by C. D. Gorri
Next to it was a smaller sports car. Not a classic, but close. A late 1980’s Corvette. It was painted cherry red. The father’s no doubt. And in front of that sat a brand new ATV. Something for the kid perhaps?
Holiday lights and accents tastefully decorated the outside of the house. There was a little sign that said “Designed by Two Brothers Lawn Care.”
Tate frowned, he always assumed when he was married and had his own home that he would be the one to put up the twinkle lights. Not that he knew much about domestic stuff like that, but heck he wanted be the one to do things for his family. If he ever had one.
He shook his head and went back to his perusal of the house. His job was to gather as much information as possible to assess whether or not this tragedy could have been prevented.
To this family the point was moot, but maybe others could learn from their mistakes. Then again maybe some things were unavoidable no matter what you did.
A customized mailbox sat nestled in a brick post at the edge of the paved driveway. It was in the shape of a sailboat. The family surname was painted across it in bright red letters. It read Mallory.
Tate sat silently in the driver’s seat of his large SUV and imagined what kind of mail was inside. The weekly grocery circular, maybe a letter from the kid’s school for the annual winter fundraiser, a few late Christmas cards, a magazine subscription. The usual stuff you’d see inside a family mailbox.
From the outside it was all so normal. Perfect even. But inside was where he would find the horror of an unchangeable reality.
Mrs. Mallory was resting now, at least that was what he had been told. He took a moment to quiet the Wolf inside his mind’s eye before knocking on the door. He knew all too well that is the last moment of inner peace that he’d experience for the next few days or weeks or months.
From the bottles on the side table and the smell in the air after he was admitted to the home Tate could tell Mrs. Mallory was in a self-medicated sleep as opposed to simply resting.
A couple of valium, a glass of red wine, not enough to harm her, but enough to numb the pain, he thought as he took in his surroundings.
He took note of everything withholding judgement for the time being. After all, she was a normal. Married to a man for the past seventeen years, who happened to be born a normal to a Werewolf family, as does happen on occasion.
Her husband, Rick, was not a Werewolf. However, he was loyal to the Pack. He had grown up inside of it and was under its protection.
His situation was not unique. Some Werewolves simply did not pass the gene onto their young. You had to be born a Werewolf. But even if you were normal born to Wolves you were still Pack.
And no you could not be made into a Werewolf. All those myths about being bitten were just that, myths, stories, make-believe.
Pack was Pack and with Rafe as Alpha that meant something it hadn’t meant in years. Tate was in the Mallory living room for that reason alone.
Rick Mallory was a small man. Slight of stature with neatly trimmed graying hair and a freshly shaved face. He appeared to be in shock and opted to remain outside the home when Tate went into his son’s room to inspect.
He made the right decision. Calling his Pack contact before the police and coroner must have been an instinctual choice. His wife had wanted to call an ambulance. But Rick had known it was too late.
Tate turned the doorknob, careful not to leave any trace of him in the crime scene. The stink of death permeated the air, but unfortunately for Tate it was a familiar scent. And besides, this was no ordinary death.
Suicide. Another one, he should say. The pup was only sixteen years old. His first Change was three short months ago. Mr. Mallory had said there were no warning signs. At least none he nor his wife could see.
Mason came home from school as usual. His father said he was texting his friends, making plans for the weekend. Then he and his wife went out to dinner alone as they did on Friday nights. Date night, they called it.
When they tried to wake him up the next day, they found him. He had hung himself. Mason had used a fifteen-foot length of strong plasma rope. The kind that was meant for sailing. The boy had looped it over a bare ceiling rafter in his bedroom. One of those industrial, open concept motifs.
The walls of his bedroom were painted a mossy green and the floors were a dark hardwood. A lime green throw rug sat on the floor. One corner was kicked up as if someone had tripped recently.
Rick Mallory had left the body where he found it. The boy still hung from the rafter. He was still and silent as Tate walked over to examine him.
He touched nothing, only inhaled. Once he got past the scent of excrement and decomposition he breathed again. There was something else in the air, something a little off.
Tate walked over to the two long windows. The curtains were drawn and there was no natural light inside the room. He pushed them back carefully using a pen that he took from the right pocket of his jacket.
Both windows were closed and locked tightly. Tate’s eyes zoomed in on the layer of dust that emphasized one harsh reality. This boy had not opened a window for weeks.
Stale. The air was stale.
Tate inhaled deeply. His Wolf senses came forth and as always he felt a rush at being so close to his Wolf. Soon. The moon would be full again soon. That was what he told himself.
But back to business. He closed his eyes and made a mental list of everything he could identify. Dust. Mold. Faint remnants of cleaning fluids. Body soap. Deodorant. Pizza. Chips. Gym socks. But everything was old. As if the boy had stopped living weeks ago instead of hours.
Strange behavior for a teen. Highly suspect for a Wolf. Tate frowned.
Werewolves had extremely reactive senses. Hearing, taste, touch, and especially smell would be very acute for one who had just had his first Change.
Werewolves needed fresh air, they craved it. The boy’s father should have seen this, noted it. He should have called his Pack contact. Weren’t his parents concerned at all after his Change? He bit back the angry thoughts that crowded his mind. They wouldn’t help the boy now. Nothing would.
Tate turned back to the room for more signs. He noted them sadly. The boy’s desk was messy, full of crumpled papers and covered in dust.
Tate noticed his laptop was unplugged. He tried to power it up. It was dead. The boy’s smart phone too. They hadn’t been plugged in for a while he guessed.
Whatever the by had told his father aside, this kid had not been in recent contact with his friends. Of course Tate could try to verify that, but there was really no need. He’d seen this before.
The green plaid bedspread was carelessly tossed towards the foot of the bed. Dirty clothes spilled from the hamper. There were a few half full bottles of water lying around, but no food.
No evidence of potato chip bags or candy wrappers. No empty plates or fast food cartons. This kid should have been eating his parents out of house and home.
Damn it! There were signs everywhere! Didn’t anyone pay attention?
Maybe his family didn’t know what to expect, Tate reminded himself. But then again it was their job to get familiar, to learn, to read the signs! Damn, damn, damn!
What was Mason thinking as he climbed up the step ladder and then kicked it away? Poor kid. Tate wanted to scream.
It was a slow and painful way for a Werewolf to die. Sad and alone.
As Rafe’s liaison, Tate’s job was to investigate the death and console the parents. To Tate, suicide was horrific, tragic, and pointless. It was also far too prevalent amongst his kind.
It took him a full five minutes to get control of himself. Another two for him to be able to walk down the staircase to the Mallory’s living room.
He had gotten the information he came for. Before he left the bedroom, Tate looked at Mason Mallory’s face as he hung from the rafter.
His skin was a deathly shade of blue gray, but Tate saw beyond that for a moment. He pictured the boy smiling, the wind blowing back his d
ark hair. He saw who the boy could have been. Inside his mind’s eye, from a great distance he thought he heard Mason’s Wolf howl.
Tate wiped the single tear that fell from his near black eyes. He desperately hoped the young she-Wolf from Northern, the one he had heard so much about, could break the Curse of St. Natalis as Rafe believed she could.
He had yet to meet the teenager, Grazi Kelly, but he knew the effects of the curse intimately. It was unnatural for Werewolves to change only on the night of the full moon.
It drove most to madness, this forced separation. The curse was the single biggest threat to Werewolves.
Tate only wished the girl could work a little faster. His understanding of the curse was that it was a punishment for some crime committed long ago.
He couldn’t fathom a debt big enough that so many would need to die to fill it. What grievous error could have been made against the Saint? It was hundreds of years ago, maybe a thousand.
The Packs of the world no longer remembered the reason behind their suffering. And yet they continued to suffer.
The Macconwood Pack was the only Werewolf Pack that he knew of who were trying to rectify the situation. Rafe’s idea to be proactive and prevent the deaths was unique.
Tate wholeheartedly supported his Alpha. It was just that sometimes Tate had difficulty being strong and lending support to grieving families when all he wanted to do was scream and break something.
In this most recent situation, the something was the boy’s father’s nose.
He hated feeling powerless and that was how he felt about the whole Little Silver tragedy.
He had to remember he wasn’t there anymore. He was at the Manor, in the kitchen, with Catriona. Tall, blonde, and lovely Catriona.
He felt like a child with his nose pressed against a store window. Looking at some shiny new marvel that he could never afford. He could almost hear his father’s words, “that’s not for you.” How many times had the old man told him that as a child? How may nights had he lain awake wanting what he couldn’t have?
Tate watched her capable hands as she scraped plates and piled them into the dishwasher. Her eyes were focused on her task, but he could tell by the way she held herself that she was giving him her utmost attention. He sat a little bit straighter in the stool.
She had long fingers and clean, short nails. Tate wondered if they felt as soft as they looked. She worked competently, exerting little effort. Strong, quick, smart. All words he would use to describe her. Also, beautiful. Cat was strikingly beautiful.
He had one heck of a hard time looking away. He wondered how those hands would feel on him. Would she be soft and responsive or would she lead him by the collar? He didn’t think he’d mind either way.
He closed his eyes and swore he could hear her sigh the way she did that night so long ago. The taste of her still lingered in the back of his mind. Damn, get a grip, dude, it was years ago.
Tate cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. They were rough and hard. Nothing like hers. He loved working outdoors, though his job nowadays didn’t call for it much.
Still, he kept a garden on the Manor grounds, owned his own hunting cabin that he had built himself, and he worked on his old Camaro when he had the time.
The simple things. His father had told him to “remember the simple things” before he had left him there. Whatever the hell that meant.
When he looked up again Cat was just pushing the button on the dishwasher. She turned with her hands on her narrow hips and a bored expression on her perfectly symmetrical face.
But he knew better. She wasn’t bored. He could smell her interest. Grrrr. It both soothed and excited the beast inside of him.
He wished he could trust himself to speak, but he was still hurting for the Mallory pup. Besides, their relationship was tentative at best. He would only ruin it with any clumsy attempt to put what he was thinking into words.
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the room. Just being in her presence improved his mood. He wished he knew what to say to her to break the silence.
He didn’t have to wait long. Cat interrupted his inner musings with a long blown out breath. She never was a patient one.
“Sooooooo. Hello there. Uh, hi. Earth to Tate. What the heck are you doing?”
“Sorry?,” Tate was so busy watching her expressions change with one emotion to the next that he forgot to answer.
“Okay, let me start slowly. How about some food?”
“What?” Brilliant, dude. You are a wiz at convo.
“Food. F-O-O-D. You now, you eat it when your stomach is growling like yours is now? Geez, and here you are, Mr.WolfGuard, and I gotta explain what food is!”
Cat nodded towards the fridge with exaggerated movements and mimed putting food in her mouth and rubbing her stomach. Tate couldn’t help himself, he laughed aloud.
She could be so damned sarcastic! Not to mention adorable. At any rate she jolted him from his morbid musings and he was grateful.
That was one of the things he liked about her. She didn’t mess around like other women did. No games or acts. She was real.
“Um, yeah, thanks. Sounds good. No worries though, I’ll get it.”
“Damn straight, you’ll get it. I wasn’t offering to make your dish or anything. What the heck do I look like anyway?”
“Oh, easy there. Besides there was a time when you would have.”
“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. My father’s not here to make me act the maid.”
“You were never the maid type to me, Cat.”
His answer was punctuated with a long stare. From the tip of her golden head to the bottom of her size nine’s. He smiled as he watched her try not to squirm.
“Stop looking at my big feet.”
“They’re not big. Look at mine. Size thirteen,” Tate held out his booted foot and smirked as Cat raised her eyebrows in exaggerated horror. Wise-ass.
She blushed as his perusal lingered on her legs and something stirred inside of him. Could she still be so green? So unused to a man’s stare? He couldn’t believe that. She was a damned knockout.
He knew beautiful women. He had dated them. Plenty of them truth be told, but he was amazed by his reaction to her.
This was Cat. Rafe’s baby sister. He had no business sniffing around her and he knew it. But he couldn’t help himself. His Wolf was growling in his mind and Tate felt his hunger. Heck, he reveled in it.
These days he had hard time even looking at women, but she, well, she was different. She moved to leave the kitchen and his stomach lurched at the thought of being stuck in there with his own company.
“Wait,” the word escaped Tate’s mouth before he could stop it.
“Huh? What is it?”
“Please. If you could just sit here, with me. We don’t have to talk. I just don’t want to be by myself. Please,” Tate’s shoulders were tense. His pain was clear in his voice.
He never would have revealed so much about his feelings to any one else. It was a new experience for him. Unexpected and scary as hell.
He bit his tongue waiting for her to respond. It seemed to take forever. His heart pounded in his chest and he gripped his fork so tightly he bent it.
Cat turned to the sink and poured two glasses of water before adding ice. She took a seat across from him and handed him one of the glasses. His dish of pasta was cold, but he preferred it that way.
He released the breath he was holding when she grabbed a pink lady apple from the fruit ball and bit. They sat together and ate in mutually agreed upon silence.
It was the best dinner Tate had had in a very long while.
CHAPTER 4
“Oh geez, this sucks,” Charley grunted with the effort it took to try and keep up with Cat in the gym room or as the gang nicknamed it, the “Torture Chamber.”
Maccon Manor truly did have everything and the Torture Chamber was proof. Cat’s father would have never allowed them to build this while he was alive.
Gyms were for normals.
This was like having a private YMCA. It was a good thing too. Werewolves were hard on equipment. Besides it wasn’t easy trying to expel all that supernatural energy in a public gym. What with the pesky business of having to keep what they were secret and all.
The Torture Chamber eliminated the need for that. It was equipped with an indoor track, Olympic sized swimming pool with all natural salt filtration system, free weights, three separate power racks, special made cast iron eights and kettle bells from twenty to four hundred pounds, a rock wall, monster truck sized tires to pull or lift, a row of punching bags, and top of the line fitness machines.
The floor was poured concrete polished to a shine and covered in five-inch thick rubber mats, also custom made.
The Manor was connected to the gym through a covered hallway much like you would see in a college annex. There were security coded keys and thumbprint recognition screens for the Manor residents, but Pack members were welcome to use it provided they had clearance.
Cat simply loved it.
“Hey! You asked me to help you lose a few pounds, come on, just a few more minutes,” Cat didn’t have the heart to tell her new sister that she was only jogging at about a quarter of her normal speed.
“Yeah, but you’re brutal! We’ve been at this for like an hour, Cat! Ooh, I think I need a break. I feel queasy.”
“Alright, alright, let’s just walk to cool down. Don’t forget to sip some water.”
“Deal.”
“Soooo-”
“So what, Charley?”
“Soooo, what happened between you and Tate last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you guys were in the kitchen until midnight.”
“Yeah, I was cleaning and he was eating.”
“Come on Cat, tell me!”
“Tell you what? Oh my God, did Rafe tell you about prom?”
“Um, sort of?,” Charley slowed down the treadmill and stared at Cat concerned.
“It’s okay, Charley, I’m not mad. I just wish he would forget it.”
