Slings and Arrows 7

Slings and Arrows 7

Scott rolled over and shut his eyes against the faint light in the room. Sleep was better; he didn’t have to think when he was sleeping. Sleep was a safe place where no one told him he was a werewolf, where no one threatened to hit him or shove him into corners.

“Awake?” The word was spoken softly; the hand that moved over Scott’s hair was gentle, almost tender.

“Do I have to be?” Scott asked, not looking at Monty. He could smell Monty; he didn’t have to see him. He knew Monty was sitting on the bed, his long legs swinging loosely. He knew Monty’s black hair would be framing his face and shading his dark eyes.

“I would prefer it.”

“Why don’t you just yank me out of bed and beat me? You seem good at that,” Scott spat.

“Do you need to fight all the time?” Monty wrapped his big hand around Scott’s neck and squeezed. “Do you need me to force you because we don’t have much choice here. You are my mate. You are a werewolf. We are not a democratic species; we do not coddle the weak or the ill-behaved.”

Monty’s hand wasn’t creating pain, but the threat was blatant. Scott swallowed, feeling the fingers against his delicate windpipe. He’d entered a world he didn’t understand, a world with different rules and expectations. He felt his heart race in his chest, his body throwing blood to all the vital organs. Fight. Run. Do something. 

Give in. Curl at Monty’s feet. Lick his face.

“Get up.” Monty pulled Scott from the bed. “We’re going for a run.”

“No.”

“You have no choice.” Monty wrapped his hand around Scott’s wrist and pulled him down the stairs. Scott flailed against Monty, landing inconsequential blows against the hardened mass of a man. “Dress.” Monty threw Scott toward his crumpled jeans from this morning. “Socks and boots.”

“No!” Scott cringed at his own voice. It was high and whiny, pleading instead of demanding. 

The slap was hard against his thigh; the violence controlled only by the narrowest of margins. “I don’t care anymore.” Monty said and manhandled Scott into his jeans, no kindness or gentleness, big hands grabbing Scott’s waist, powerful thighs trapping him in place. “Boots.” Monty pushed Scott down onto a wooden bench and shoved his foot into his boot.

“No, I’m not going!” Scott screeched. He grabbed Monty’s hair, wrapped the strands around his fingers, and pulled.

The slap was swift and brutal, Scott’s head snapped back, banging the wall behind him. He struggled for balance as he was tossed over Monty’s knees. 

“So this morning wasn’t enough.”

Monty was swinging something at Scott. The boot. The boot Scott had refused to put on. It beat a tattoo across his already aching flesh.

“Stop. Please. I’m sorry,” Scott blubbered as the blows rained down. He couldn’t move, pinned between Monty’s knees, his arm jammed against his back. “Please.”

The boot continued to fall, horrible heavy whacks from his hip to his knees. Scott dropped his head and sobbed unchecked tears of fear and pain and raw submission. His voice was the high yelp of a screaming puppy. Finally Monty stopped and threw the boot across the floor. Somehow Scott could hear Monty’s ragged breathing even over his own whimpers and feeble cries.

“You idiot.” Scott didn’t know if the words were directed at him or merely to the space around him. He didn’t care; his only thoughts were to remain still and limp. “I’m too close to the shift. I can’t react like a human. I’m sorry.” Monty’s voice broke. 

Scott could hear the nearly silent sound of choked back tears. Monty’s knees had loosened, and Scott twisted from Monty’s hold without resistance, He knelt on the floor, his arms wrapped around Monty’s legs. Getting up was impossible. His muscles howled, and his head spun from the raw force. He’d been defenseless, completely at the mercy of a far bigger, stronger, and fiercer man. Scott buried his head in the knees of his punisher and cried, bitter tears of freedom lost and fear known. He was the captive; his place was groveling on the floor beside the stronger.

“Pup.” Monty’s fingers tangled in Scott’s hair, a gentle tug. “Look up.”

Scott obeyed. He forced his head up and studied Monty’s face. Monty’s eyes were deep and shadowed. Slowly Monty traced the stinging handprint on Scott’s cheek.

“I’m not a man. You can’t do those things. I’d rather not hurt you.”

“Yes, sir.” It seemed like the safe answer, like the appropriate answer.

“You’re hurt. You’re scared. I am too close to the shift for games. You must obey. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded and licked his dry lips. 

“Obedience, it’s not just a word; it’s a requirement for life as necessary as eating or breathing. We do not live in a kind world.” Monty stroked his finger over Scott’s lips, pressing inward and demanding entrance. Scott opened his mouth and obediently and passively let the digit enter. “I would prefer to show you kindness, but that is not our world. Without obedience you die.” Monty pulled his finger from Scott’s mouth and kissed his forehead. “Put your boots on. We must shift.”

Their boots crunched down the cracked and decaying sidewalk and onto the gravel of the barn lots. Scott could smell the wet animals huddled in the barns. Steam rose off the manure pile, mixing with the mist that was already heavy in the air. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was heavy with moisture, and the clouds merged with the rising mist. Monty marched Scott through the pastures, the mud and wet grass squelching against their boot soles.

Scott wanted to rest; every stride drove the ache of his ass deeper into his soul. He wanted to collapse against Monty into a whimpering, pitiful ball. Monty took no notice; he strode relentlessly forward. They crossed an empty field, the animals already secure in the barn at the approaching dusk, and climbed over a metal farm gate. The brush was immediately thicker at the far side of the gate, and the wet vegetation slapped against Scott’s legs and brushed his face. He ducked and slithered through the thickets of multiflora rose and honeysuckle. Monty seemed undaunted by the vegetation and continued his quick march forward. They scrambled up a hill and through a grove of cedar trees. Victor had insisted that Scott learn the names for the vegetation as they had trudged around the field in some demented form of exercise.

Scott was panting by the time they entered the small stone building hidden in the hillside. Scott flopped on the stone bench and groaned as his ass met the hard surface. He could hear the drip of water outside and the branches banging against the roof. His nose captured a faint odor of wet fur and mildew scrubbed away.

“Strip. You will shift soon. The aura is heightened here,” Monty said, already unlacing his boots.

Scott’s eyes jerked around the tomb like structure. “Please, I don’t want to.”

“You must,” Monty growled, reaching for the buttons on Scott’s coat. Monty’s voice had deepened to a rich gravel sound. He clumsily ran his hand over Scott’s head. He was losing his coordination as a man. “Follow my lead. The shift will be easy here.”

Scott felt goosebumps rise on his arms and chest as his torso was stripped bare. The hair on the back of his neck rose in an insulating fur. He scrambled for his boots, his feet feeling trapped inside the wool socks and leather.

Scott’s nails clicked on the roughened stone floor; his tail brushed against the stone wall. Monty stood in front of him, nearly a head taller and magnificent with his massive chest and ruff, the silver in his coat visible even in the dim light. Scott rubbed his head against the great body and nuzzled the broad face with a patchwork of faint scars across the muzzle. Scott’s tongue flicked across Monty’s mouth in a gesture of subservience. Monty stood with his body perpendicular to Scott, his great head resting over Scott’s back. He growled softly, and Scott turned, flattening his ears and licking his lips.

Monty trotted toward the door, not looking back. He knew Scott would be at his heels. The forest was alive with scents and sounds. Scott followed Monty in a slow lope as they crested the hill and scrambled down a ravine to a creek rushing below. The scent of deer was heavy on the rocks; the herd had been gone only a few minutes. Following Monty’s lead, Scott plunged his muzzle into the cool water and drank deeply. He pawed at the small rapids, catching the water in his mouth and snapping at the small shower. Monty growled as the water splashed his shoulder and slapped his front paw into the water sending a larger spray over Scott. Scott shook, the water flying from his coat, but Monty had already bound to the safety of the other bank, and with a yip and a flick of his head, he seemed to be indicating for Scott to follow.

 They galloped through the forest, circling a copse where the deer had obviously slept this morning. They soared over the fallen logs, Scott’s muscles working in ways he never imagined. He gulped in air and marveled at his strength as he followed Monty cat like onto a large rock. They sat silent for a moment, studying the forest around them. They were king of the forest, the top predator.

Suddenly Monty froze, his ears erect in a perfect silhouette before leaping off the rock in a massive bound. Startled, Scott scrambled after him trying to find the long, flat stride of a running wolf. He didn’t see it, but he heard it, a high whine and a bang, followed by a ricochet of wood. Gunfire. Beyond the hollow dead tree, Scott saw a flash of camouflage and heard the snap of a twig. He strained every muscle, leaping forward in a thicket of rose, ignoring the thorns against his coat. He skidded half falling into an empty fox den. He threw himself flat in the dense undergrowth, the only motion his frantic lungs, sucking in the cool damp air. The hunters’ boots crunched close, and Scott saw a flash of silver fur against the boulder. Monty had circled back; he was trying to draw the men away from his mate.

 Hide! Run! It was safe here in the impenetrable in the thorns.

A second gunshot ripped through the forest, followed by a frantic yip and the sound of breaking underbrush. That was a wolf running with no thought of concealment. Scott could smell the blood sweet and thick in his nostrils. He scrambled from his thicket, a howl rising unbidden in his throat. The hunters paused and turned searching for a new victim. Scott raised his head and howled once more before plunging hard down the embankment, tumbling for the sheltering rocks of the creek. He could hear the faint snap of branches far away. Monty was moving and running for safety. A third shot bounced off a rock and flew by Scott’s ear. They’d seen him. He flattened himself to the ground, galloping full speed through the shallow water and off a small waterfall. The water deeper below soaked his coat as he charged under the overhanging cliff. Above him he could hear the men, but he couldn’t make out the words, or he couldn’t understand them. He ran, not hiding the noise of his feet splashing through the water and clattering against the rocks. Let them hear him. They wouldn’t have a good shot. Let them go away from Monty. 

The scent of blood had disappeared along with the sound of the men as Scott slowed to a ground covering trot. He scrambled up the bank and sniffed the air. No men here. He peered down over the hillside. In the darkness, he could only just make out the lights of the farm below, the security lights over the barn doors and the distant glow from the kitchen in the house. He froze, ears erect trying to hear either his mate or the sound of destructive men. Only the normal forest sounds surrounded him, muted by the presence of a wolf. He studied the landscape, searching for something familiar. As a wolf his vision was far more suitable to the darkness, but he wasn’t versed in the lore of the woods, and one tree and rock blended into the next. 

He needed help, but phones and cars and emergency services all depended on him being a man. He’d never shifted without Monty; he wasn’t sure he could shift without Monty. The stone building was his only hope. Monty had said it made the shift easier, and Scott hadn’t felt sick this time--no spots in front of his eyes or terrible nausea. He thought the building was to his right above the trees that jutted into the pasture. He trotted down the narrow deer track, his nose searching for their scent as men and ignoring the prevalent deer and rabbit that would have usually tantalized his nasal passages. He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed the wind. Scott carefully sorted through the scents assaulting his brain: cow manure, leather, the spices of the kitchen, Monty. He plunged off the narrow trail, zigzagging in the undergrowth. Those were Monty’s boots.

Without his nose he wouldn’t have found the well hidden stone structure. He nosed the boots, wishing for the man who had worn them only a few hours ago. He paced across the small room. He needed to shift; he’d never shifted alone. Think about himself as a man; that’s what Monty had said. He needed fingers to punch the cell phone keys and a voice to sound the alarm. He wanted his feet inside boots, and he wanted to stand upright. 

Scott whimpered and struggled to stand on his hind legs. A wave of nausea buffeted his body, and he gripped the wall with cold fingers. Fingers! He was back in human form. He stumbled on shaky legs toward his coat and fumbled for his phone. He squinted trying to read the numbers, his vision not totally shifted from its lupine form. Victor had given Scott his number. Scott clumsily pressed the buttons. Please, let him hit the right numbers. 

“Hello,” a voice said from somewhere warm and safe.

Scott swallowed and tried to find his voice. He started with a yip before the words tumbled from his mouth. “They shot Monty! I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he is alive.”

“Where are you?” Victor’s voice cut through Scott’s near hysteria.

“The stone room.” Scott didn’t know what else to call it.

“Stay. We’ll be there shortly.”

The phone clicked off before Scott could say anymore. He stared at the blank screen, watching stupidly. He wanted to hear a human voice. He shivered, the cold biting into his naked skin. He dressed, the clothes unfamiliar against skin that only moments before had been covered by a rich red fur. He paced the floor, listening to the clack of his boots on the stone. He ran his fingers down the damp wall; his fingers traced the stones and stroked the thin layer of moss that seeped from the cracks.

Monty, he wanted Monty. This wasn’t his world. He didn’t know of woods and hunters and blood. He lived in the world of bright lights and blinking computer screens and where even the meat in the supermarket was hygienically packed in plastic wrap and shipped from some far away processing place.

“Scott.” The voice was rough and unfriendly. 

Scott spun around to stare into the hard, unyielding eyes of Brent. He loomed over Scott, the thick ridge of his brows somehow reminiscent of prehistoric man.

“Where is he? You left your mate. You left your alpha.”

“No,” Scott said, pressing back into the rough stones. “He led them away. He was protecting me.”

“Enough,” Victor snarled. “Brent, it is not your place to discipline Monty’s mate.”

“He’s only a mate in name. You can smell it; he hasn’t mated, and now all is lost.”

“No,” Scott shouted, “He’s alive. I heard Monty in the forest.”

“Where were you?” Victor asked, stepping forward and shielding Scott’s body with his own bulk. 

“On the hill. By the big rock. I don’t know the woods.”

“I do,” Victor said. 

Victor moved toward the door and into the darkness of the woods with Brent at his shoulder. Scott trailed behind, his stride half the length and his unfamiliarity with the woods hampering his pace. Scott struggled to keep the thin beam of Victor’s headlamp in sight. It had looked different on four legs; the branches hadn’t hit him in the face. As a wolf, he’d leapt over the logs and small crags; as a man he struggled with every lump and undulating surface. Scott was desperate for breath as they crowned the hill by the big rock. Victor bounded onto the rock and stared off into the darkness and mist. 

“This way.” Victor pointed toward one more identical tree.

They slid and scrambled down a steep bank. Brent broke a branch from a sapling and sniffed the edge. “Blood. See the broken bushes,” Brent said to Victor. “Monty’s always careful, and he wasn’t careful here.”

“This way.” Victor ran hard, looking more wolf than man, even though he was still in a man’s body. He placed his feet without fault, never slipping on the treacherous ground.

“Monty!” Scott threw himself down the hill. Monty lay huddled under a rock ledge, his head resting unmoving on his paws. Blood pooled underneath him and soaked the usually sleek hair of his shoulder. “Monty.” Scott ran his hand over the Monty’s broad skull. “Please.” 

The scent of blood was overwhelming in the tight space. Sticky, warm, and almost black it trickled onto Scott’s pants and splashed onto his boots. Scott traced his finger over the erect ears; he’d never touched Monty as a wolf, not in his human form. Scott had made Monty hit him today. Brent and Victor had probably seen the bruise on Scott’s cheek. Scott would never know the caressing hand of his mate. Tears dripped from Scott’s eyes and splashed on the soiled fur. Monty shuddered, his ribcage rising and falling.

“He’s alive,” Scott screamed. “Don’t die.” Scott covered the gaping wound with his fingers, uselessly trying to stop the flow of life forces.

Victor’s headlamp swung down, bathing Scott in a white glare. Brent landed on the narrow shelf with a single jump from above.

“Keep pressure on it,” Brent snarled, stripping off his sweater as a makeshift compress. “Keep your hands on him. His life depends on it.”

Brent knelt and swung the weight of the great wolf onto his back. With a grunt, he rose to his feet with Monty draped around his neck like a macabre shawl.

“Keep your hands on him,” The same instruction repeated with desperate energy. 

Scott pressed the sweater into the wound and wrapped his fingers into the dense fur of the neck. They scrambled up the bank. Somehow Brent had this incredible strength to scale the rocks and mud with the weight of a full size werewolf on his back. They charged down the hill, a blind run in only the flickering light of Victor’s headlamp. Scott thought only of touching Monty. He had to keep his hands against his mate. Thorns tore at Scott’s pants and stabbed his face. His blood was trickling onto Monty as they ran. His lungs refused to work any harder; the air a precious commodity in far too short of supply.

A truck stood at the bottom of the hill, the throb of the diesel engine out of place in the world of the forest. Brent laid Monty’s body in the bed and hoisted Scott up by his belt loops.

“Lay against him. He needs to know you’re there. Let the legends be true.”

Scott didn’t understand the words; he didn’t even try. He wrapped himself around Monty, burying his face in the fur. The house was a blur. Men with blankets carried them both into the house. White sheets were spread across the kitchen floor and a woman in a melange of floral house coat, heavy boots, and a wool shawl bent over Monty.

“He can’t shift back.” That was a woman’s voice. “Even with his mate he can’t shift?”

“No.” Scott couldn’t tell if that was Victor or Brent or one of the other pack members who now circled around the room, mostly big men with the smell of farms and woods on their clothes. 

“Is he going to be all right?” a soft voice asked. Gregory had inched his way forward, his face chalk pale as he looked down at his alpha sprawled on the floor.

Scott wrapped his fingers tighter in Monty’s fur. He had to be all right. He couldn’t do this without him. Should he pray? Humans did in this situation, but Monty wasn’t a human. Scott wasn’t a human.

“Monty is strong,” the women said as she bent over the wolf, her fingers probing the wound. “And he has his omega. He lives for his omega right now.”

Someone was clipping Monty’s leg and shoulder. The wound gaped jagged in the newly clipped skin. 

“He needs blood,” the woman, the doctor, said as she pressed on Monty’s pale gums.

“He needs a hospital.” Scott heard himself say.

“We’re werewolves.” Brent’s voice was harsh. “We must provide for our own or die. Helen is skilled.”

The women pushed her gray hair back from her lean face and smiled slightly. “High praise from you, Brent dear. There’s a blood collection jar in my bag. I need it. We need blood from the omega. His blood will match, and it’s his blood that Monty needs now.”

“His name is Scott,” Brent said. “You can at least use his name.”

“I need blood,” the doctor said, not lifting her eyes from Monty. “The wound is repairable, but he’s in shock from blood loss.”

“Scott’s our alpha’s mate. He deserves respect,” Brent snarled.

“Brent,” Victor warned. “Do as you’re told.”

Brent lowered his eyes for a split second in a gesture of deference to Victor, but Scott could still see the anger in the dark depths of Brent’s eyes.

Scott stroked Monty’s muzzle. He wanted those eyes to open. He wanted to see the man again who was hidden in the wolf’s body.

“Put them up on the table. We’ll need to get the bottle lower than his arm,” the doctor said. Scott started to move to his feet, but was picked up and placed on the table by Brent. Two men lifted Monty who remained limp and unconscious. 

The doctor moved toward Scott with a giant needle; it glittered in the bright light of the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” Brent said, intercepting the doctor’s hand. “You work on Monty.” Brent’s hand brushed over Scott’s knee in an awkward gesture of affection. “Don’t pass out on me here.”

“I hate needles.”

“Think about Monty. You are carrying his life forces now. You love him.”

Did he love Monty? Monty had beaten Scott twice today, and it was a beating, but they had run together. Scott had stood and gazed at that magnificent wolf. He’d basked in the few gentle touches of affection.

Scott flinched as the needle slid into his arm.

“Be brave. Monty deserves bravery,” Brent said.

“I thought you hated me,” Scott said and looked up into Brent’s eyes.

“I protect my alpha; I protect what is his.”

“I’m his.” That was all Scott was, an extension of Monty. He wasn’t a person or a werewolf. He was Monty’s possession. 

“Scott, that’s not an insult. Monty wanted you. Be proud of that. Now don’t stare at me. You have no manners.”

Scott dropped his eyes. Manners. Brent spat on the truck floor. Who was he to talk about manners?

Brent touched the bruise on Scott’s cheek, his blunt finger surprisingly gentle. “You’re a hothead like I am. We will probably not get along, but I will protect you. It is my duty and an honor.”

Scott watched his blood trickle into the bottle. He didn’t understand. He was too exhausted and shell shocked to think clearly. Brent had hated Scott. The beta had done nothing but snarl and growl at Scott. He’d treated Scott as the enemy, as a usurper. Scott studied Brent through his lowered lashes. Brent’s eyes were on Monty with an intensity that almost hurt the soul. Brent loved Monty, not as a mate, but with an intense bond. Scott was the stranger, the man who didn’t know the customs, who clashed with their worshiped leader. He was taking a piece of Monty from them, and Scott hadn’t even wanted it. He’d fought it. No wonder they hated him.

“I’ve taken more blood than the usual margin of safety.” The words sounded as if they were coming through acres of cotton wool, and Scott’s vision blurred. He slumped against Monty, only knowing that he should keep at least one hand on his mate. He’d give up his blood for his mate. Monty was his alpha. His life was Monty’s. That’s what Monty had been trying to tell Scott. He’d been so stupid.

“Sorry,” Scott whispered, his throat too dry to make more than an almost inaudible sound. “I’ll do better. I understand now.”