by Ian Thomas
I feel that as your fake boyfriend
there needs to be some negotiation of terms.
I may have to speak to my agent.
Hayley // 15:07
Bloody lawyers!
Dylan // 15:07
The least offensive thing I’ve
been called today.
So how’s life treating you?
Hayley // 15:08
Oh no I was calling you much
worse earlier. Something
rhyming with swoosh.
Dylan // 15:09
Toosh? Boosh?
Coosh? Moosh?
Hayley // 15:10
Life is actually not sucking
at the moment. Eddie’s asked
me to plan this big wolfie party.
Do I look like a party planner?
Dylan // 15:10
Voosh? Noosh? Nope,
totally not gonna get this.
Hayley // 15:11
You’re hopeless.
Dylan // 15:12
It’s a wolf thing. What’s the what with
planning? Double-down on the Scooby
snacks and give out flea collars at the door.
Freddie // 15:12
I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.
Hayley // 15:13
Hahahahahahahahahaha
So needed that. Actually
laughing out loud. I wish it were
that simple. Far too many politics.
Off to Matteo’s to sort out.
A glance told him Freddie had indeed left. Great, Dylan thought, got life back on track only to screw up good friendships. And for what, a relationship that would never eventuate. Or a brother who had his own life now. This post-Julie limbo needed work. For weeks he’d refused to acknowledge the situation as such. To some extent he’d expected that chapter to close and another to open unscathed. Hell, on the plane to New York before the Ordeal, he’d considered the end of him and Julie more akin to the completion of a saga. Curtain close. Fin. The End. Strike the set. Send everybody home. That’s a wrap.
But things never ended cleanly no matter how much people want them to. Dylan, in all his self-assured cockiness, was not prepared for the free-fall after the break up. He knew that. Or at least was getting an awareness of it. Mainly through Freddie. As British and blueblood as the man got, he was the closest thing Dylan had to a best friend.
Dylan // 15:17
Hey, wait up. Let’s hit the pub.
You get that I’m an idiot, right?.
Hayley // 15:18
Wrong person.
Hayley // 15:18
And yes, I do know you’re an idiot.
But of all the idiots in my life,
you’re the least offensive.
Anxious, Dylan resent the message. Correctly this time. Was a brave person to challenge Dylan, but a challenge he needed. Grabbing his gym bag and pulling on his hoodie, Dylan’s nerves ate at him. Ruining friendships wasn’t new to him. Pre-Julie, during it and post. Dylan just had a way about him that grated on him people. See the aforementioned self-assured cockiness. Mix in scathing wit and cripplingly high IQ and he was often grateful no one had killed him as yet.
Freddie // 15:21
You’re buying.
Dylan // 15:21
Done!
●●●
Hayley // 10:18
And yes, I do know you’re an idiot.
But of all the idiots in my life,
you’re the least offensive.
With little more thought for the conversation Hayley dropped her phone into her bag and pressed the doorbell. As she waited she considered what she was about to walk into. An event planning meeting with a five-hundred-year-old recluse hosting a delegation of werewolves.
Oh no, her life wasn’t normal. Whatever gave anyone that idea?
In that moment, though, Dylan’s suggestions helped. A lot.
Having him and Mouth around was great. Their particular brand of ‘normal’ was necessary with the turn her world had taken. Their world. No-no, it was her world. She was living in it after all. But Mouth was an adolescent. Unfair but true. He barely looked up from his phone, lacked goals beyond what he ate each day nor seemed to bathe with anything that equated to the words ‘consistency’, ‘regularity’ or ‘scented’. At least Dylan was an adult. Most of the time. Fifty. A good fifty percent of the time at least. Okay forty. Thirty on a bad day.
Since her and Rebecca’s debate over whether normal was underrated or overrated, Hayley had decided normal was necessary. Not to override everything else but just to check in and gain perspective. Jason should have been the go-to on that score but with his outstanding impersonation of named-yet-uncast side character in their ensemble he’d proven less than ideal.
Which left Dylan.
Geographically he wasn’t ideal. However, his speedy replies made up for the distance. Being older than Mouth – and because of the distance – he didn’t seem affected by the same political correctness Mouth exhibited. Yes, even Mouth. Whose generation seemed to couch their sentiments and discussion when it concerned people they knew or had likelihood for causing offense. She’d actually been surprised by his behavior, attributing it to general awe for the supernatural and his close proximity to Rebecca.
No such situation existed with Dylan. He was the outlet she needed. A realization that should have worried her more than it did.
“Hello,” Matteo said, opening the door with a broad smile.
“Hey,” she replied, pulling him into a tight hug. “So good to see you.”
Without a doubt, she’d felt Matteo’s absence. After she was shot he’d been the one to tell her about the supernatural while Rowan tended to her wounds. Given the scene outside the radio station – claws and all – Hayley was in a believing mode. So when this warm and pleasant man sat on the bed and gently eased her into an awareness of things that went bump in the night often bumped back, Hayley felt a connection to him. His care with her had disregarded the possible danger he put them both in exposing his life to her.
Thus when his convalescence stretched on Hayley had felt somewhat lost. He had been her anchor in those first few hours, taken the scare out of the scary.
“Come in, come in,” he said, drawing her into the warm house. “Thank you for coming.”
“Any chance to see you again.”
“Wish it was under more convivial circumstances.”
“First off, I’m not an event planner,” she said, following him into the kitchen where he set to work on the large machine. “Least favorite aspect of my field. Loathe it. Gimme a scandal any day of the week over finger food and fake smiles.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, either comes down to people-hating or a preference for meal-sized portions, but they just bore me.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t do it. Just need to throw a couple of things at you and see what’s what.”
“Such as?”
“Way I see it you have an image problem,” Hayley announced. “More specifically a female problem.”
“I’m all for equality,” Matteo protested.
“I get that but let’s look at this guest list,” she said, flipping through her pad. “You have…women are fewer than ten percent of this list.”
“I can get more. There’s Annah. And she has friends. Or we could hire some in.”
“That’s part of the problem. This is gonna be a room full of significant men with women as set decoration.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I get the whole male-only wolf thing but maybe you need to extend some courtesy to the sirens.”
“Will never happen.”
“Then invite the wiccans.”
“Could do.”
“Could? I think you need to think about the intent of this thing as well as the optics. What do you want to achieve?”
He took a long breath. “Tell Blackthorne and his boys that I’m fi
ne.”
“And are you?”
He took a moment. “Yes.”
“It’s not me you have to convince. You’ll need to convince yourself in order to convince them. So are you?”
“Yes,” he said more firmly.
“Then why this reception? How’s it going to communicate that?”
Watching him struggle with the questions, she saw pain lurking beneath the surface. Physically his wounds had healed. No doubt long ago. Haunted by more than just what the Cult did, Matteo was trying to put himself back in the world, best as he could.
“A huge part of my tenure as Pack Lord has been about unity. Specifically, the main three communities. Yet I couldn’t trust within my own pack. How, then, am I to lead while standing in quicksand?”
“You don’t fight it,” she said. “You relax and move slowly. Gently. Let help come to you.”
“How do we do that?”
“Business as usual,” she said. “When you were…recovering, this house was full of people. All the communities represented. So make this party a thank you to them, a chance to give back. Just happens that this Blackthorne will be in town and we’ll have a heavily strategic guest list. You are the reigning Pack Lord, an invite from you wouldn’t go unnoticed.”
“And you think this will work?”
“Absolutely. I may not know the ins and outs of the supernatural, but I know people and if there’s one thing you and Rowan and everyone else have shown me, you’re people first. Supernaturals second.” Skeptically, he raised an eyebrow. “You still poop right?”
“Yup.”
“Then you’re people.” When he looked shocked, she added. “Can’t get much more human than poop.”
●●●
Hardly the most delicate of ideas, yet there was a certain simplicity that appealed to Matteo. And it was simple truths Matteo felt were the strengths of his leadership. When matters became complicated injuries occurred.
“It’s gonna be short notice,” he said, “but I like the idea. An evening to show my appreciation for their support. It’s good. And should address your very valid gender concerns.” He thought for a moment and then added uneasily, “does mean inviting Gracchus though.”
“That tone’s not exactly magnanimous.”
“It’s just Blackthorne has a thing about vampires.”
“A thing?”
“He’s racist.”
“Ah, that kinda thing,” she replied. “But then it’s not Blackthorne’s party.”
“True, okay so let me have a look at that,” he said, pulling the guest list toward him. Writing out more names evened out the gender discrepancy and bolstered the communities. On such short notice, she doubted they’d all be in attendance but the message would come across loud and clear.
“Okay so dietary requirements? Are we serving blood? Raw meat? Eye of newt?”
“That’s offensive.”
“Sorry, I don’t know how any of this works.”
Thankful for her company, Matteo talked her through the protocols of organizing such an evening. Logistically it could have been a nightmare but her suggestion of stripping it all back to a very simple gesture of gratitude and community. The only hurdle they ran into was the notion of wait-staff. Hayley suggested the War Wolves and while Matteo took some cruel delight at the idea of Hale and Isaac in bow-ties, bearing trays of food and drink, he advised that civilians would be fine.
Within a couple of hours they had finalized most details. Invites were emailed to those whose addresses he had, the vampires proving the most difficult to contact. Which meant sending McLachlan into the court once more. Given how slow Gracchus had provided an audience about the two bodies, two days’ notice was likely to fall on deaf ears. Still the gesture had to be made if Matteo was to show his gratitude.
And prove the accords still held.
Quite the elephant in the room, they were the underlying tension to everything. Altruistic, mutually beneficial, and inclusive, the accords had been a salve for the three communities. Intended to heal discord between them yet forced into being due to violent and unfortunate circumstances. Signed in blood and sealed with death.
Perhaps the peace since had lulled Matteo into a false sense of the world. What was considered amicable relations between the communities could be thought of as an impassive distance. Hardly ones for daily interaction, each community had retreated to their own. Could the accords be considered strong bonds of peace when those signatories never interacted, he wondered.
Not that he could point fingers about retreating. His self-imposed exile had gone on long enough.
“D’ya need me for anything else?” he asked. When she raised an eyebrow, he explained. “Just thought I might go for a walk. Grab some lunch for us.”
“Oh sure, yeah, totally. Nothing too heavy, we need to meet with the caterer later.” He was about to stand when she exhaled audibly.
“What?”
“While you’re out…I don’t know, but maybe…and this is entirely up to you…but a haircut wouldn’t go amiss.”
“My man-bun?” he asked plaintively.
“Sorry, and while I love a good windswept romance book cover as much as the next girl, this Fabio look you’ve got going on is too different from the Matteo you were before the Ordeal. Just thinking about the optics.”
“That it?”
“Yup.”
“Then I’ll be off.” Shouldering his jacket, Matteo was eager to get out of the house. Having re-joined the world as it were, the house felt claustrophobic All four stories, high-ceilinged, multi-roomed, well-appointed spaciousness of the brownstone. He loved the house. It had been a sanctuary of his for well over a hundred years – the longest home he’d known – but recently he’d felt trapped.
Drawing in lungfuls of cold air, he stood on the stoop and closed his eyes. Free. Safe. The city welcomed him back, a prodigal son wary of his place in the world. The sounds, the smells, the energy of the city coursed through him and he felt connected once more.
Winding his way through the streets and ordered chaos of Manhattan, Matteo felt more himself with each step. Soon after his prescribed haircut, he found himself in the West Village, near The Daily Grind. While he wasn’t the greatest fan of their coffee – his purist nature detecting the slightest aberration in the grind, the temperature, or the pour – the conviviality of the coffee shop represented what he loved about humanity. Even the people obsessed with their smartphones, using the screen to cover their self-consciousness.
Sure enough, once inside, he felt the same welcoming embrace he had from the stoop. The familiarity and warmth of the coffee shop shoring up his healing soul.
“Hi, what can I get for you today?” a young blonde woman asked cheerfully.
“A piccolo if you please,” he replied with a smile.
“Coming up.” As Matteo took a seat in the window, a sense of vulnerability washed over him. Suddenly his hands were clammy and the warmth of the coffee shop felt smothering.
“Hey,” an athletic young man said, pushing a broom across the floor.
Matteo started. His panic fading as quickly as it started.
“Are you meeting Eddie?”
“Uh, no,” Matteo replied. “Just here for a coffee.”
“Oh.” The young man looked downcast. Matteo couldn’t remember his name exactly. Something very high school jock. Brad? Jake? Rich? “No worries. You have a good day.”
Matteo watched the young man finish sweeping. The slump of his shoulders showed his was burdened with more than the menial task. Behind the counter, the young blonde woman studied him carefully.
“Stop it,” the young man said quietly as he swept in front of the coffee machine. No one else heard them. Matteo’s sensitive ears picking up the conversation easily.
“Stop what?” she replied.
“Looking at me like I’m gonna snap. Again.”
“Well are you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that’s
not like you.”
“Neither’s you giving a sh – being nice to me.”
She had nothing to respond to that, instead turning her attention to the next customer.
●●●
And there you are, Henry thought, watching Matteo tune into the conversation.
Seated in the back of the coffee shop, he’d taken to watching the banality of modern life unfold. He was sorry to have missed the furore earlier, especially as it had stemmed indirectly from his new pup, but he wasn’t going to sit there and while away his hours in the hopes of some drama or another.
Except drama didn’t get more delicious than when there was an exclusive cameo.
Henry never expected the reigning Pack Lord and sop for humanity to appear. Least of all alone. The pleasure of seeing the man bereft of his entourage, be it his lap dogs or the vessel, was countered only by unease. If anyone were to sniff out the freshly sired werewolf in the upstairs apartment, it would be Matteo. His sense of humanity was matched only by his acute senses. While Henry could not register any traces of the young wolf, he needed him to stay hidden just a little longer. The full moon was next week and – if his plans came to fruition – carnage would ensue.
Studying the Pack Lord, Henry saw the fractures that were still being glued back together. Ben really had done a number on him. He suppressed a smile. The Pack Lord would be healed just enough to make what was to come even more devastating.
XXVI
Slowly the loft started to fill with guests.
Eddie was quite surprised at the number given the short notice. Three days ago this had been a suggestion. Day before yesterday he’d asked Hayley to take over and now there were more guests than wait-staff. A ratio Eddie felt was indicative the evening wasn’t going to suck.
Stationed at the door, Eddie was all smiles and hands shaking. Even at his age he felt the…oddness of it all. Here he was welcoming a group of supernaturals into his home for champagne and canapés. Admittedly they weren’t heathens. Such events had occurred in the past. Once or twice that he knew of. Yet this was all so ordinary, so…natural.
Okay, ‘natural’ was the wrong word. Normal was better possibly. Though even still to see War Wolves decked out in suits talking with a couple of wiccans over champagne was something to behold. Or that could have been the six-foot-four African powerhouse, Storm, practically stitched into his suit, the champagne flute all but disappearing in his large hand.
