shepherd assured me it was a were.”
“The Shepherd may think whatever he likes. It’s no skin off my nose.”
For reasons I couldn’t fathom, the pack master’s dismissive tone rankled, stirring the glowing embers of my irritation. As the leader and protector of the werewolves in Denver I thought he should be a lot more concerned about the situation than he appeared to be. Determined to make him understand the seriousness of the situation, if only in the hopes that it would help me figure out who was offing vamps all the quicker, I said, “If this leads to a war, it’s going to be a lot more than just skin off your nose.”
“Is that a threat?” Metembe asked in a rumble, stepping forward to defend his master. I had the feeling that Hank could more than handle himself and didn’t need the other wolf to protect him from me.
“You think I’m dumb enough to throw idle threats at a pack master?”
The sneer Metembe shot back at me gave me the distinct impression he thought I was that stupid, or at the very least, hoped I was.
Keep dreaming, buddy. I’m not quite that much of a dumbass.
“Metembe, would you please get me a fresh cup?” Hank asked, handing the other man his almost full cup of coffee that still gave off a steady trail of steam.
It was an obvious dismissal, but Metembe accepted the cup and gave his pack master a reverent nod.
“Of course, Mon Roi.”
“I’ll take a coffee, too. Cream and two sugars,” I called out to his retreating back. It was petty, but I smirked at the tightening of his broad shoulders. Across from me, Hank fought to keep the frustrated look off his face.
Once Metembe had moved out of earshot I turned my gaze back to Hank. “Your boyfriend seems a little threatened by me.”
A frown marred Hank’s face for a moment, drifting across his tanned features like a shadow. “Metembe is protective of me as befits his duty as my second.”
“Hey, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t muscling in on your little bromance,” I said, raising my hands, though the bite in my voice spoke of my irritation. “I wouldn’t want him to think I’m making moves on his p
rick master. I’m sorry, I mean pack master.”
I had better things to do than play power games with a self-entitled pack master and defend my right to live to a stuck-up were whose blood wasn’t much purer than my own, but I couldn’t resist the small dig at Hank and his lieutenant.
The same virus that causes lycanthropy in North America and Europe causes a different transformation in other parts of the world. Scientists have yet to figure out the genetic variations that causes the lycanthropy virus to create such an array of weres, but there are two things they can agree on—the virus always takes the form of an apex predator, and you always change into the breed of were that bit you.
Latin America has the bruja, a secretive race rumored to possess magical powers in addition to their ability to shift into the form of a jaguar, while the reigning were in Africa is the bouda—a powerful werehyena known for its bloodthirsty and violent nature. But the last time I checked, there weren’t any wolves in Africa. Metembe may have been born a were, but if he actually was from Africa then it was almost certain that one of his ancestors had been bitten. So why did he look as though he’d delight in tearing out my throat?
Must be my winning personality.
Being viewed as a second class citizen was part of the reason I had avoided weres and shied away from immersing myself in their culture. Now it seemed I was going to be pulled into their crap whether I liked it or not. Swallowing my anger, I schooled my features into passivity, figuring that the sooner I got the answers I wanted, the sooner I could get out of there.
“So if it wasn’t one of your weres, who was it? Are there many packless weres in Denver?”
Hank didn’t answer at first, but something in his expression gave me pause. There was a wealth of sadness in his pale blue eyes, and despite myself I felt an answering melancholy swell in my chest.
“What?” I asked.
“Only you.”
“Only me, what?”
“You’re the only unbound wolf in Colorado.”
I let out a stifled chuckle at his response, sure it was some kind of joke I just didn’t quite understand, or maybe some jab at my refusal to fall down on my knees and pledge allegiance to him. When he didn’t join me, my laughter died in my throat.
