Slings and Arrows 4

Slings and Arrows IV

Victor and his silent friend flanked Scott. They were both big men, not NBA big, but still big, arms as long as orangutans, legs suspiciously wide and sturdy, and more than Scott could take on. One of them could have slung Scott over his shoulder with no more trouble than if he were a child. Getting away from both of them would be impossible.

Scott gulped the air as they left the restaurant, glad for its coldness and dampness. His feet scuffed along the cracked and broken pavement. They were walking quickly, fast enough that Scott had to pay attention to his footfalls. He felt his breathing quicken, tugging the winter air into his lungs.

“In.” Victor pointed to a panel truck, the simple words “Organic Meat” painted on one side in royal blue lettering. Victor’s companion said nothing but climbed into the truck, swinging easily into the high cab. Scott hesitated and felt Victor’s hand on the small of his back, pushing and aiding him into the cab. The seat was vinyl, cracked and marred in several places and partially covered in a seat cover of an indescribable color.

“Where are we going?” Scott asked, wishing he’d run from these two men instead of climbing into this truck with the smell of diesel and wet fur. Oreo smelled this way when he was wet.

“To Monty, where you belong,” Victor said as he turned the key over in the ignition. The truck roared to life with a choking cloud of black smoke.

“Hey,” Scott protested as they lurched out onto the street with a grinding of gears. “I work. You can’t just cart me off. This is kidnapping.”

“Shut up!”

The other man talked, or maybe more correctly snarled. Scott felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up in alarm, and he snapped his teeth together in a suppressed half snarl.

“Brent,” Victor said in a soft voice that did nothing to lessen the menace in the tone.

“He’s an omega. He should be silent,” Brent snapped back.

“He’s Monty’s and Monty will have you for lunch.”

Brent growled and spat on the floor.

“Not inside.” Victor, without turning from the wheel, landed a sharp backhand on Brent’s cheek. “You weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Practically,” Brent snarled back, but at least he didn’t spit again.

Scott stared resolutely ahead. He wasn’t getting into these men’s argument. The truck sped across town and onto the freeway. The only sound in the cab was the throb of the engine and the rattle of the tailgate as they hit the potholes. Brent stared out his side window, a scowl on his face. Scott wished they’d turn on the radio, anything to pass the time. The truck had a radio; it looked like it was AM only, but anything would be better than this silence. 

“Where does Monty live?” Scott asked as they bumped off the freeway and onto a state route.

“This way,” Victor muttered in a tone that suggested further questions wouldn’t be welcome.

This way was toward small towns that Scott didn’t recognize. They slowed as they entered a series of quiet and dilapidated villages with half boarded up main streets and low grade franchises on the perimeter. Vast barren fields interspersed by the occasional long, gravel driveway lined the road. This time of year it wasn’t green, but brown and desolate. Scott smelled the hogs long before they passed the rows of low slung, white barns. They turned onto a country road, its sign pole a lonely steel post missing the green metal identification. The road was narrow, not two trucks wide. Black and white cattle stood in a mud lot pulling hay from giant steel racks. A scruffy dog shot in front of them and vanished into the roadside thicket.

Several miles farther, they turned onto a gravel drive marked only by a battered mailbox missing its door and flag. They bumped and lurched through several hair pin turns and stops to open sagging green farm gates. Sheep grazed on a hillside, not looking up as the truck rumbled by. The house stood banked against the hillside, a ramshackle farmhouse with a crumbling sidewalk and peeling paint on the shutters.

Monty stood in the yard, a bucket in either hand and black rubber boots that went nearly to his knees. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and behind wire mesh strung between posts of all sizes, a flock of chickens pecked at the mud and rocks. Cattle, Angus, Scott thought from the black coloring, were grazing in a large field behind a black barn with a silver roof starting to show rust spots and a silo that had long ago stopped serving its function with no roof and the top third gone on one side.

Paradise, Scott thought brutally. He wasn’t Farmer Bob. He needed a high speed internet connection and modern conveniences like a grocery store closer than thirty miles.

“We made it,” Victor said unnecessarily and turned off the engine.

Scott wanted to ask was “it” this paradise of mud and peeling paint, but neither of his escorts were friendly nor had a sense of humor. Monty was the safest of the three, and maybe as soon as he stopped slopping hogs or whatever he was doing, Scott could talk some sense into him and return to civilization.

Scott dropped from the cab, glad to be away from Brent despite the damp and the mud. He wasn’t wearing the right shoes for this.

“You made it,” Monty said in a booming cheerfulness that would have been more appropriate if Monty was landing in the airport in Jamaica and looking forward to a week of sun and surf. “I’ll take him inside.” Monty dropped a heavy arm around Scott’s shoulders, preventing any easy avenue for escape, as if there had been one anyway. 

They walked to the back of the house past overgrown flower beds where even Scott with his zero horticultural knowledge could recognize honeysuckle and English ivy. The screen door banged, one hinge missing several screws. Monty pulled his boots off in a room full of boots, towels, coveralls, and stained baseball caps. Scott kicked off his own shoes; even in the short walk, they’d already picked up mud.

“One of these pair of boots will fit you,” Monty grunted, waving his hand at the boots cluttered into the corner.

Scott was expected to stay long enough to need boots? Of course he was; they wouldn’t have bothered to drive him out to this paradise if he was only having a cup of tea. He needed more than tea. Whiskey might be appropriate in this situation: neat, burning, and hopefully mind numbing.

They stepped through the door into the main house and Scott stopped and stared. The floors were a wide pine covered in colorful throw rugs. The kitchen gleamed and smelled of stew and baking bread. Potted plants, some in bloom, lined the deep windowsills.

“The outside is intentional. It keeps people away.”

“No Jehovah Witnesses,” Scott said with a harsh laugh full of his earlier panic.

“They’re stubborn. It takes more than a little mud, but yes, that is the idea. Sit down.” Monty pointed to a kitchen chair. “I assume you ate?”

Scott nodded, watching Monty fill a glass at the sink and drink great gulps. He was handsome, the flannel shirt tight over his broad shoulders, his trim waist accentuated by the thick leather belt.

“Thirsty?”

Scott’s throat was dry, but it wasn’t from thirst. He couldn’t stay here. Monty couldn’t kidnap his bride. This wasn’t The Arabian Nights. Scott had rights, and he had responsibilities.

“Nice house and I’m sure it’s a nice farm.” Farms were nice in oversized coffee table books with beautiful pictures of white barns and grazing horses. Mud and rickety gates weren’t nice. “I can’t stay here.”

“Scott,” Monty said too gently, his hand reaching to touch Scott. 

“Get away.” Scott moved to the other side of the kitchen island.

“Are we going to start circling the island?” 

Scott looked down at the butcher block in front of him, the wood scarred by several deep knife cuts. 

“The knives are in the drawer if you feel you need a weapon.”

“God, no. I don’t know. I want to go home.”

Monty propped his hip against the counter, not moving any closer. His eyes were steady, half hidden behind his dark brows. “We can’t turn the clock back. You are a werewolf, and you are my omega.”

“What is the omega?” Scott shouted, frustration making his voice rise to undignified shouts. “Everybody keeps saying I’m the omega. I don’t want to be the omega. I want to go home.” He wished for the millionth time in his life that he hadn’t been born small and fine boned. He couldn’t just walk by Monty. Monty wasn’t a huge man, but he was big enough to grab Scott and hold him dangling helplessly by his collar. Plenty of other guys had enjoyed that sport.

“An omega is my mate.”

“It’s also the bottom of the barrel, the last letter in the Greek alphabet, everyone’s whipping boy. Mister high and mighty alpha, I plan to be no one’s toy to kick around.”

“Scott.” Monty pushed his dark hair back from his face, accentuating his sharp brows and cheek bones. “You are in my protection. No one will touch you.”

“Don’t you fucking get anything? I don’t want to be in your protection. I’m an independent human being.”

“Stop.” The growl wasn’t loud, but it made Scott freeze, the hair on the back of his neck erect. “Good pup.” Monty, in the short second that Scott had stood frozen from the growl, had crossed to him. Monty’s hand rested heavily on the back of Scott’s neck. 

“Get off me! What do I have to do to be left alone?” Scott cursed himself, his voice sounded high and frantic, not the calm and reasonable demand he wanted to project.

“No. Stand here and listen.”

“Fuck off!” Scott tried to fight. It was useless. Monty was three times as strong and three times as practiced. 

“Stop it now, pup.” Scott’s teeth were shaking in his head. Monty had him by the scruff of the neck and was effortlessly sloshing Scott’s brain back and forth in his skull. “No more.”

“Yes, sir.” Scott dropped his eyes and licked his lips.

“Good pup.” Monty gently ran his finger down Scott’s cheek as he put him back on his feet.

Scott jammed his hands in his pockets and slouched against the counter. There was no way to look casual when you had just been so comprehensively shown that you were weak and nothing. 

Monty’s fingers glided through Scott’s hair and he nuzzled Scott’s cheek, the rough traces of Monty’s beard scraping Scott’s smooth chin. “Don’t pout. It’s not becoming.”

“And being forced to be the wife of Farmer Bob in this hellhole is?”

“Your tongue will get you in trouble,” Monty said after the echo of Scott’s shouts had faded. “I can and will give you space and time when we’re alone to adjust. You cannot speak that way in front of the pack. This is hard for all of us.”

“How do I get out of here?” Scott sagged against the counter. He had to hang on to his rational side. His body was reacting to the smell of Monty: sweat, hay, and a pungent masculinity that was overwhelming his senses.

“Is that what you really want?”

With Monty this close, Scott couldn’t think. Pheromones, hormones, electrical charges across synapses were all muddying his reason. He shivered as Monty stroked his cheek.

“You’re body knows where you belong.”

“I’m not your pet,” Scott spat, jerking away from the caress.

“No, you’re my omega,” Monty said flatly, hooking his arm around Scott’s neck in what should be a friendly gesture, but with Monty had an overtone of control. “Don’t fight.”

“Accept being a doormat.”

“Don’t,” Monty growled.

Yield. Don’t yield. It would be easy to bury his head in Monty’s shirt, to enjoy the fingers caressing his hair, not to think of what happened next. He was an independent human with his own job, his own house, his own future. He didn’t belong here.

“Monty,” Scott started, trying to sound calm and rational. “I can’t just disappear into the country. I have responsibilities. People will look for me.”

“Violet will explain it to your boss.”

“Explain that I’ve deluded myself into believing that I’m a werewolf. That should go over well,” Scott said sarcastically.

“No, she will say that you have family responsibilities. She is persuasive and believable; all seers are.”

Monty’s hands were warm and searing. The dress shirt and the tie made them no less branding. Scott wanted them on his skin. He wanted to taste and to feel and not to think, not to be rational, not to do the right or safe thing for once. 

“Werewolves have strong and visceral feelings. Let yourself feel,” Monty whispered in Scott’s ear, his lips brushing against the thousands of nerve endings that lined the delicate skin.

“I have responsibilities,” Scott said, the protest sounding hollow to his own ears.

“A responsibility to yourself, to me, to the pack.” Monty brushed his fingers over Scott’s lips. “You’re mine, pup. You want it. I want it.”

Did he want it? It would be easy to surrender to Monty’s demands. If only there wasn’t the werewolf part, Scott might be able to cope with the submission. No, who was he kidding? He’d known he was a submissive since he was old enough to know that he leaned toward men. He’d tried to hide it. What man didn’t? He didn’t even have the physical presence to halt every wannabe dominant trying to have a go at him, but Monty didn’t feel like a wannabe dominant. He felt like the real thing. He made Scott’s blood sing and his head spin.

“Are you done with the shouting and the protests?” Monty asked.

Scott shrugged. “For now, I guess.”

“My good pup.”

Scott should protest the nickname. He might be submissive, but he wasn’t into doggy games. He needed to stop thinking about submission and games. He needed to think about getting home. His dog was at home.

“Oreo’s at home. He can’t stay alone.”

“I sent Gregory for him.”

“The house is locked.”

“I took the spare key from the shelf by the sink.”

“What?” Scott spun in Monty’s loosened grip and backed away. He wanted space between himself and this man. He’d taken his keys.

“Round two,” Monty said with a ghost of a smile.

“You took my keys? You had no right.” Every muscle in Scott’s body was vibrating. If only he were big enough to punch Monty out. Scott would lose; Monty had already demonstrated how easy it was to control the little pipsqueak.

“As a human, I had no right,” Monty said in a far too agreeable voice. “I believe humans have a law against stalking and theft.”

“You...you admit it’s wrong, and you did it anyway.”  Scott couldn’t even verbally spar with Monty. He sounded like a nerd, a wimp, a useless kid.

“Yep.” Monty nodded. “It’s wrong for humans; they have different rules, but we are not human.”

“Shift for me!” Scout shouted. “I don’t believe it. I was drugged. I was hallucinating.”

“And you hallucinated the restaurant? I’ve been there; it’s hardly an ordinary family restaurant.”

“People have odd dining habits. I’m not responsible for their tastes.”

“Odd?” Monty questioned. “Didn’t it seem more than odd to you? Ethnic restaurants with unpronounceable foods are odd.”

“Thousands think they’ve see U.F.O.s. People embrace the illogical,” Scott said.

“You embrace the illogical by refusing to accept what you saw and felt. You are a werewolf.”

“Then why can’t I shift?” Scott had tried this morning. He’d stupidly stood in the shower, the water dripping into his eyes, and tried to change. Nothing. It wasn’t fucking possible. This was an elaborate hoax. But why him? Scott clenched his fists; he wasn’t going to fall apart any further. He wasn’t going to admit how hard he’d tried. 

“Did you try?” Monty asked gently.

Scott nodded, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“You’re young and inexperienced. It will take time to control the shift.”

“It’s bullshit! It can’t be done.”

“Sit.” Monty hooked his foot around the kitchen chair and pulled it out. 

“Oh, good, I can play the doggy again.”

Monty smiled and shook his head, his black hair brushing his shoulders in a way that made Scott swallow and think of things he was desperately trying to push to the back of his mind. It didn’t matter that Monty was drop dead gorgeous, that he sent dominant signals that made Scott quake in his socks, he insisted that he was a shifter. The gorgeous guys never looked at Scott, and when one finally glanced in his direction, he was psychotic.

“Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf might be more appropriate.” Monty slid his belt through the loops and coiled it on the counter. With deft hands, he undid the top three buttons of his green watch plaid flannel shirt and lifted it over his head, followed by a white T-shirt. He toed off his socks and unselfconsciously dropped his jeans and his briefs. 

Scott knew his eyes were bugging out of his head. The muscles rippled over Monty’s shoulders, and he seemed completely relaxed with his body exposed to the fully dressed Scott. 

“Wolves have fur.”

Scott stared. It happened so fast. He’d been staring at a man, a great looking man, and now... Scott drew back in his chair—the giant teeth, the eerie yellow eyes. Fear, the primordial fear of ancient man. Wolves were the enemy. They stole babies; they ate sheep. Scott’s breath came in short fast gulps.

Monty was in front of him again, reaching for his briefs and jeans. “Did that help?”

Scott gulped. Monty had been so huge. He hadn’t fit on the floor between the table and the stove. Scott had only seen wolves in pictures and maybe at the zoo. No, he’d been with Monty that night, but that was all a blur. Scott couldn’t remember—the cold, the moon.

Monty stroked the back of his hand down Scott’s face. “It’ll be awhile before you’ll shift that easily. I’ll help. The literature suggests that the omega only shifts when the alpha is present.” Monty pushed his black hair back from his face. “It’s complicated; little is known.”

“This really happens,” Scott mumbled. Monty had changed before his eyes.

“You are not having serial hallucinations.” Monty’s grasped Scott’s wrist, his hand firm, the fingers roughened from outdoor work and all very real.

“Shit!” The simple expletive was woefully inadequate, but Scott was a computer guy. He didn’t have similes and metaphors filed away neatly in his brain, and he didn’t have the vocabulary for what he’d seen. It had been real. No one was that good of magician. They weren’t at the movies with the three dimensional animation and computer generated graphics. Scott understood that. He didn’t understand why when Monty touched him that he licked his lips, swallowed, and only with massive willpower suppressed a whimper. He wanted to rub against that man, that creature. He wanted to bare his neck and show his belly.

“Good pup. I know it’s overwhelming.” Monty’s hand rubbed along Scott’s ear, the way Scott had rubbed Oreo’s ears thousands of times. Scott leaned into the caress. He couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t stop the whimper from his lips.

“What am I doing?” Scott pulled away, jerking his head away from that wonderful touch.

“Letting your mate show affection,” Monty said, still standing far too close for ordinary conversation. Scott couldn’t escape his scent. It filled his lungs and curled into his brain. Scott’s nostrils flared, trying to take in more.

“You’re not my mate. I hardly know you,” Scott tried to snap, but he felt as if he were in a drunken stupor. His tongue was too big for his mouth. He could hardly form the words.

“Damn! You’re shifting.” 

Monty pulled Scott up from the table. He stripped the tie from Scott’s throat and jerked Scott’s shirt over his head, the buttons flying across the room like small missiles. Scott flailed and howled; his pants were in all the wrong places. The room was a funny color, not dimmer, more like a television with bad color control, too many shades of gray for which he didn’t have a name. He swayed on the slick floor, his nails tearing grooves into the soft wood as he tried to find a purchase.

“Easy. Can you shift back for me?”

That was man. Man had fire and guns and dogs. Scott snarled and scrambled backward, his tail bumping the table legs. No, the smell wasn’t right. The man smelled like wolf, but the picture was wrong--jeans and bare feet with long toes. He should have dark fur and strong paws. This man wasn’t man at all. Scott took another sniff as he growled a warning to the jeaned legs. This was his mate.

His mate’s voice was gentle and coaxing, the words unimportant. Scott crawled forward, his belly pressed to the floor. He needed to touch. Scott drew a long breath through his nostrils as he lay whimpering in the shelter of the table. He could smell wolf and sheep and some sort of human cleaning product that stung the lining of his nostrils.

“Good pup.” The voice was for Scott. Monty was on his knees, his arms wide, but not reaching. “Come on, pup.”

Scott slid forward, wanting to touch. The hand grazed his forehead and rubbed his ears. Scott whimpered and turned belly up, warm urine splashing between his legs.

“I’m not angry” Monty’s voice was gentle. He stroked the fur on Scott’s chest. Scott whimpered and licked the hand. “Good pup. Can you shift back for me? Think about two legs, reading the paper, driving your car, playing those games on your computer. Think about your mother and holiday meals with your family sitting around the overburdened table.”

Scott yipped and nuzzled the hand. His vision grayed and then faded to a crazy swirl of lines and dots. He was cold. His teeth chattered in his head.

“Very good.”

Monty’s arms were around Scott. The stiff jeans rubbed against Scott’s bare skin. He was naked with a fully clothed man whom he barely knew.

“You shifted. How do you feel?”

Shifted? Scott was dizzy. He might throw up. He clutched his stomach, the room spinning in front of him, the colors so bright that they scorched his eyeballs.

Scott was hoisted up and pushed toward the sink. He clutched its shiny edges, his stomach roiling. 

“Being sick is common. Let go. It’s OK.” Monty was rubbing Scott’s back, his hand heavy and reassuring.

“Water,” Scott croaked. He swallowed hard, the bile revolting in his throat. At least his stomach no longer felt as if it were exiting in that direction.

Monty handed Scott a glass of water. Scott clutched at the glass, his fingers feeling awkward; they’d been pads only a few minutes ago. The water cooled Scott’s throat.

“Better? It’ll get easier.”

“This is awful.”

“I know,” Monty said, stroking Scott’s short hair.

“Why me? I can’t do this.” Scott clung to the sink. He knew hot, undignified tears were dripping down his face, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted out. He wanted to go back a week where this didn’t exist.

“Shh.” Monty kissed the side of Scott’s face, seemingly not disgusted by the shameful crying. “My pup. I’ve got you.” Scott was enveloped in those strong arms and plastered against Monty’s chest. 

Scott didn’t know how long he stood there, but at least the room had stopped spinning, and he could stand without shaking. He was buried in Monty’s chest. Every sense covered by the essence of Monty. 

“Oh, God.” 

“Praying probably won’t help much,” Monty said with a smile in his voice. “We’ve always been on the wrong side of that divide.”

“Can I have my clothes?”

Monty unwrapped his arms and pointed to the scattered pieces of cloth. “What’s left of them.”

Blushing furiously, Scott scrambled for his shirt and pants. He hadn’t realized his chest could turn crimson. Even his cock, had a hideous blush, and entirely inappropriately was stirring between his legs. No, this wasn't the time. Get dressed. Analyze the data. Scott was good with data; he liked numbers and projections.

His pants weren’t too bad, only the top button missing. His boxers would have to be consigned to the rag pile, and Scott’s cock bumped uncomfortable against the suddenly scratchy khaki. His shirt was missing half its buttons and hung open, making Scott feel like a perverted image of a college kid at a leather bar, not a fully dressed professional.

“Gregory is bringing clothes also. You’ll be needing them.”

Scott flushed darker, his skin burning from the redness. Maybe the ground could just open up and swallow him. He turned into a wolf; swallowing ground couldn’t be that difficult. Stop it! He had to live with this! Oh, God, he had to live with this.

“Deep breath. You’re getting shaky again.”

Scott clutched at Monty’s hand and shut his eyes. “It really happened?”

“Yes.” Monty’s voice rumbled deep in his chest. “You are a werewolf.” If only Monty’s tone wasn’t so practical and real, if only Scott had been drinking, if only he was suffering some rare and unheard of fever from the darkest reaches of Africa, he could convince himself this was all an illusion. It wasn’t. He turned into a creature with sharp teeth and a bushy tail. He was hanging onto a guy who turned into an even bigger creature with yellow eyes and teeth that had gleamed impressively in the small confines of the kitchen.

“Shit. I’m sober.”

“You are.” Monty kissed the side of Scott’s face. 

“God! What do I do now?”

“You stay. We learn to control your shift. You become my mate, my omega, my most valuable asset in the pack, my lover.”

“Simple,” Scott snorted and grabbed harder at Monty as his body recoiled at the sudden motion. 

“Calm,” Monty said with an authority that probably would have been frightening in any other situation, but here with the world spinning around Scott’s ears it was reassuring. 

“I’m trying for calm. This isn’t a calming situation. I’m a freak who only belongs in a science fiction movie right with the killer tomatoes.”

“Stop it,” Monty growled. “You’re my mate; you don’t insult yourself.”

“No, your henchmen did it for me,” Scott spat and immediately regretted that he hadn’t whispered. Shit! His stomach still wasn’t behaving.

“Sink?” Monty asked, way too calm.

“No,” Scott said grimly, willing the nausea to pass.

“What did Victor and Brent do?” Monty rubbed Scott’s neck, which felt way too good.

“Victor looked at me like I was a bug on the floor and Brent practically spat on me.” Why was Scott telling Monty these things? He could deal with rude people on his own.

“Victor looks at me like I’m a worm, so you’re one step up, but I will speak to Brent. No one spits on you.”

“It wasn’t on me; it hit the floor of the truck.”

“No manners,” Monty growled. “He’s strong as an ox, but sometimes... I’ll deal with him.”

Monty said it in a manner that was a hell of a lot more ominous than Scott’s boss on his worst day. Scott peeked at Monty’s face. His teeth were clenched, and his eyes were hard. This was not someone that one crossed if survival was high on the priority list. 

“He knows his place. I’ll just remind him,” Monty said in a softer tone.

“Victor slapped him.”

“I’m sure Brent deserved it. Victor is very loyal. He was a beta in my grandfather’s pack and now in mine. He’ll protect me and what is mine with his life.”

“He’s not friendly.”

“Most betas aren’t. Their job is to defend the pack.”

“And what’s my job?” Scott asked. To get pushed around by everyone. He was the bottom of the pack—bottom as in endless pit. 

“You’re my mate,” Monty said.

“I’m the omega,” Scott said, his frustration ringing in his ears.

“That isn’t a bad thing.” Monty kissed Scott’s forehead in a gesture that was too possessive for comfort. “An omega is a precious gift. I will cherish you, and my pack will cherish you. You are my life blood. The bond will be unbreakable.” 

Slings and Arrows 3

Slings and Arrows 3

Scott flipped through the files on his computer. Monty had left last night after declaring Scott fit. Scott didn’t feel fit. The office looked the same as always, but why did it feel so strange? Scott was sitting in the same cubicle he’d inhabited for the last two years; a picture of his mother and of Oreo pinned in front of his desk. Some people had pictures or inspirational sayings or goofy quotes all over an entire side of their cubicle. Scott had never felt the need to go overboard on the interior decorating. 

Scott shielded his eyes from the harsh overhead lights and braced himself to ignore their interminable buzzing. He’d never remembered the buzzing being this loud. Violet had always complained about the lights in here, but Violet was different with her long skirts, bangle bracelets, and scads of necklaces. No, it wasn’t her clothes; it was her strange beliefs. She had crystals and strange magic dust in her cubicle. Of course, she’d made more than anyone else at the same level on her accounts last year.

Shit! He was musing about Violet being eccentric, and he’d spent two days with a man who insisted they were werewolves. It was the most elaborate hoax Scott had ever heard; he’d even started to believe it himself. Scott forced himself to focus on the computer screen. He was supposed to be working, not speculating on implausible events. His stomach rumbled, a deep noise reminiscent of an impending volcanic eruption. He’d only had toast and coffee this morning; yesterday Monty had made an enormous breakfast after what had to have been an awful night on Scott’s sofa. It was an IKEA model: cheap, narrow, and uncomfortable. Scott raked his fingers through his short hair, his eyes resting on the screen, but the numbers and figures remained unseen. 

Monty was handsome in a rugged sort of way, if only he hadn’t come with all that strange baggage. Werewolf? Ridiculous. Farmer, yes. Scott believed that side of the story. Monty had calluses on his hands, and his cheeks were already showing signs of wind and sun. His boots had been nicked and scraped, not boots that he put on for the weekend grocery shopping.

“Daydreaming.” 

Scott startled at the rattle of beads and wrinkled his nose at the scent of incense candles clinging to Violet’s clothes. “Thinking.”

“What you need is a nice cup of tea. I heard your stomach growl three cubicles over.” Violet reached out for Scott’s hand. “We’ll take an early lunch.”

“I still have several hours of work,” Scott said automatically.

“And you won’t get any done until you’re fed,” Violet said with a laugh and a swish of her long skirts. “Come, sweetie.”

Scott bristled at the sweetie. He wasn’t a sweetie or a dearie and hadn’t been since he was old enough to escape the cloying pats of Great Aunt Edna. Sweetie and dearie were part of Violet’s charm, or at least Scott thought it was. She used it with her clients along with her astrology, tarot cards, and probably a crystal ball. Oh well, all the economic gurus used crystal balls; some just cloaked them in more scientific terms.

Scott shut his computer down and followed the trail of green and gold swirling fabric and wafts of incense and spices down the hallway. Violet grabbed her coat, a vivid and shocking pink, and pulled it tight around her slim frame. Beneath her long coat only the edges of her skirt and her shiny black boots were visible.

“Don’t you have more clothes?” she asked as Scott zipped his light windbreaker.

He hadn’t been cold this morning. It was only raw, not Arctic cold. Only a light frost had dotted the grass and trees, and it had been well on the way to melting off as he’d driven into work this morning. It would be gone by now, especially in the city with the heat of the buildings and the exhaust of the cars clogging the streets.

“It’s not all that cold,” Scott said, tugging the jacket collar up more to please her than because he feared the chill.

Violet raised a carefully penciled eyebrow. “I see. We have a walk.”

“I won’t be cold, but we could always eat in the cafeteria.” It was almost eleven, and the cafeteria started serving lunch as 10:30. It wasn’t the greatest place for a private chat with its warehouse feeling and glass walls surrounding three sides. Nothing said in the cafeteria would remain private longer than five minutes. Maybe that was the purpose of the naked space, so employees wouldn’t gather together and conspire.

“We’ll walk fast.” Violet said, holding open the door as they stepped out into the street

The city was only moderately busy. Most people who inhabited the warren of office buildings were still deep inside their cubicles, or if they were a bit luckier, behind oversized desks with a mug of coffee and someone screening their calls. Scott hurried after Violet who walked rapidly uptown before nearly disappearing into an alley between a Catholic church built for an immigrant population that had long ago moved to the more prosperous suburbs and a government social services office. Violet ducked into the third shop in the narrow alley, a small building with dirty windows and a simple sign marked “Restaurant” with no other elaboration or decoration. 

The air was rich and heavy with spices that Scott didn’t recognize. Couples and groups huddled around darkened tables lit only by the small braziers with their glowing coals. Meat roasted on spits, and Scott found himself salivating at the rich aroma. Violet was obviously familiar with the place as she pushed through a faded green tapestry to a back room lit by dozens of candles on tables and in heavy gold sconces along the wall.

“This looks like a fire hazard,” Scott said, not taking his eyes from the flickering flames as one candle encroached on a decorative tassel.

“We’ll sit close to the door.” Violet chose a booth next to a door with a hand lettered exit sign. “Sit. The food’s wonderful here.”

The aromas tickled Scott’s nostrils, and he knew the food had to be wonderful, but that didn’t lessen the fire hazard as he eyed the doors rusty bolts. “Do you come here often?” Scott asked, trying to reassure himself that he hadn’t fallen into some strange and half forgotten world. This was the twenty-first century with smart phones and round the clock news channels. People didn’t light restaurants with only candles and cook with live coals on crowded tables.

A tall man, gaunt and unnaturally pale, sidled up to the table, interrupting Scott’s musing on fire hazards. “Dear Violet, have you brought a new guest?” he asked in a voice that sounded thin and unused. “Is he new to the city?”

“No, he just didn’t know. His background is rather limited.”

The man half bowed and faded back into the gloom without taking their order or offering any drinks. A young boy, nearly as pale as the first man and surely too young to be out of school, appeared with a bucket, a ladle and two pewter mugs. He filled each with water and disappeared without a word. Scott stared into the mug and sniffed hesitantly. It was water, cool and fresh all his senses told him. He held the mug up to his lips and swallowed a long, cold gulp.

“Is this your regular lunch spot?” Scott asked, his eyes roving around the small dining room. He wasn’t an expert; in fact he knew nothing about antiquities, but the tapestries and elaborate candle holders looked real. He’d expect them in a museum, not a dive. Maybe dive wasn’t the right word. At dives they served hamburgers or mom’s meatloaf. The air smelled of venison and rabbit and succulent lamb with wild berries from the native bushes, not chocolate shakes and french fries.

“Sometimes,” Violet said with a shrug and a rattle of beads around her wrist. “I figured you’d enjoy it; your type comes here often.”

My type? Scott didn’t dine in strange and smoky back rooms with antique tapestries and child labor. The young boy appeared again, both arms weighted down by heavy trays. He set a loaf of dark bread with a thick crust dusted with seeds onto the table along with a knife and a ramekin of butter. From his other tray, he removed a platter of fruits. Violet reached for the grapes and plucked a handful from the bunch.

“Uncle will bring the meats, Mistress Violet,” the boy said with a hurried bow. He scurried back among the other tables before Scott could ask about the meats or formulate any logical question about the restaurant.

“His family owns the restaurant?” Scott asked, hearing the banality of the question in his own ears.

“For generations,” Violet said and pushed the fruit closer to Scott. “You are not an obligate carnivore. Eat.”

Scott took a slice of melon, its flesh orange and ripe even in February. The juice dripped down his chin as he took the first bite. Scott was reaching for a second piece as a huge hand fell on his shoulder.

“Who is this? Is he rogue?” 

Scott turned, trying to shake the man off. He stank of tobacco and canned meats. Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck become erect. This was danger. He reared around; a low growl came unbidden from his throat.

“Not all werewolves will eat from your hand, especially one without a mate and without a pack,” the big man said and grabbed Scott by his collar. “This one is dangerous and out alone.”

Scott struggled in the man’s grasp, unable to shake loose or get purchase with his feet. He desperately sucked breath through his constricted throat.

“Put him down, Paul. He’s Monty’s. I can smell it on him. He won’t be dangerous now.”

Paul threw Scott back into the chair with a thud. “Filthy werewolves.”

“No worse than grizzlies, and you know Monty polices his own. There will be no problems.”

Scott rubbed his throat and reached for the tankard of water. He didn’t know what was going on; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was going on, but Violet in her skirts and baubles was defending him from the giant of a man who had seemed hell bent on killing him in a public restaurant. The other customers seemed oblivious to the ruckus. They bent over their food, eating heartily. No, that wasn’t right. Two men at a far table had stood; Scott stared into the taller man’s black eyes; the man nodded and raised an eyebrow. He was familiar, but from where? There was a scrape of boots across the floor and the smell of woods and livestock. He smelled like Monty, the same mix of hay and sheep and pine.

“What are you doing here alone?”

“He’s with me,” Violet said with steel in her voice that made all the men’s eyes snap toward her. “Victor, I assume he is yours. You need to keep a closer eye on him, or he will get in trouble. I cannot be his private keeper now that he is of age.”

“I will tell Monty,” Victor mumbled and stepped back from the table.

“Paul,” Violet continued in the same voice. “He is claimed. Stay away from him.”

“Yes,” Paul said and lumbered back toward his seat.

“What is going on?” Scott asked, clinging to the solidness of the water tankard, letting the cold seep through his flesh. He was dreaming. He wasn’t at the movies. “What is going on?” Scott repeated, trying to cling to any ounce of realism he could find. “I’m going back.”

“You mustn’t.” The words were final and made Scott sink into his seat. “It will not be safe. There are others beside Paul.”

“What is this place?” Scott asked, his eyes roaming over the room. People--oh, God, were they really people or some strange shifter creatures--had gone back to eating. Victor and his cohort weren’t eating. They were flanking the door, looking menacing. There was the emergency exit, the one marked with the cardboard sign, but Scott didn’t think he could get the bolts and chains off fast enough. 

“Scott.” Violet said, placing a hand over Scott’s. “This is a restaurant that caters to a special clientele.”

“People who shift,” Scott said derisively. “It’s a myth; it’s not possible.”

“You’re a werewolf; you shifted at the full moon.”

Scott stared at Violet. Was everyone crazy? Was this some kind of government experiment to test a group hallucinogen? His roommate in college had thought everything was a government plot. He kept gold coins in the sock drawer for when the currency collapsed. Werewolves did not exist.

“I’m a seer. I know. I was pretty sure before this week, but now I smell the shift on you.”

Scott drew several rapid breaths before forcing himself to breathe slower. He’d hyperventilated as a child; he wasn’t going to do that here, not in this weird restaurant. It had been bad enough as a child, sitting at his desk with all the other kids watching as he blew into a paper bag.

“Relax.” Violet smiled. “It’s been generations since my family pointed out shifters to the authorities. The Inquisition cured us of that particular vice; women seers were considered witches. The fate of a witch was easily as bad as the fate of a werewolf.”

“The waiter,” Scott said, gulping at the water.

“He is a seer, as is his young nephew. We monitor the shifter population in the area. Our safety is tied to keeping you safe. With a cell phone camera in every pocket and purse, a shifter who changes in an unsecured location puts us all at risk.”

“People do not shift into wild animals.”

“Some people do, and you are one of those some people. You cannot deny it forever.”

“I do none of those things. People do none of those things,” Scott shouted, rising in his chair. “I’m going back to work.”

“Do not walk out of here. You’ll kill Monty.”

“What?” Scott looked over his shoulder at Violet. It would only be a few steps to the door and another few steps to outside. Down the alley and left at the courthouse. He’d be back to the world he knew, back to the world he understood.

“You’re a true omega. Monty must have an omega. True omegas are rare.”

What was an omega? Nothing made sense. Scott belonged out there in the world where the rise and fall of the stock market drove the economy, not in some Renaissance Fair of a restaurant. 

The boy with the tray was back; his dark hair fell over his face, obscuring his eyes, his cheeks marble white in contrast to the black of his hair. The boy placed the meats on the table. There were no braziers; that must have been only in the front room. The meat smelled of lamb and rosemary. Scott’s mouth watered; he was hungry, starving in fact. He could imagine the meat passing his canines and sliding down his throat. He could imagine the juice on his lips. Scott reached forward and picked up a cube of meat. He licked his lips. He chewed and swallowed. He reached for the next piece. He couldn’t stop himself; he gulped down the next piece.

“Sit down; you’re making Victor nervous.” Violet tapped the chair with her hand. Her nails were pink today. Last week they’d been black, or maybe it was green.

Scott perched on the chair and reached for another piece of meat. He had to have the meat. The juice, the spices, the warmth--he had to have it all. He needed meat; his body required meat.

Violet pushed the platter closer to Scott. “I prefer the fruit.”

That sounded so ordinary, talking about food preferences in this crazy place. Everything here was crazy; the world was crazy. Violet was talking about fruit. She’d just with a straight face told him he was a werewolf, told him he was an omega. Omega was the last letter of the Greek alphabet; it was the physic’s symbol for an ohm, a unit of electrical resistance. 

“Finish the meat.”

Scott looked down at the platter; the meat was almost gone, only a few stray pieces were scattered at the farthest edge.

“You will need more meat now.”

Scott froze as he lifted a chunk of meat to his mouth. He didn’t need more meat; he wasn’t any different than he’d been a few days ago. He rarely ate red meat.

“Werewolves need meat, especially young werewolves.”

“I am not a werewolf,” Scott said loudly and sharply. He jerked his head as he heard a low growl from the back of the room. His eyes met Victor’s for an instant before he lowered them to the table. He couldn’t meet those sharp black eyes.

“Scott, you are a werewolf; I am a seer. We cannot change our genetics; we cannot change our destinies. You shifted at the last full moon. You are twenty-five; you can no longer escape your genes.”

“You know nothing of my genetics; you know nothing of me. I grew up in a brick ranch; I watched Sesame Street. I played basketball until I stopped growing. I’m not--”

Violet tapped her shiny fingernail on the table, the beads banging and clanking on her wrist. “Don’t lie.”

“I am not a werewolf.” Scott heard the desperation in his own voice. He had to believe he wasn’t a werewolf. He couldn’t be a werewolf. He was an ordinary guy. He ate turkey for Christmas dinner and forgot to call his mom on her birthday unless he programmed it into his phone. 

“Even you no longer believe that.”

Scott had never noticed the color of Violet’s eyes. They were green, a dark rich green of the forest with large black pupils. Her gaze was unwavering, demanding. Scott dropped his eyes and swallowed hard. Why couldn’t he stare back? Why couldn’t he demand to be heard?

“You’re an omega,” Violet said softly. “You must yield to authority. I am a seer; I have authority. That is why we were killed as witches, as the devil’s consort. The male seers were feared or revered, but the women were burned. Woman must not have authority; we must be the silent support of society, raise the children and care for the husband. A seer must do more.”

“It’s not the Middle Ages.”

“No, at least not here, but many still long for such absolutes. We are in this together.”

“What is this?” Scott asked, raking his fingers through his hair.

“This is living on the fringe. This is being different. This is not about flowing skirts, shocking nail polish, and dozens of incense candles. In fact I hate incense,” Violet said with a wry grin. “It clogs my sinuses.”

“Why do you burn incense?” It was a stupid question. Of all the questions he should ask that was one of the stupidest. He should ask Victor and his buddy about Monty. How did Violet know Monty? 

“I was afraid you’d smell me.”

“Smell you?”

“Your senses are heightened. A werewolf can recognize a seer. It’s an evolutionary necessity.”

Scott fingered his water tankard. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been different enough. He’d never known his father. He was a gay kid in a small town. Maybe he’d been lucky that way. He’d kept it under the radar through high school. He’d known, but he buried it in the computers, in games with mythical creatures and brave warriors. He hadn’t known about this--a werewolf, an omega. He swallowed a gulp of water. He’d known he was a submissive. He didn’t want to be. He fought it, and he denied it, but he knew. An omega was a submissive. Monty hadn’t come out and said it. Violet wasn’t saying it, but who else would go with an alpha? Who else would want an alpha? Want? 

He didn’t know Monty; he couldn’t want Monty. Monty was the man who’d broken into his house, who invaded his couch. He’d cooked Scott breakfast and dinner. Monty had talked or tried to talk. He’d slept on the couch. He hadn’t touched Scott. Well, he’d stroked Scott’s hair and helped him in the shower, but he hadn’t touched him, not in the way Scott had wanted.

Wanted?

Scott had wanted it. He’d wanted to submit to Monty. Scott could still smell the scent; he could still feel the warmth of Monty’s hands on his skin.

Scott dipped his fingers in the water and sniffed it. It was water. He wasn’t drugged. He could still taste the meat in his mouth; he could still feel where his collar had chafed his neck. He could feel Victor’s eyes burning through him. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened; he swallowed a growl.

“Let’s pretend I’m one of these things, a shifter, a werewolf, like in the games. What are the rules? What do I do?” Scott could play games; he was good at role playing games.

“You go to Monty. You belong with Monty. You will only be safe with Monty,” Violet said.

“I like the long form rules, not the short form,” Scott said, trying to sound flippant. 

“What has Monty told you?”

Scott shrugged. “Not much.” Monty hadn’t said anything about this: shifters of all shapes, seers, crazy restaurants. Scott looked around the restaurant, keeping his eyes well away from Victor. The tables were crowded with people--no, not people shifters. Some at first glance looked normal; none looked any odder than Violet. There was a man in a baseball cap for a perennial losing team on the opposite coast. There was a woman in a skirt and a cardigan sweater. She looked like his second grade teacher, who read Little House on the Prairie incessantly, and had written in Scott’s report that he was too shy and should play dodge ball. He’d hated dodge ball, almost as much as he hated Little House on the Prairie.

“Monty is the alpha of the pack.”

“I know that.” It was the only thing Scott knew, but what did it mean? What were the rules of interacting with an alpha? Games had rules. The wizard could prepare the sleeping draught, and the knight could swing the broadsword. After three levels, you could survive a stabbing. What were the rules of a werewolf?

“He’s different than most, different than all that I know.” Violet said, leaning toward Scott. “He wants a male for a mate; he requires a male for a mate.”

“He’s gay. I know we’re the favorite whipping boys of the politicians, but we’re not that different.”

“Monty is a werewolf, not a human, and he’s an alpha werewolf.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So he did tell you. Werewolves mate out of species. They mate to procreate.”

“We can’t procreate. Two sperm together do not make a baby.”

“Brilliant. You learned something in sex-ed.”

“What else am I supposed to say?” Scott smacked the table with his palm. “What does this mean? What am I supposed to do?”

“You need to go with Monty. You need to ask Monty.”

“He talks about fucking myths. What does it mean for me?” Scott tugged at his tie. He was suddenly hot. It was stifling in here. He needed air.

“Scott.” Violet ran her finger down her tankard of water. “There is little known of this. Monty must depend on myths and legends. He cannot look to his pack or to his father. The two of you must find your way together.”

“Is that all you can tell me?” Scott leaned across the table. He wasn’t good at this intimidation thing. In fact he was terrible at it, but he had to know. He was an omega. He was a werewolf. What did it mean? It couldn’t mean what he’d found on the internet. None of that could be true.

“Even as a seer, I don’t know all,” Violet said after a long pause. “The alpha and omega pairs are obscure in our past. Our history mirrors the ways of those around us when such things were not done.” Violet paused again and rotated a string of beads around her neck. “The pack will accept it. Monty is strong and well regarded, but you must stand at his back and protect his flank. No children means the next alpha must be picked from the betas. Leadership vacuums are dangerous; the pack will fear this. You must convince them that you are Monty’s true mate. Legend suggests that the great werewolves of the past may have been an alpha and omega pair; you must make the pack believe this.”

“But what do I do?”

“You do as Monty requires.”

“I have my own life.”

“You are an omega; your life is with your alpha.”

“How do you know I’m this, this omega thing; I’m not a slave, groveling at my master’s feet.”

“You’re an omega. I can’t tell you why and how, but I can tell you that you know. You belong with Monty. Go to him now.”

“I have work.”

“And you were getting none done. I’ll tell the boss you fell ill at lunch. Go. Victor will take you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Victor rise. He beckoned with a jerk of his chin.

“Go. It will work out.” Violet smiled. “I pick the best stocks. I can pick the best mates too.”

“This isn’t a joke.” Scott banged his fist on the table, rattling the plates.

“No, it’s not,” Violet said steadily, “but wallowing in anguish will not make it easier or better. Go.”

Slings and Arrows 2

Slings and Arrows 

Chapter 2

Monty had scoured the cupboards and refrigerator. Either Scott had planned a grocery run, ate out every meal, or lived on pickings that wouldn’t feed a hungry rabbit. Monty guessed the latter. In human form, Scott might be appealing if little boys and waifs floated your boat. In wolf form, he’d looked downright skinny with ribs showing under his coat and a backbone prominent to touch. No wolf in his pack looked like that. Monty had been alpha for five years, and he prided himself on the strength of his pack. 

He had fresh game from last night. A doe who had been hit by a car was easy pickings. They’d brought her down with a slashing tear to her one good hind leg and then a quick finish to her jugular. Usually Monty would have led the hunt, but last night he’d been busy babysitting his new charge Scott. Monty hadn’t even known his name until he’d found the wallet on the dash. He knew all the young members entering the pack or at least he thought he had until last night. Scott Aiken was in none of his record books. No one named Aiken was in the record books. Monty had a good memory for names; an alpha was responsible for his past, present, and future pack. He’d studied the ancient tomes recorded since the earliest monks carefully wrote of the daily events in their manuscripts.

The non-shifters knew of the manuscripts describing the creation of the Slavic alphabet and Vladimir’s conversion to Christianity; The Primary Chronicles of his people were a secret known only to those who were driven to the hills and the fields as the moon became full. They told of an isolated tribe spreading across all the territories of the wolf. Of course some records had been lost or never transcribed. The shifters of North America hadn’t developed a written language, but relied on a rich oral tradition of tales of Ghost Walkers and other beasts that intermingled within the main traditions of the people surrounding them. Monty’s heritage wasn’t as lucky. Nearly two thousand years of persecution as Christianity swept the lands. His people declared to be cohorts of the devil and killed by any means possible. Even today, they remained hidden from society at large; the traditions passed down from father to son or mother to daughter. 

Monty’s grandfather had been alpha of the Mundus Novus pack. As was often the case, the role had skipped one generation with Monty’s father faithfully serving his own father until the mantle fell to Monty. His father had been in the circle last night and dispersed without a word as Monty had dragged Scott into his protection. It was his job to protect all wolves in his pack, and Scott smelled of his pack: the woods, the wide rivers, the abundant white tail deer, the ancient smell of industrial London and peasant villages dotting the estates of the vast Russian interior, the smell of dying fish and overcrowded boats. All this was mixed with the modern world of copy paper, harsh industrial cleaners that burnt the nasal passages, and the fine film of diesel and gasoline that coated all the other scents. Scott smelled of this house and of the little dog that was hidden under the sofa. Monty would have to be careful of the little bundle of fluff close to a shift. The dog smelled of fear and fresh meat and of prey. Eating the pets was not the path to popularity.

Oreo’s tiny head poked around the corner. “I’d thought you’d gone under the sofa for the duration. You hungry? That kibble did look foul. I know I prefer not to eat food dredged up in the lab. I’ll bring some of the lamb I have in the freezer--organic, lovely. This will have to do today.” Monty scooped out a small portion of the venison and ladled it into the dog dish. He set the dish in the doorway and watched the dog retreat yapping to behind an armchair. “I know, buddy, but I’m safe in this form, and you’re Scott’s.”

What belonged to his mate belonged to him and deserved his protection.

No. Scott wasn’t his mate. He was a pack member, an omega for sure, but that didn’t make him Monty’s mate. The man in the sodden field, stunned and compliant under the light of the winter moon. Beautiful. His. Monty’s body had sung at his first approach, goose bumps rising on his arms, and hot electricity thundering to his brain. In wolf form his hair would have been erect, his ears pricked, and his tail proudly over his back. Monty had tasted the deliciousness of the wolf destined to be his mate in the moist, cold air between them. He’d stroked that fine hair and rubbed that beautiful cheek only in a way that was appropriate for a mate. Monty had felt the collective but almost silent gasp from his pack. They’d known also. His father surely knew that Monty had gone home with the new, scrawny pup. He wasn’t lead beta because he failed to observe. He’d expect it to be completed by tonight.

Monty ran his fingers through his long, sleek hair. He could have taken Scott last night. It had been his right. He was alpha. This was his mate. Once mated the ties would be everlasting. Nothing except death could separate a mated pair. He wanted Scott; his body demanded Scott, but Scott didn’t know, didn’t understand. Monty was too human; he’d heard that whispered enough times; he’d heard it in the carefully coded criticism from his father. No one had challenged him yet, but without Scott bound to his side, his days were numbered. The pack had seen Monty touch Scott. To back down now would be an unforgivable weakness.

Monty stirred the sauce. It was burning, and he needed to tempt Scott to eat. The man and the wolf must trust him; Scott must take food from Monty’s hand; he had to curl against Monty’s greater bulk and thick coat and take comfort. He had to accept his place; he had to want his place. In the past Monty would have taken Scott. It was his right at least according to the ancient texts, and some of the elders. Monty was alpha; the wolves were his to command, and his mate was to bow to his wishes. He didn’t want a mate who feared him; he wanted a mate who loved him.

Love, did he dare think of the word? They were cursed to mate out of their kind. Humans feared them, loathed them, and still dreamed of eradicating the last shifter. They were the devil’s spawn. Scott was so beautiful, so fragile, so unspoiled. Monty wouldn’t break him to have him. Monty couldn’t do it; he was too human. Without Scott, Monty would lose everything: his love, his pack, and probably his very life, but with him broken he’d lose his soul.

Monty turned the stove down to a low simmer. He had to win Scott over. He had to make Scott willingly give of himself. Monty needed information. Scott should have known he was a shifter. By tradition, it was passed from father to son or mother to daughter. The genetic gift, Monty had been taught it was a gift. It had been drilled into his brain that he had both the gift of a shifter and of an alpha. He must uphold the traditions; he must protect his own; he must mate. Procreation was a gift from the gods; a gift he was going to abandon. The werewolves couldn’t mate with their own kind if viable young were the goal. Two shifters together risked pups with little control of the shift, pups whose predominant state was as a wolf, not a human. The full moon heralded twenty-four hours as human before the shift back to wolf rather than the reverse. Monty was destined to mate with his own and to produce no offspring. He’d known for years, and as he consolidated his power as alpha he’d begun to hint that he was different. It wasn’t unheard of, just not in modern times. There were legends of a male alpha with his brother or a female alpha with her sister. Supposedly the first in the New World from the Old World after the water rose and destroyed the land bridge between Alaska and Siberia was such a pair. They were listed on the ship’s manifest as  brothers, but this may have been a convention of the time. It was impossible to tell if brother truly meant brother or if it meant what he and Scott were. Alpha and omega destined to run together.

Monty peered into the bedroom. Scott was curled into a tight ball, the blankets covering everything but a few streaks of his dark chestnut hair. His chest rose and fell rhythmically; he deserved to sleep. Last night had been difficult, and the future would be no easier until Scott accepted who he was and accepted his place in the pack and at Monty’s side. Monty tugged the door shut. He’d let Scott sleep. There was time enough for their difficult future. 

Monty crossed the hallway to the extra bedroom that served as a home office and storage for furniture that must have fit nowhere else and must have been carted from some college apartment. Rickety bookshelves lined one wall with a mixture of cheap paperbacks that could have been purchased at any grocery store or airport newsstand, left over college textbooks, and heavy weight autobiographies. A few were the popular ones on the New York Times best sellers list, but most were obscure historical figures.

Monty opened the metal filing cabinet. It was meticulously ordered, alphabetized with neatly printed labels. Scott’s college transcripts and diploma were neatly filed along with his mortgage contract and his car insurance. Monty knew he shouldn’t pry, but he needed information on Scott. He had to explain to Scott that he was both a werewolf and a member of Monty’s pack. He should have learned this at his father’s knee. Who was his father? Monty couldn’t think of anyone who’d been lost from the pack. Werewolves mated for life; it was an incomprehensible sin that Scott’s father would have left his mate. Only death would part them. A werewolf owed a lifetime of loyalty to any human willing to join in such a union.

Monty found Scott’s passport and birth certificate in a file labeled personal documents. The father was listed as John Doe. Monty took a deep breath and carefully filed the documents back in their place and returned to the kitchen.

It had happened hundreds of years ago; unmated werewolves in the throes of desperation to procreate forced themselves on the weak and unprotected. They vanished into the night potentially leaving an offspring who would be outcast and killed. Taking a mate by force had always been an acceptable practice; abandoning a mate was not. According to the ancient texts, abandoning a mate earned the harshest of penalties either banishment or death, and for a species hardwired for pack behavior banishment was nothing more than a sentence to a slow death. Fast death under the teeth of the alpha was more humane, no matter how much it made Monty’s human side shudder. He hoped to never fight for real. Posturing and scrapping was normal; Monty had badly scarred the ear of one of the beta’s the first year he ruled the pack, but a true fight was a rarity.

Monty stirred the sauce on the stove. It might be a rarity, unheard of in modern times, but it was a possibility if he failed to have Scott at his side by the next full moon, twenty-nine days to win Scott’s trust and loyalty, twenty-nine days to make Scott accept that he was not only a werewolf, but the rarest of werewolves, an omega destined to be the alpha’s mate. It was a love match, or at least it was on Monty’s side. He’d known the instant his senses had focused on the lonely figure in the field, the strange blue eyes rare in werewolf physiology, the pheromones that wafted off his mate, the short hair that would feel better between his fingers when it was allowed to grow to a more appropriate length. Scott was his; Scott had to be his. Monty banged his fist on the counter.

Bruising himself would not be a good thing. Being angry and possessive would be even worse. Monty was an alpha werewolf. Being possessive was who he was, but Scott wasn’t ready for that. Scott wasn’t ready for anything; he still denied his own heritage.

Monty ladled the stew into a bowl and after a quick search of the drawers and cabinets found napkins and whole wheat crackers. The smell would wake Scott when Monty went in the room. Scott’s senses were heightened after the shift, and hunger would overcome his fear and reserve. Monty would sit on the edge of bed, his own bowl in his lap. They would eat and chat as ordinary human friends. Could Monty even assume the role of friend? He didn’t know Scott, not as a friend. They hadn’t partaken in human customs so important for friendship: a shared meal, an evening in a sports bar where the loud shouts hurt Monty’s ears, a weekend trip to Las Vegas where the lights were blinding to a species blessed with night vision.

Monty pushed open the door of the bedroom with his shoulder. Scott was stirring, one hand sliding across the mound of blankets. He turned with a groan. He blinked, his blue eyes hazy with sleep.

“It’s you.”

It wasn’t exactly a welcome, but Scott hadn’t snarled and thrown Monty out. Of course, snarling probably wasn’t Scott’s forte. He was an omega after all. Even in his human form, he was going to be as submissive as Monty was dominant. On the extremes the wolf personality couldn’t be hidden, and for Monty and Scott it would be more extreme: two from the same pack, both wolves, both the same sex.

“Were you hoping for a movie star?” Monty asked, keeping the conversation light.

“No,” Scott said, half turning away from Monty.

“It’s going to be OK.” Monty set the tray on the bedside table and stroked his fingers through the short, dark chestnut hair. He wanted to touch, to soothe, to protect. This was his mate. Monty resisted the drive to wrap Scott in his arms. The protection and the dominance that flowed through Monty’s blood would terrify Scott. Monty had to temper his instincts; he must control the wolf inside of him.

“It’s not going to be OK. I have a stranger in the house, feeding me soup.”

It wasn’t soup; it was stew, but mentioning that didn’t seem like a good idea.

“Scott.” Monty searched for his most gentle voice. “We ran together last night. We are not strangers.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Scott’s voice rose in anger. “But I can tell you there are no fucking werewolves outside of Hollywood and those stupid books for tween girls. I’ve never seen a wolf use the stove.”

“I’m in human form as are you, and we’re werewolves, not wolves. There is a big difference.”

“And you’re going to tell me my neighbor’s a vampire?” Scott spat.

“Vampires are mythical creatures; werewolves are not.”

“And where’s the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow?”

Monty smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I believe Santa Claus is an invention of the human mind to entertain small children during the dark days of winter. There is a pack who frequents the Arctic Circle region. They have not reported elves madly building toys or flying reindeer with or without red noses. As for the Easter Bunny, I’m afraid she might have been eaten, but leprechauns do exist. Their native region is Ireland of course, but there is a small U.S. colony.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Some.” Monty smiled as he saw Scott relax. At least they were talking, and Scott wasn’t shouting, even if it was as silly as talking about the Easter Bunny. “We didn’t eat the Easter Bunny, and at least as far as I know leprechauns are imaginary creatures along with the pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. It’s been postulated by several of our scientists that sprites, gnomes, and other undersized mythical beings could and should exists, but none have ever been found, and they are either extinct or never existed. There are other shifters. Have you read about the unusual migration of the snowy owls?”

Scott shook his head.

“Owls are one of the shifter species. Since they have the ability of flight, they will shift for travel. It is the centennial grand convention of Strigidae shifters. We are forced to travel to our conventions in human form. Man and his machines are far too deadly for a wolf on foot.”

“Really,” Scott said sardonically.

“Really,” Monty replied in the same tone. “Scott.” Monty reached out and stoked the pale cheek. “You shifted last night. You cannot deny it.”

“I cannot shift into a wolf. It’s insane.”

“It may be insane, but it happened. Now eat the stew I prepared. You really do need to go food shopping.”

“Change the subject, why don’t you.”

“Scott,” Monty said in a low growl. “I am not debating facts with you. You are a shifter.” You are my mate, Monty added silently. Scott would flee if Monty said aloud what he knew, what Scott knew if he listened to his body. Despite the words, Scott gentled under Monty’s touch. Last night, which Scott refused to remember, he’d stood under Monty’s hand; he’d run beside the alpha wolf, graceful and beautiful. He was a beautiful man, but he was a more beautiful wolf. He was Monty’s destiny.

“Fine,” Scott spat, struggling to pull himself upright in bed. Monty knew if Scott hadn’t been a near invalid from the shift last night, he’d be in Monty’s face screaming. Those blue eyes sparkled with fury; Monty longed to see them adoring and compliant, but obviously not today. “Show me. Shift for me.”

“I can’t today,” Monty said.

“And you did last night. Bull crap! What did you do to me last night? Don’t fuck with me”

“Shh.” Monty stroked Scott’s cheek, pained at the resounding flinch of his mate. This was his mate and he was afraid of his touch. He needed to long for Monty’s touch; Monty knew he was fighting every instinct that ordered him to take Scott in his arms, to subdue him, to love him, and to claim him. His mate couldn’t bear his touch and flinched from the gentlest of caresses. 

“Get away from me you lying piece of shit! I almost believed you.”

“Believe me,” Monty growled, taking both Scott’s shoulders and pinning him to the pillows. Horrible if he were human, but they weren’t human. Scott had to know; he had to smell the pheromones. “I can’t shift because it was the full moon last night. For forty-eight hours after the full moon, we are cursed to remain in the human form. I am still a werewolf. Smell me.”

Scott turned his head away, refusing to drink in the scent that would establish Monty’s identity.

“Scott, listen to me.” Monty could feel Scott’s heart slowing. His pupil’s were dilated, the vast blackness almost hiding the rare and exotic blue. He licked his lips. Submission. Tentative and afraid, but submission. “Good pup.” Monty eased one hand off the shaking shoulder and with a single finger traced the shell of the ear and down the jawline. So much stronger when his ears were pricked and the moonlight flashed against the canines, but he was exquisite in this fragile form also. “Pup,” Monty whispered.

“I hate that name,” Scott tried to growl, but it came out more like a mewl.

“You are a pup.” Monty looked down at the body beneath him. He was no longer pinning Scott, and Scott lay exposed underneath him, his neck bare. Monty could take his mate; his body screamed to take his mate. No. Scott was too human; he didn’t understand what his body was offering. Monty dropped a chaste kiss on the exposed neck and rolled sideways. “Pup, someday I won’t have enough willpower to do that. Don’t offer what you don’t want taken.”

Scott looked over at Monty, his expression confused before it changed to anger. “I didn’t offer you anything. You jumped on me. I had some sort of accident last night.”

Monty laughed and ruffled Scott’s hair. “I’ve never heard shifting described as a car accident before.”

“I did not and I do not shift,” Scott said through gritted teeth.

“Pup, it will be easier for you if you do not deny it. Your father should have told you.”

“I never knew my father. He died before I was born.”

Monty stroked Scott’s flank, a male shifter without a father. The pack should have taken him in, should have raised Scott as their own. Orphan wolves went to the alpha’s family.  “Sit up and eat your stew. Tell me what you know about your father.”

Scott struggled into a sitting position with Monty’s help and reached for the bowl. He had to be starving, shifting required enormous energy. Monty hoped it wasn’t only Scott’s famished state that made him compliant. Monty wanted to believe he was making progress with his mate. He had to believe he was making progress. The other outcome was too awful to contemplate. 

“This is good,” Scott said after several spoonfuls.

“So I’m good for something?” Monty asked with a laugh.

Scott glanced at Monty. It wasn’t trust that Monty saw in his eyes, but suspicion and Monty hoped curiosity mixed with longing.

“Pup, I’m not an ogre. I even cooked for you. Now eat up.”

They finished the stew in silence. Monty needed to find out more about Scott’s parents, especially his father, but he was hesitant to break what was a comfortable silence. 

“Do you want more?” Monty asked, swallowing the automatic endearment of pup. He wanted to stroke his pup’s fur, to rest his hand on his back, to see those eyes full of bliss instead of fear and suspicion.

“No, I’m fine.” Scott put the bowl back on the nightstand and struggled to swing his legs to the edge of the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a piss, if you have to know. I don’t know about you werewolves, but we humans have to pee.”

“That doesn’t change much for us either,” Monty said, trying to keep his tone light. A snarling and snappish omega would quickly raise the ire of the pack, but Monty knew this wasn’t the time to chide Scott for his bad manners. He didn’t know he was a werewolf. How could he be expected to understand the social customs and the pack structure, to understand that he was destined to support and obey the alpha? Human society preached individual rights, but werewolves depended on the pack. Alone a werewolf was as good as dead.

Scott leaned heavily on the bed and groaned as he struggled to stand upright. “Shit!”

“Slowly. It will be better by tomorrow.”

“I have to work; I can’t be an invalid.”

“Call in and work from home tomorrow. You should be up to that.”

“So you can poison my mind! So you can continue to feed me all this crap about being a werewolf.” Scott took an ineffective swing at Monty.

“Don’t.” Monty caught Scott’s wrist and squeezed hard. “You don’t challenge me.”

“And why the fuck not? Get off me!”

“No,” Monty growled. “Yield to me. You are mine.”

“Fucking freak!” Scott crashed toward the telephone. “Get out of my house! Get out of my life!”

“I can’t,” Monty said. He could hold Scott easily. In human form, Monty was bigger and broader with real muscles from daily outdoor work. Instinct demanded he subdue Scott, that Monty take what he wanted and what he needed. But Monty was more than the wolf. He could smell the stench of fear on Scott. Every muscle in Scott vibrated in terror.

“Don’t.” Scott’s voice cracked in desperation. “Please.”

Monty dropped his hands. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t break this man. He couldn’t bear the terror in his mate’s voice. “I won’t harm you. I don’t want to harm you.”

Scott stared back, his hand clutching the bedside lamp as if he were going to use it as a weapon. “Don’t touch me.”

“Can you walk to the bathroom?”

Scott took one stumbling step forward and his knees buckled. He crashed to the ground, an unearthly wail from his lips. He curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around his knees.

Monty dropped to one knee. He wanted to do all the things that Scott wouldn’t allow, that Scott feared. Scott should be wrapped in Monty’s arms and tucked against his broad chest. Scott should be protected and cherished. He shouldn’t be on the floor, choking back sobs and shaking in terror.

“Scott, you need my help to the bathroom. I know you’re afraid of me. I know you’re afraid of what happened last night. I couldn’t imagine finding out alone and at your majority that I was a shifter. I knew as soon as I was old enough to know what should be spoken about only at home and what was safe with all.” Monty hesitated and scooted closer to Scott. “I’m your alpha. You are a member of my pack. It is my duty, my heritage, the very core of my soul to protect my pack. I will not harm you.”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Scott choked out, not lifting his head from the floor.

“What happened last night?”

“You drugged me.”

Monty suppressed a sigh. Of course being a werewolf seemed preposterous to Scott. He had no background except the drivel that came out of Hollywood about demons, werewolves, and vampires. The undead was preposterous. Latching onto the idea of a hallucinogenic drug would only be natural. Drugs would be something Scott could understand. Drugs had a tangible meaning for Scott.

“What drug could I have given you that would make you this weak and sick? Think, Scott. What did you do last night?”

“I don’t know.” It was a whine of a desperate pack member. 

Monty reached to stroke Scott’s back. The last time he’d heard this whine Jacob was stuck in a trap; his rear paw brutally crushed in the steel jaws. The pain had prevented him from shifting back. Jacob couldn’t open the trap with hands he didn’t have. They’d saved him, but he still walked with a limp, and his fur was marred by a jagged white scar.

“Scott, I know you haven’t forgotten everything. What happened last night?”

“I was in a field.” Scott’s voice sounded dreamy and detached as if it didn’t belong to the huddled figure in front of Monty. “It was cold. There was a full moon. Other people were there.”

“And then?” Monty asked gently.

“You were there.” Scott raised his head. “You were in the middle of that field. You gave me a sweater.”

“Good pup.” Monty stroked Scott’s back. “Go on.”

“I don’t know.” Scott stared at Monty, his eyes wide with horror or maybe terror. “You changed. You were enormous. You were black with a sliver stripe. No! No! It can’t be.”

“It was,” Monty said in the flattest voice he could find. “The alpha of our pack has always been marked thus. Such is written in The Primary Chronicles.”

“It can’t be.” Scott struggled to sit up and fell back against Monty. “It can’t be,” Scott repeated.

“Accept it.” Monty wrapped his arms around Scott and held his newest pack member. “I’m your guide now. You have to trust me no matter how impossible, improbable, or horrible it seems.” 

“It can’t be,” Scott repeated.

 “It is.”