by RJ Blain
Owl be Yours
A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)
RJ Blain
Owl Be Yours
A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)
RJ Blain
After a wildfire took everything from her, Emily Hall made do surviving as a homeless human by day and as an owl at night. When one of the men responsible for infecting her with lycanthropy comes winging his way back into her life, she must choose between revenge or resuming a normal life.
Until Daniel’s return, she never dreamed she might be able to have both.
Warning: this novella contains excessive humor, romance, action, adventure, and puns. No plots were injured during production but don’t ask about the wood chipper. Some things are best left unspoken.
Copyright © 2018 by Pen & Page Publishing / RJ Blain
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Art by Daqri Bernardo of Covers by Combs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
Magical Romantic Comedies (with a body count)
From Witch & Wolf World
Other Stories by RJ Blain
Witch & Wolf World Reading Order
Chapter One
Daniel Hollows had invaded my woods again, and this time, he dared to bring a dog with him. The ankle biter would inevitably scare my dinner away, and damn it all to Satan’s hell, I couldn’t afford to miss another meal because of him.
Instead of doing what normal people did, going home and making supper and spending time with family and friends, I survived hunting as an owl. Unless I got over myself, sacrificed the wreckage of my pride, and otherwise enslaved myself to a system that didn’t care about me as anything other than an infection risk, nothing would change. By day, I played at being a vanilla, ordinary human, mowing the lawns of the rich and famous in the Bay area, pretending my life wasn’t a hot mess.
At night, and over the weekends, I didn’t give a hoot what humans did, especially humans like Daniel.
It was his fault I was a lycanthrope in the first place.
I still wasn’t certain if he was the one who’d infected me or if one of his buddies held that dubious honor. It didn’t matter; the fight hadn’t ended well for me. Between the four of them, I’d gotten in my hits before they’d accomplished their goals. I’d broken an arm, a leg, and bashed in a bastard’s face so hard he’d needed reconstructive surgery to put his nose back together.
To be fair to Daniel, however much that disgusted me, he hadn’t wanted a fight at all. Some life lessons I’d learned well: lycanthropes stuck together. I doubted Daniel had known his half-wit, brain-dead friends had wanted more from me than a knuckle sandwich with a side dish of crowbar.
I went for the crowbar first as often as possible. It hurt more.
Daniel walked his damned squeaky dog through my favorite clearing without a care in the world, his lean body relaxed while his bright, blue eyes keeping a close guard on his overgrown rat on a leash.
I liked rats when I could catch them. Would anyone actually miss the blighter? I could swoop from my branch and strike before Daniel realized his dog had become my prey. I stayed still, waiting.
Killing the dog would fill my belly. Despite its ankle-biter status, I preferred actual rodents, and when opportunity allowed, I hunted other birds.
Dogs and cats were safe from me—usually. But when I was this hungry, I’d eat anything I could catch, which wasn’t much. Most lycanthropes had someone to teach them the ropes. Me, myself, and I tried, but I’d been lied to.
Pain wasn’t an excellent teacher. Hunger wasn’t, either.
As if invading my forest wasn’t bad enough, Daniel sat down on my favorite log, pulled out a bag of beef jerky, and shared it with his runty ankle biter. Last week, he’d brought sausage, and he hadn’t left even a crumb for me. I’d checked.
It’d been two years, four months, and twenty-two days since I’d last eaten human food, and I missed it. I’d also lost everything I’d owned to a wildfire and lacked the proper insurance to replace much, rendering me homeless with a strip of land unfit for hunting.
I still owned the land; I’d paid it off in full with the initial settlement money I’d gotten from Daniel and his quartet of friends for infecting me with the lycanthropy virus. If I ever found the courage to report to the CDC, they could help me rebuild the broken pieces of my life.
I thought about it while Daniel fed his dog.
Choosing to wing it and live in the woods hadn’t been my brightest move, but it beat admitting to anyone I didn’t have a home. I survived. I could be proud of my survival. My job let me get away with a lot. The boss had installed a shower for staff to use and a washer and dryer that I used at every opportunity, and no one cared what I did as long as my work got done.
I was the first to arrive and the last to leave, which made my life easier.
As always, Daniel picked out every scrap of jerky and let his damned dog lick the bag clean.
I hated his dog, and I bet it would taste even better after its snack. Why weren’t dogs on my allowed list of prey? Hunger ate at me, but I stayed on my branch, sulked, and hoped the pair wouldn’t drive away my dinner.
I willed them to leave so I could get on with my night and have some hope of going to work with a full stomach for a change.
No such luck.
Daniel’s half-witted, brain-dead friends showed up, and I considered doing several fly-bys and raking their faces. Brad’s surgically reconstructed nose needed a few extra scars. I didn’t care as much about Mike or Ned; they’d been followers in their lycanthropy party, although I doubted I’d forgive any of them for infecting me.
Well, maybe Daniel. I remembered. He hadn’t wanted the fight in the first place. In his way, he’d even tried to protect me, taking a few hits meant for me. More than anything else, that had convinced me he truly hadn’t wanted a fight in the first place.
He still had a scar near his right temple, a permanent reminder of his failed attempt to spare me from infection.
“Any luck?” Daniel asked.
“No luck,” Brad replied, taking out a bag of jerky from his pack and tossing it to the dog. “We’ve checked every damned stretch of woods around here. Will you give it up already? Who cares what happened to that stupid bitch? It’s not our problem.”
Great. A quartet of trouble with a dog in tow had come to my woods, and they’d come searching for me. Ever since the fight, Brad had forgotten my name, calling me a stupid bitch for landing him in hot water with law enforcement and the CDC.
I’d been a different person in high school, one who still believed in hopes, dreams, and everything else the young and the foolish thought possible before life exacted its toll.
I’d wanted to be a nurse.
Those infected with lycanthropy couldn’t become nurses or doctors. The risk of infection was too high.
I’d become a landscaper instead, doctoring lawns and old mowers since my preferred options had been closed to me.
Daniel and Brad glared at each other, and I thought they’d come to blows, but Daniel exhaled and shook his head. “It is our problem. No, it’s your problem. Remember what I told you?” His tone turned so cold I fluffed my feathers and hunkered down on my branch. “You knowingly infected her. You picked a fight understanding you were contagious. You did
so hoping to infect her. You wanted her for your pack. That you infected her pre-shift is unforgivable. That you’re doing a half-assed job of fulfilling your parole terms disgusts me. You started the fight. You wanted her to be infected. It’s your job to figure out which animal she became, bring her into custody, and finish making your amends. Do I need to remind you what’ll happen if you violate your parole?”
Brad growled. “Not necessary.”
“No one is going to miss a wolf if you fuck this up.”
“I wasn’t necessarily the one to infect her. She made us all bleed.”
That I had, and I took delight in knowing Brad harbored a wolf beneath his skin. I hadn’t known his species, and I hadn’t cared to know. I’d assumed wolf; most were. Delight and relief coursed through me.
I’d sleep a little easier knowing I hadn’t caught Brad’s virus. I could forgive Daniel for bleeding on me if I’d caught his.
He’d bled for all the right reasons.
The others could rot in hell for all I cared.
Brad clacked his teeth together. “I still don’t see how you dodged the law, asshole. You were there. You bled, too.”
Mike and Ned wisely backed away from the two men, giving them plenty of space should the lycanthropes decide to get physical. Even Daniel’s dog wanted nothing to do with the brewing fight, retreating with a whine.
In unspoken agreement, Daniel passed Ned his dog’s leash.
I liked that. Maybe the ankle-biter looked fit for dessert, but Daniel even cared enough about a dog to make certain it didn’t get involved. I found it somehow comforting he hadn’t changed much since high school.
He’d always done things like that, aware of those around him and doing the best he could.
“Angel-verified truth. The same reason you rotted in prison once we found out what you’d done. I meant her no harm. I never intended to infect her or anyone. I took every reasonable precaution to avoid infection. You meant to use the virus against her as a weapon. That’s why. You wanted to infect her, and you used us to make certain she was exposed. You knew I’d defend her. You knew she’d fight back. You knew. Then, instead of trying to fix the mess you made, a prettier girl caught your eye, so you went and infected her, too.”
Damn. I’d known Brad classified as top-grade asshole, but I hadn’t thought he’d been that awful. I pitied the other girl and hoped she’d had a better go of life following Brad.
Brad clenched his hands into fists. “It would’ve worked if not for you.”
How disgustingly typical. Why did so many men refuse to accept responsibility for their actions? Why did they think they were entitled to the first girl to catch their attention? I’d seen through him even in high school, which had helped motivate me come time to take a crowbar to his face.
User. Abuser. Filth.
A few scars extra to go with his broken nose seemed fair. I could swoop in on silent wings and strike before any of them realized I was there. The asshole deserved it.
Daniel blew air, a huffy little snort that startled me. The sound reminded me of the disgruntled half-hoots I made when dinner escaped me yet again.
“No, Brad. It wouldn’t have worked out for you. I would’ve fought you for her, and I would’ve won. I’ll still win. Don’t think this is a chance to get your revenge, either. It’s not.”
If I judged by Daniel’s tone and aggression, I was the grand prize of a cage match between rivals, and I wasn’t sure what I thought of that. I’d rather have been in the fray armed with a crowbar again.
Given a chance and a weapon, Brad would need a lot more than reconstructive surgery to put him back together.
Dark fur sprouted from Brad’s skin. Disgust over his lack of control, that he dared to shift into his beast over Daniel’s challenge, spurred my fury. I’d been infected because of a spineless asshole.
While I had no idea what Brad’s parole terms were, I didn’t care. Maybe Daniel could accept them, but I never would.
Brad took a step towards Daniel, his body contorting as he became his wolf.
I took flight on silent wings, and diving down, I raked the transforming lycanthrope’s elongating muzzle.
He screamed, and I loved the sound. Hooting a mocking call, I took to the sky to hunt dinner while my worst enemy’s blood dripped from my talons.
The stench of Brad’s blood scared away the prey, and not even washing my talons helped. The asshole’s virus lingered and clung to me, and the animals that should’ve fed me fled where I couldn’t follow.
It would be another hunger-filled day at work. If I could beat down what remained of my pride and go to the CDC, confessing my status as a post-shift lycanthrope, I could get a new license and replacement bank card. I could retrieve my property deed from my safety deposit box. I could have a home.
I’d gone so long living on pride alone I froze at the thought of doing it. The CDC knew I’d been infected. Everyone knew. While I’d attended the trial in body, the shock of my confirmed infection blanked most of it out, but Daniel and his friends had all been at the hearing. They knew.
They hunted for me. Why else would they invade my forest? In time, they might even find me. The virus had changed me, even my scent, but it was only a matter of time until someone found me and discovered the truth.
I could make things so much easier on myself if I confessed my sins, paid whatever fines the CDC deemed fit for hiding my changed status as a post-shift lycanthrope, and move on with my life.
As always, I faltered at the moving on part. What did I have to move on to? I couldn’t chase any of my childhood dreams. The virus barred me from doing so much. Few wanted pre-shift lycanthropes, fewer still wanted someone who was contagious, and only rare companies embraced the post-shift lycanthrope.
I lacked the prized hybrid form, which opened so many doors.
My boss believed I was recently infected, which was why I got away with working for him. He didn’t care. If anything, my infection status made his life easier. The virus ensured I’d recover from a work accident quicker than vanilla humans, and as long as I neutralized any blood I shed, he viewed it as an acceptable risk.
He even kept a fresh stock of neutralizer on hand and in my truck if I needed it.
To keep the workplace peace, he kept quiet about my status as a lycanthrope.
Maybe I couldn’t move on with my life, but he’d given me some peace and a life with purpose, allowing me to pretend I belonged.
I hated Mondays more than most, although I pretended I enjoyed them. No one would understand. My failed hunts over the weekend would leave me shaking with exhaustion by Friday, and I’d drink as much water as I could to hold the hunger pangs at bay.
As always, I was the first to arrive, raw from my typical shift a few blocks away. My clothes had survived being stashed for the weekend without incident, much to my relief. I took a quick shower and began my weekly ritual of guzzling enough water to trick my stomach into believing it was full. The tedious process of loading the mowers and other tools onto the trucks would eat up most of my morning and keep me busy.
Handling the entire fleet of ten vehicles earned me the good will of my fellow co-workers—and made the few who suspected I was infected look the other way.
If I could just replace my bank card, everything would be all right, but I needed a new identification card to do it. One raging wildfire had taken everything. A single stop at the CDC would fix everything, if only I were willing to talk about the day Brad had robbed me of my humanity.
I’d gone through one trial.
I refused to go through another.
I clung to my new-found consolation: Brad hadn’t been the one to infect me, although I wondered if the virus I harbored had been so repulsed by the bastard it had mutated into a different species.
I’d only met wolf lycanthropes, and whenever I smelled one, I avoided them. The confirmation Brad was a wolf reinforced my choice.
The entire lycanthrope race could kiss my ass. Thanks to
Brad, I’d die old—extremely old—and single.
And a virgin.
The day my infection had been confirmed, I’d made a choice: I would rather die than infect someone else.
Muttering curses, I ran through my equipment checks before returning to my truck, hopping into the cab, and starting the engine. The diesel growled, and while it warmed, I went over my list of jobs for the day. I expected regular customers on a Monday, but I didn’t recognize a single address on my list.
Daniel in my woods was a special sort of hell. Brad and company was the worst sort of hell. A full roster of new clients was a living hell I wanted to escape.
“What the actual fuck is this?” I howled, sliding off the seat, standing on the bar step, and waving my clipboard in flimsy defiance.
My boss strolled onto the lot, dressed in his usual overalls, ready to conquer the properties of his wealthiest clients. He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Your client list for today, Emily. Pat’s out with the flu, so you have part of his schedule. Isham’s so hungover he might still be drunk, so you got his critical clients for today. I’ve got you on extra hours tomorrow to give you a chance to catch up on your roster. Fit in what you can. If you can run late tonight, I’ll authorize the overtime.”
Normal people liked overtime; it bought luxuries and made the bills easier to pay. Me? I ended up with fewer hours to hunt dinner. After I got off work, I’d hunt as normal, hope I caught something for a change, keep the damned pellet, and drop it on Isham’s head. I’d buzz him a few times, too.
That would teach him.
“Is there anything I should know about these clients?”
“Your three o’clock is obsessed with inviting the hired help in. If you work fast, you might dodge her. If you don’t, good luck. She’ll try to feed you. Isham got food poisoning from a cupcake.”