Bitten 2 (10 page)

Who pissed in his Wheaties this morning?

“Please, have a seat, Riley,” Hank said, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. “Can I call you Riley?”

“Knock yourself out,” I replied as I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of the chair.

Sliding into the chair I tugged my shirt down to cover my midriff, once again wishing I’d gone with something less flashy. I’d had some insane desire to impress the pack master, but now I was more inclined to smack him in his pretty face and get the hell out of there. I hoped the wetness I could feel beneath my arms and down my spine didn’t show through the shirt’s thin fabric, giving away my anxiety and irritation, though I had no doubt that both men could smell the sweat on me.

“This is my second, Metembe Olujimi. Say hello, Metembe.”

“Forgive me,
Mon Roi
, but I will not speak to the
mutt
,” the dark man replied, his thick African accent giving his voice an exotic, melodic sound. Unfortunately, even the beautiful timbre of his voice could not camouflage his obvious disdain for me.

I cringed at his use of the slur, the name for a were who was bitten, not born. I’d heard the insult a few times before, even been called it once or twice by Chrismer, but I just took it as the asinine banter it was meant to be from the Day Servant. Coming from another were, there was a lot more weight and venom behind the word. As if dealing with the prejudices of the anti-supe whackos from Humans for Humanity wasn’t enough, it looked like I would also have to defend my existence to my fellow weres, too.

Well, isn’t he just one big fucking ray of sunshine?

Hank frowned, giving his second a warning look, but said nothing to him. Instead he turned back to me and said, “Please excuse Metembe. He abides by the old ways.”

“Old ways?” I asked, not missing the smug sneer Metembe threw in my direction at my ignorance.

“The old ways say a mutt is a mistake, an aberration that is to be undone,” Hank said quietly.

Undone didn’t sound like a good thing, and I had a pretty good idea of what it might mean, but my curiosity prompted me to find out for sure. “Undone?”

“Destroyed by the one foolish enough to make him,” Hank replied.

Yup, definitely not a good thing.

Even as his words set off warning bells in my mind, his voice lacked the sharpness I would have expected if he had believed them. I got the feeling they were words recited from memory, rather than conviction.

“Well then, I’m glad you’re not ignorant enough to follow the old ways, Hank,” I said, then paused, my unease remaining. “You don’t, do you?”

Laughing a deep and rich belly laugh he said, “No, I believe in a united pack.”

Behind him, Metembe scowled as he crossed thick muscled arms over his chest. His frown said he didn’t agree with his pack master, but he wouldn’t press the point. I smiled sweetly at him.

“What can I help you with, Riley?”

“Alyssa didn’t explain on the phone?”

“She mentioned something about vampires turning up dead, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

Ah, another test. Great.

“The Shepherd of the City believes that a were is killing his vamps,” I said bluntly. If he wanted to waste my time with his alpha bullshit, that was his problem. I just wanted to figure this mess out, get paid, and go back to avoiding vamps and weres along with the rest of humanity.

“I can assure you it was not one of my wolves,” Hank said, his voice full of conviction.

“You know that for a fact? The Shepherd assured me it was a were.”

“The Shepherd may think whatever he likes. It’s no skin off my nose.”

For reasons I couldn’t fathom, the pack master’s dismissive tone rankled, stirring the glowing embers of my irritation. As the leader and protector of the werewolves in Denver I thought he should be a lot more concerned about the situation than he appeared to be. Determined to make him understand the seriousness of the situation, if only in the hopes that it would help me figure out who was offing vamps all the quicker, I said, “If this leads to a war, it’s going to be a lot more than just skin off your nose.”

“Is that a threat?” Metembe asked in a rumble, stepping forward to defend his master. I had the feeling that Hank could more than handle himself and didn’t need the other wolf to protect him from me.

“You think I’m dumb enough to throw idle threats at a pack master?”

The sneer Metembe shot back at me gave me the distinct impression he thought I
was
that stupid, or at the very least, hoped I was.

Keep dreaming, buddy. I’m not quite that much of a dumbass.

“Metembe, would you please get me a fresh cup?” Hank asked, handing the other man his almost full cup of coffee that still gave off a steady trail of steam.

It was an obvious dismissal, but Metembe accepted the cup and gave his pack master a reverent nod.

“Of course,
Mon Roi
.”

“I’ll take a coffee, too. Cream and two sugars,” I called out to his retreating back. It was petty, but I smirked at the tightening of his broad shoulders. Across from me, Hank fought to keep the frustrated look off his face.

Once Metembe had moved out of earshot I turned my gaze back to Hank. “Your boyfriend seems a little threatened by me.”

A frown marred Hank’s face for a moment, drifting across his tanned features like a shadow. “Metembe is protective of me as befits his duty as my second.”

“Hey, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t muscling in on your little bromance,” I said, raising my hands, though the bite in my voice spoke of my irritation. “I wouldn’t want him to think I’m making moves on his prick master. I’m sorry, I mean
pack
master.”

I had better things to do than play power games with a self-entitled pack master and defend my right to live to a stuck-up were whose blood wasn’t much purer than my own, but I couldn’t resist the small dig at Hank and his lieutenant.

The same virus that causes lycanthropy in North America and Europe causes a different transformation in other parts of the world. Scientists have yet to figure out the genetic variations that causes the lycanthropy virus to create such an array of weres, but there are two things they can agree on—the virus always takes the form of an apex predator, and you always change into the breed of were that bit you.

Latin America has the bruja, a secretive race rumored to possess magical powers in addition to their ability to shift into the form of a jaguar, while the reigning were in Africa is the bouda—a powerful werehyena known for its bloodthirsty and violent nature. But the last time I checked, there weren’t any wolves in Africa. Metembe may have been born a were, but if he actually was from Africa then it was almost certain that one of his ancestors had been bitten. So why did he look as though he’d delight in tearing out my throat?

Must be my winning personality.

Being viewed as a second class citizen was part of the reason I had avoided weres and shied away from immersing myself in their culture. Now it seemed I was going to be pulled into their crap whether I liked it or not. Swallowing my anger, I schooled my features into passivity, figuring that the sooner I got the answers I wanted, the sooner I could get out of there.

“So if it wasn’t one of your weres, who was it? Are there many packless weres in Denver?”

Hank didn’t answer at first, but something in his expression gave me pause. There was a wealth of sadness in his pale blue eyes, and despite myself I felt an answering melancholy swell in my chest.

“What?” I asked.

“Only you.”

“Only me, what?”

“You’re the only unbound wolf in Colorado.”

I let out a stifled chuckle at his response, sure it was some kind of joke I just didn’t quite understand, or maybe some jab at my refusal to fall down on my knees and pledge allegiance to him. When he didn’t join me, my laughter died in my throat.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, unable to believe that I was the only were in the entire state who didn’t buy into the pack mentality.

A single shake of his head was Hank’s reply, his face contorting into something that looked an awful lot like pity. It instantly raised my hackles, and for a long moment all I could do was sit and stare at the scratches in the tabletop. I’d known that being a lone wolf was uncommon, but I’d always assumed there were others like me who preferred solitude to being part of a pack.

Looks like I’m even more of a freak than I thought.

Seeing the distress on my face, he reached out to lay a large, bronzed hand over mine. His fingers were warm and smooth, and I found myself studying the cluster of blonde hairs on each of his thick knuckles.

“You’re a rarity,” he said in a soft voice. “Wolves, by nature, are social creatures. We thrive on the solidarity and camaraderie of the pack. We need our brothers and sisters to support us, guide us, and protect us.”

As pretty as his words were, they weren’t anything I hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t the first wolf I’d met who preached the wonders of pack life hoping to win me over. Hell, practically every were I’d met had tried to lure me over to the pack way of life.

I guess now I know why.

Regardless of his softly spoken words, I wasn’t any closer to pledging my life to the pack than I had been a moment before, and, as much as I enjoyed the feeling of his warm fingers against my skin, I still hadn’t decided if I even liked the man. Withdrawing my hand from beneath his, I folded it in my lap.

Seeing that promises of love and support weren’t likely to win me over, he changed tactics. “Do you know why unbound wolves are so rare?”

Shrugging, I shook my head. “No. But I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”

Ignoring my jibe he replied, “Unbound wolves are dangerous and unpredictable. We were not built to deal with extended periods of solitude. It can make us... unstable.”

I got the impression that another word had come to mind, and he was trying to spare my feelings. I wasn’t sure which pissed me off more—his handling me like a china doll, or the fact that he might be right.

“Are you saying that lone wolves go nuts?”

“Not exactly.”

I could have asked him what he meant, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answer. I’d been a were for almost a decade, but most of the time it still felt new.

Eager to move on, I asked, “So we’ve established it wasn’t one of your weres, and I sure as hell didn’t do it. What about the other packs? There are other packs in Colorado, right? Or is that some other weird were rule I don’t know about? ‘There can be only one’ or something.”

“There are a few other packs in the state—there’s a pack in Pueblo, another up north in Fort Collins, and one on the western slope in Grand Junction, but I can’t imagine any of them doing something like this. They’re generally older, smaller packs. Many of the younger wolves join us or move away.”

“And that’s it? A few geriatric packs, and yours?”

Hank seemed to hesitate for a moment, a crease appearing in his tanned brow, before he said, “There is one other pack.”

“And?”

“They’re trouble. You’re better off staying away from them,” he replied, his lips curling back in the beginning of a snarl, though from the distant look in his eyes his ire wasn’t directed at me.

“Could it be one of them?”

“If it
was
a were, it’s more likely to have been a Blood Brother than any other pack.”

“A Blood Brother?”

“That’s what they call themselves, their pack name.”

“Do
you
have a pack name?” I asked, trying not to laugh. It all seemed a bit juvenile, and I felt my laughter winning as I imagined a bunch of weres strutting around in matching Members Only jackets.

“We’re the Stone Mountain Clan,” he replied, confusion flickering across his face as I continued to fight to keep my amusement from showing, and lost. “Did I say something funny?”

Biting my tongue to keep from laughing in his face, I shook my head. “Nope. Not at all.”

Reluctantly, he nodded, though the crease in his brow remained.

At that moment Metembe reappeared, carrying two cups of coffee. The man had taken an instant dislike to me, and the sentiment was entirely mutual, but at that moment I was glad for his interruption. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster of emotions.

I was surprised, and more than a little suspicious, when Metembe set a cup down in front of me before resuming his watchdog position behind Hank. His face was a blank canvas, unreadable and devoid of emotion, but I watched him closely nonetheless as I lifted the cup to my nose and drew in a deep breath of the heavenly smelling brew. I’d been told several times that The Vine had the best coffee in town, and, in spite of everything else, was excited to finally have the chance to try it. The rich, almost fruity notes of the dark beans curled under my nose, making my mouth water.

I hummed in contented anticipation, delaying my gratification just a moment longer as I watched Hank take a sip of his own dark coffee. I was about to take a sip when I glanced up at Metembe looming as a surly shadow behind the pack master and felt my shoulders go stiff. What can only be described as a sadistic smile curved his full, wide lips and lent a cruel sparkle to his golden eyes. Inhaling again, I couldn’t smell anything off about my coffee, but, looking up at his smug expression again, I knew that I didn’t want to drink it.