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.”