Blind date with a werewo.., p.11
Blind Date with a Werewolf, page 11
“Irrelevant.” That is an interesting word for the results of the last date you arranged for me.
So.
I accept your gift which keeps on giving—though I feel it is relevant to remind you, again, that I am not a Christian. Giving me a Christmas gift seems inappropriate for this enlightened and woke era.
Asil
Dear Asil,
The gift honors the giver. And what, exactly, do you mean by “woke”?
* * *
A few wet snowflakes dropped onto Asil’s windshield, making up in mass what they lacked in frequency. Wipers squeaking, Asil drove up the narrow mountain road that led nowhere but the Alpha of the Emerald City Pack’s house in the wilds outside Seattle.
A log mansion sprawled half-hidden in a canopy of trees, blending practicality with beauty. He pulled in next to the only other occupant of the fair-sized parking lot, a battered Ford Bronco. The dented rust-red hood sported a layer of snow, indicating that it had been parked for a few hours but not all night.
Asil got out of his car and took a deep breath of the frigid air, testing the smells of the woods of the Cascades against the woods of his home. Against the woods of his current home.
This forest smelled, not unpleasantly, of moist and rotting organic matter, even under its white coating. In Montana, fifteen below zero did not allow for much moisture in the air no matter how much snow was on the ground. He judged the current temperature somewhere in the high twenties because the snow was what his young friend Kara liked to call “fighting ready”—easily gathered into balls to pelt others with.
One moment he was casually thinking of a snowball fight Kara had initiated that had eventually enveloped most of the pack, the next he was ambushed by the memory of the scent of another wood, the unique smell of his home, his heart home. A scent that now existed nowhere in the world but was as real, here and now, as it had ever been.
His breath caught and he closed his eyes, imagining himself…home. His real home.
For a moment he almost had it. The warmth of the sun, the rich scent of flowers and fruits—his mate’s cooking filling the air. Ah, Sarai. He could feel the stone path under his feet, see the warm glow that leaked out of windows, knew that all he had to do was walk into the house and he would see her.
Part of him understood that the house that had been his home, the fields and groves surrounding it, had been gone for centuries. Understood that his mate, his Sarai, was dead.
It seemed like he would be caught forever in that long-ago moment, stuck betwixt and between, unable to walk forward into the home he had shared with his mate or return fully to the present. It was a subjective eon, but only a few seconds in real time before the reliving passed as they all had—so far—and he stood, once again, on a mountainside next to his car.
Sudden grief consumed him, as fresh as the day he’d found his mate’s body. His lungs refused to move and his heart forgot how to beat. If he could turn back centuries and exist only in a time where his Sarai lived, he would do that. He rested a hand on the open door of his car, grounding himself with the cool metal as he put his head down and fought to breathe through the pain.
He had not been able to figure out if such moments signaled an attack by the wolf who shared his battered, worn-out soul, or if it was some trick of the half of his brain that was human. But he had not had such a strong remembrance since his foster daughter, Mariposa, had died, at last, a few short years ago.
Dead or not, in each of the last two dates, Mariposa had taken a starring role. It was only to be expected that memory would hit him hard. But he would have preferred memories of Mariposa—she didn’t tear out his heart. Anymore.
The brisk mountain air cleared his head, but his wolf was enraged or grief-stricken—or possibly both. Asil could not tell. He considered the wisdom of taking a stranger on a date today, especially given the results of the first three dates. He needed to go back to the Marrok’s pack, where there was someone strong enough to stop him if he lost control of his wolf. Someone merciful enough to end him if he did not emerge from one of his relivings. He needed to cancel this foolishness.
In response to that thought—and he was certain that it was absolutely in response to that thought—a sudden stillness traveled through him from head to toe as, for that single moment, he felt something, someone, turn their attention to him.
And then that moment was gone.
Cold chills slid down his spine. He’d felt as though there was something afoot beyond bored werewolves who’d decided to involve the Moor in a game they could not win. There had been too many coincidences. Three dates—and all of them involved Asil putting spokes in the wheels of paranormal predators who were abusing innocents. Two of them had him cleaning up messes his foster daughter had left behind her.
Asil didn’t believe in coincidences. He did not.
Now he had confirmation that there were larger forces at work. Of course Allah had chosen the Moor to work his will. There was no better warrior at his disposal. Asil, who felt nearly as old and tired as he was, wished that there were someone more capable. But, of a certainty, there was not.
Asil smiled grimly. It appeared that he was going on a date, no matter how his grieving heart felt. He started toward the house.
It was unfortunate that the door to the big house opened at just that minute. The man crossing the porch and jogging down the stairs had not bothered with a coat—wolves didn’t feel the cold the way humans did, and this wolf in human form had no need to blend in.
He was bigger than Asil—not an unusual thing because Asil was not a tall man. The stranger’s face was scarred—most likely the marks of a knife. He carried authority on his shoulders with the unconscious grace of someone who was used to being in charge and getting things done, a mantle worn by people who knew what it was to kill in order to protect their own.
What he was not was the Alpha of the Emerald City Pack.
The world brightened and the shadows lost their power as Asil’s beast, frantic from the last few minutes—the reliving and the touch of Allah—focused on the approaching stranger with intent. Asil himself was mildly affronted at the insult—the Moor was not a lesser foe, someone to be handed off to lackeys. But it was his wolf who was, momentarily, in control.
Asil couldn’t push the wolf down—yet—but he did manage to stay where he was.
The big man, more observant than some, stopped, too, while there was still some twenty feet between them. The stranger’s eyes glinted with secret gold before he closed them. His muscles tightened as he fought, in turn, to hold his beast in check while Asil’s wolf’s presence stirred it to violence.
“My Alpha’s apologies,” said the man, keeping his eyes closed. He bit out those first three words as though every syllable caused his tongue to bleed. But he regained control of his voice and muted it to more courteous tones. “He had intended to be here, but one of our pack had a run-in with the police, and he had to go negotiate that wolf’s release.”
And he, the Moor, had been deemed the lesser threat? Asil’s wolf half lidded his eyes to better disguise his next course of action, deliberately keeping his muscles loose so the other wolf would not know when the attack would come.
“My Alpha said,” continued Not-the-Alpha, “if the Moor wishes us to die, we will die. He does not need me to give him leave to come to my city—it is a courtesy that he comes to us. Tell him that he is at all times a welcomed guest to me and mine, a thing freely given that we acknowledge the Moor could have taken if he chose.”
Oh, those words were sweet, like the words of a bard. They rang with sincerity and truth that allowed Asil to snatch back control and rein in his wolf. It took a few moments, during which the Emerald City wolf waited silently.
Once Asil’s beast resettled itself into the dark corner of his soul, Asil relaxed and considered again the Emerald City Alpha’s words, delivered by his messenger. The speech had been both humble and clever, he decided, a statement designed to hold the Moor in chains of courtesy. That “guest” bound not only the Emerald City Pack but also Asil to an ancient and unwritten set of laws that this pup was probably too young to understand, though his Alpha, a cunning and vicious chess player, well knew how Asil would hear them.
The Emerald City Pack had just offered him a key to their territory, and such things could bite back. But he did not intend to do anything this day that should reflect badly upon the pack. If unexpected events changed that, Asil would let Angus decide what he wanted to do about it.
“I accept those terms,” Asil said.
Angus’s messenger looked up, and Asil realized how much effort he’d expended to be so quiet while Asil regained control. His eyes were wolf tinged and wild. Asil could tell that though this one was strong of will and power, he had not yet seen half a century as moon called. He was thus vulnerable to the wild turbulence of Asil’s wolf, when his own would have been unsettled by the task of delivering a message of submission to a strange wolf.
Especially a wolf who looked like Asil, who in human form was not large and was much too beautiful to be a threat. Asil had used that combination to his advantage. Countless wolves had fallen to his fangs, betrayed by their underestimation of just how dangerous he was.
It was not Asil’s purpose today to abuse his just-accepted status as guest by forcing this perfectly fine and trusted member of Angus Hopper’s pack to attack him so Asil’s wolf could taste his blood.
That he was still considering doing that very thing meant Asil’s self-assessment of how well he was controlling his wolf was demonstratively wrong.
If not for his understanding that this mission was important, he would have driven back to Montana. In Seattle, the Marrok was too far away to help him. The Omega wolf Anna was too far away to help him. And he was reminded just why he had given up his Alpha status in Spain to travel all the way to the backwoods of Montana.
He had only himself here. He pulled that old wolf back again, tucking him deeper into his mind, trapping him in the steel of his will.
As soon as Asil had battened down his wolf for a second time, the other man turned, putting his back to Asil. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Give me a minute.” And quietly he muttered, “I didn’t expect…well.” He shut up.
He had good control for one so young. Asil felt the drop in tension as if it had been a balloon pierced by a nail. When the other turned around, his eyes were human blue and they met his own frankly before dropping in deference to Asil’s dominance.
“I’m Tom Franklin,” he said, “Angus’s second. In the name of my pack, I bid you welcome to Seattle.”
* * *
Ruby sat on the front porch of the huge old Victorian mansion that was the subject of their current ghost hunt while winter rain pounded the roof overhead and rushed merrily out of aged but mostly intact gutters. Normally she’d have been helping place the team’s cameras and various bits and pieces of electronic gadgetry, but not today.
She should have been traveling in a bus headed for some anonymous city where she could lose herself again. Instead, she sat on the railing surrounding the Victorian’s extensive covered porch, her back against one of the square posts facing Alan, who was similarly situated at the opposite post.
They waited for her Internet date to show up so they could use him to kill a monster.
* * *
“It’s perfect,” Alan’s wife, Miranda, had said enthusiastically.
Miranda had caught Ruby packing to run. Her very pregnant downstairs neighbor and best friend was a force to be reckoned with. Ruby found herself making tea and telling Miranda the whole story—something she had sworn never to do again. Miranda had summoned Alan—who had come up with a solution: a blind date.
“Perfect?” Ruby had said, repeating Miranda’s words incredulously. “Take some poor werewolf who is already being pranked with blind dates from Internet dating sites—and throw him into a battle to the death?”
Miranda shrugged. “You don’t know this kind of werewolf the way I do. Those old ones, the powerful ones, they deserve everything they get.” Miranda had opinions about Alan’s Alpha.
Alan laughed. “This will be fine. I called up an old friend who knows this wolf. Unless this person you are running from is one of the fae’s Gray Lords—” He paused with a little question in his voice, and Ruby shook her head.
He wasn’t that kind of Power, she was sure. She’d seen him bow and scrape before other fae in a way she didn’t think a Gray Lord would. Not that she’d met one of those.
“Then this Asil Moreno can handle him. My contact was pretty sure he wouldn’t even be upset about it. He has something of a hero complex.” Alan frowned a little. “Unusual first name. I feel like I should know something about that name.”
“He’s old,” said Miranda briskly. “You’ve probably run into someone who told you a story about him or something.”
Ruby thought, I bet he won’t be so quick to use a dating site after we get through with him. And felt horridly guilty.
“Moreno comes here,” Miranda pronounced blithely. “You be nice to him long enough that he likes you.”
“Sort of like a hooker,” muttered Ruby. Being nice to people wasn’t her best thing.
Miranda smacked her hand lightly. “And then you use magic. Your tormenter, called by your magic, appears to take you. And this werewolf kills him. Easy.”
Even Alan had given Miranda a thoughtful look at that. “Easy,” he murmured. “Hmm.”
* * *
And that was why Ruby was watching the rain pour down instead of being on the run hundreds of miles away from Seattle. She had her headphones on, listening to music, because music calmed her down and Alan had warned her that she didn’t want to be in a full-blown panic when her date appeared.
She didn’t hear Alan’s phone ring, but she saw him put it to his ear. After a moment, his head tilted just a little away from her as if he was watching the rain fall on the mostly quiet road. If she hadn’t known him so well, she probably wouldn’t have known he was making sure she couldn’t read his lips.
It was a moot gesture, because half a second later, quiet, sweet Alan said something in Mandarin in tones that made the words a universal curse.
He was loud enough for her to hear him over her music. Out of politeness, she waited until he disconnected to pull her headphones off.
He grimaced. “Stevie Nicks? Really?” Alan liked his music modern and raucous or classical, and nothing in between.
“Stuck in the eighties,” she said without apology. “Do you need to go? Family emergency?” More quietly, “Miranda?”
She didn’t think it would be Miranda. If something had gone wrong there, he wouldn’t be hanging around with that look on his face—he’d have been off the porch and running for his car. But Alan’s family owned an herbal shop, and Alan should have been there helping out. He’d taken the day off for Ruby’s sake. Probably it was something at the shop.
“No,” he said. “That was Tom.”
Tom was Alan’s pack mate, second only to Angus Hopper in the pack that ruled Seattle.
“What did Tom have to say?” she asked. “Pack business?”
Alan sighed. “I wish. Sort of. Your date—”
“The werewolf with the hero complex and the kind of friends who set him up on blind dates for their own entertainment?” she inquired.
Alan was upset enough he didn’t snark back. Instead, he said, “You know when werewolves enter another pack’s territory they have to check in with the Alpha.”
She nodded. He’d already told her that was going to happen.
“Angus was tied up and he had Tom do the welcome,” Alan said. “Tom just got through talking with him. We might have to rethink this whole thing.”
“He’s not strong enough?” Ruby asked.
“Tom said Moreno is scary as hell.” Alan’s voice was neutral.
“Which is what I need,” Ruby said slowly, wondering, not for the first time, why she’d let Miranda talk her into this. “Scary as hell” did not sound at all reassuring.
Alan nodded. “Yes. But maybe not this scary. I’m going to call my pack mate, the one who let me know about the way Asil Moreno was set up with these dates. He’s the one who told me Moreno could run off anything bad we were likely to run into. Let me grill him a bit. If I don’t like his answers, we’ll call the whole thing off.”
“Can we?” she asked. Alan was a submissive wolf—low in the pack power structure. She was pretty sure that her blind date wasn’t a submissive wolf.
Alan dropped his chin and looked away. “Maybe. Probably. Go back and listen to some ancient pop music and I’ll figure something out.”
She’d met Alan and Miranda a half dozen years ago. He shouldn’t have belonged to the small group of lesser magically enhanced people, including Miranda and Ruby, who had clustered together for mutual protection. As a werewolf, Alan was much more capable of defending himself than any of them were, and he also had a pack of stronger wolves to back him up.
But a couple of the witches in Ruby’s group of friends bought herbs from his shop and brought him with them to one of their meetings. His soft, unthreatening manner had quickly led them all—even Ruby, who was as wary as a beetle in a henhouse—to consider him one of theirs. He’d married Miranda, the only one of their group with enough magic to mix anything stronger than sleeping draughts, a couple of years ago. There was no question that Alan made their little group of mostly powerless misfits safer than they’d ever been.
Alan never complained about playing guardian, but he’d also never claimed to be a Power in his own right. The werewolf part was enough to keep most of the other predators at bay, though. Larger predators walked warily in Seattle because his pack was diligent about removing anyone who made trouble on that scale.
