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.”