Howling on Hold

by E. J. Russell

  Hector dug a finger into the carpet. “Well, the other one’s not all that great.”

  “It is.” Tanner leaned forward. “Really it is.”

  “I wanted to give you something practical too. This’ll come in handy since you’ll be heading back to your pack soon. The knife’s like the one my dad gave me. A little bigger than a Swiss Army. It’s great for cutting vines in the field. I know Wallowa isn’t the same as Umatilla. Your economy is lumber products, not produce, but what the hey, you know?”

  “It’s great.” Tanner batted Jordan’s hand as he reached for the knife. “And it is not a toy.”

  “I was only going to look at it,” Jordan mumbled. Tanner relented and handed it to him. To give Jordan credit, he handled it with proper respect before returning it.

  Tanner looked around at his housemates—his friends—carefully not glancing at Chase. “Thanks, everyone. This has been one of the best birthdays ever.”

  Jordan bounced on the mattress so hard he nearly ejected Tanner onto the floor. “What are you talking about? It’s barely started. There’s cake! And tonight—your twenty-oner party at”—he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper—“the Bullpen.”

  “Wait. What?” Tanner had no desire to prove his legal adulthood by getting smashed at Portland’s legendary shifter bar. “I don’t—”

  “Come on,” Jordan wheedled. “Nobody else turns twenty-one for at least another year. This is our chance to see inside the place.” He wiggled closer. “They have fight pens in the sub-basement. Did you know? My cousin told me all about it.”

  “Even if we go to the Bullpen,” Chase said as he walked over from the door, “which is entirely Tanner’s decision, since it’s his birthday, you will not get any closer to the fight pens than the men’s restroom, Jordan. Are we clear?”

  “But, Chase—”

  “I said, are we clear?”

  Jordan plopped back down on his butt. “Crystal.” He hung his head and muttered, “Spoilsport.”

  Chase lifted the flap of his messenger bag and pulled out a small square box. He held it out. “This is for you too.”

  As Tanner took the box, his gaze snagged on his frayed cuff. Oh gods. I’ve probably got epic bed hair and morning breath, not to mention I’m wearing a sleep T-shirt that’d seen better days when it belonged to my jerk-face cousin Finn. “Th-thanks.” He accepted it with appropriate reverence because Chase.

  This time, not even Jordan’s barely contained excitement could make Tanner move quickly, because this was to be savored. Chase had chosen it for him. Wrapped it. Given it to him with his own hands. The moment would have been better if they’d been alone—then Tanner could have opted for the kind of thank-you he’d been dreaming of since the first time he’d seen Chase. The moment would be better if I didn’t look like last season’s scarecrow’s backcountry cousin’s dog.

  But it was still a gift from Chase, something Tanner would keep forever, even if it was a box of werewolf-safe chocolates. He’d let them crust over with white bloom before he’d eat a single one. Okay, maybe he’d eat them all except one and keep that one in a glass case forever. Don’t be an idiot. The box is too small for chocolates. Unless it was one of those super-fancy truffles that came one to a box.

  Chase tucked his hands into his pockets. “It was delivered for you a couple of days ago with instructions that I was to give it to you on your birthday.”

  Tanner’s stomach plummeted. Not from Chase. But that crash of disappointment wasn’t the only reason he wanted to hide under the bed. Or maybe under the house. Because the card tucked under the ribbon was inscribed in his uncle’s careful handwriting. “D-delivered?”

  Chase’s brows drew together in a tiny crease. Probably detecting my incipient panic attack. Chase was too good at reading him. Reading them all, really. It’s what made him such a good RA. “FedEx.”

  “Oh.” Tanner smoothed the hairs on the back of his neck that had risen at the thought that one of the pack enforcers—or worse, his cousin—might have actually been here, where he’d always felt safe. He glanced at the other guys, who were all watching him expectantly.

  Tanner took a deep breath and yanked the ribbon off, then tore the paper savagely enough to meet Jordan’s strict gift-opening standards. The velvet box inside could only hold one thing.

  He flipped the top open with his thumbs, and sure enough, his father’s signet—the crest of the Wallowa pack alpha—winked gold at him from its nest of satin.

  “Duuude,” Jordan breathed. “Did someone just propose to you?”

  Tanner’s choked laugh was buried in the guffaws from the other guys. “Hardly.”

  “Do yourself a favor, Jordan,” Dakota said, wiping tears of hilarity from his eyes. “When you’re ready to propose to someone, don’t do it via FedEx. Not if you want ’em to say yes.”

  Jordan flopped back against the wall, his arms crossed. “Maybe the person was shy. Maybe they wanted to find out for sure before they got turned down in person, like in those flash mob proposals that go wrong.”

  “In that case,” Chase said, his gray eyes glinting in amusement, “I expect they’d arrange a private proposal. However, it’s not likely they’d pop the question in front of everyone except themselves.”

  “I guess.” Jordan sat forward, angling his head for a better view of the ring. “So what is it, T?”

  “My dad’s signet.” Tanner tried to close the box, but Jordan snatched it out of his hands, despite a warning growl from Chase. “The pack leader’s crest. It’s a replacement, actually. The old one got ruined. Got caught on the machinery at the mill and nearly took Dad’s finger off with it. When he died and my uncle took over as alpha-regent, Uncle Patrick put it in a safety-deposit box.” Tanner swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Waiting for me to come of age.”

  “Wow.” Jordan’s eyes were the size of saucers. “That’s so cool. We don’t have anything like that in our pack.”

  Dakota lifted an eyebrow and held out an open palm. “May I?” Tanner nodded, so Dakota took the box from Jordan. He lifted the signet carefully and held it in a dusty sunbeam, studying its etched wolf’s head backed by the silhouette of a fir tree. “Did your father actually wear it? I’d think it would be a liability if he had to shift quickly.”

  Tanner shrugged. “I don’t really remember much about him. He and my mom died when I was four.” Subtle whining from all of the guys, even Chase, greeted Tanner’s statement, causing his eyes to prickle. “But my uncle said something about it being shift-enabled.”

  “That accounts for it,” Chase murmured.

  Tanner, ever sensitive to any word out of Chase’s mouth, looked up. “Accounts for what?”

  “The magic detectors in the house security system pinged with a low-level maintenance spell when I brought it inside.”

  Dakota passed the ring back to Tanner. “You know no artifact can confer pack leadership, don’t you? Not even these days, when challenge-by-combat is outlawed.”

  “Yeah, I realize it’s only a symbol. But my uncle, my cousin, and I are the only ones with alpha potential, and my pack is traditional. Really traditional. The pack alpha mantle passes from father to son and I’m the last of the line, so it’s expected.”

  Gage coughed into his hand, but it sounded like Bullshit. Which Tanner had to agree with. If only I belonged to a more progressive pack. He’d heard that some of them actually held elections, for Remus’s sake, and passed the leadership around. Not the Wallowa pack. Never the Wallowa pack.

  Jordan nudged Tanner’s knee. “Aren’t you going to put it on?”

  Tanner shuddered. “No.” He set it aside, resisting the urge to fling it out the window. He’d mastered his instincts to bury things, either valuables or threats, early in his first year at the house, but he’d be happy to dig a very deep hole—maybe to the center of the earth—and drop this in if it meant he could escape his destiny.

  Sadly, Dakota was right. The signet didn’t make him the pack
alpha. The mantle would fall on his shoulders at 11:52 tonight, the time of his birth, when he was officially twenty-one. He drew a pattern in his blanket with one finger.

  “Dude,” Jordan mock-whispered.

  Tanner jerked his head up to find Chase smiling down at him, a flattish rectangular package in his hands. “This is from me.”

  Tanner stared at Chase for a moment. He did get me a present.

  “Tanner,” Jordan whined. “Are you going to open the present or not?”

  Tanner jerked out of his fugue. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

  He folded the paper back. It wasn’t chocolates. It was a book. A hardcover book—Wolves in Legend and Lore—the very book Tanner had mooned over when Chase took them all to Powell’s City of Books for an assimilation outing last week. It was written by a folklorist not much older than Tanner and had only been released that very day. Tanner had picked it up, but before he could buy it, he’d caught Jordan—who was recovering from a flea infestation he’d picked up from some injudicious, er, wallowing—taking off one shoe as though he were about to scratch behind his ear with his foot. So Tanner quickly returned the book to the display table and dragged Jordan to the restroom to douse him with Dr. MacLeod’s druid anti-itch potion.

  That night, Tanner had bored the other juniors silly, enthusing about the book. “A serious, scholarly treatment of werewolf history. With contemporary first-person anecdotes. Can you believe it?”

  “Contemporary?” Hector asked around a mouthful of pizza. “Doesn’t that mean, like, now?”

  “Not in this case. It means the person telling the story lived at the same time as the wolf. Eye-witness accounts. You’ve gotta admit it’s cool. Our people. Our history.”

  “But I thought you said all the research was from Europe,” Gage said. “That means they’re not quite our people, are they?”

  “It’s as close as we’re likely to get unless the North American packs get better at information sharing. I’m definitely buying that book on our next trip.” Tanner glared at Jordan. “Assuming Jordan keeps clear of the squirrel scat at his next shift.”

  “Hey!” Jordan stopped scratching his neck long enough to return Tanner’s glare. “That could have happened to anybody.”

  Chase chuckled and passed Tanner a bowl of popcorn. “I think the druid flea bath will be a sufficient deterrent.”

  The other guys had drifted off to bed, leaving Tanner with Chase. The two of them had talked into the night about werewolf traditions and politics and the dearth of historical data on supe populations in general. It was the longest one-on-one time he’d ever had with Chase.

  Tanner hadn’t made it back to the bookstore. But Chase obviously had. And he’d cared enough to remember.

  “This is . . . Wow. I don’t know what to—” He looked up to find Chase smiling down at him. Was that fondness in his gaze? More than fondness? “Thank you.”

  “Happy birthday,” Chase murmured, his rich voice resonating in Tanner’s bones.

  “Is it time for cake yet?” Jordan asked, bouncing off the bed to land on his feet next to the desk. He lifted one hand, but before he could swipe a finger through the frosting, Hector grabbed him around the chest and towed him backward out of the room. “Hey!”

  Chase chuckled as Gage and Dakota ambled out in their wake. “The last time I checked, there were waffles happening in the kitchen, but with both Jordan and Hector heading that way, you might want to hurry, or you’ll miss out.”

  “That’s okay.” Tanner glanced sidelong at the signet box. “I’m not that hungry. And if I feel a bit peckish?” He gestured to his desk. “There’s cake.”

  Chase gripped Tanner’s shoulder, his palm warm through Tanner’s T-shirt. “Seriously, though. I know the twenty-oner party at the Bullpen is kind of a Doghouse tradition, but if you don’t want to face it, we don’t have to go. After all, you and I are the only ones who are of legal drinking age, and the preventative spells at the Bullpen are proof against the most sophisticated fake ID, even assuming any of the guys could get one past me.”

  Tanner was still mesmerized by the pressure of Chase’s hand. “I’m, um, not technically twenty-one until almost midnight. Maybe I shouldn’t drink either.”

  “The spells are tuned to the date, not the time, so you’re good.” Chase’s eyebrows pinched again. “If you’re really sure you want to.”

  Tanner pulled himself together. “No. I don’t mind. Besides, if I bailed on another rite of passage, I’d sink even lower in Jordan’s esteem.”

  “Well, we can’t have that!” After a final squeeze, Chase let go and walked to the door. “I’ve got a meeting with the Assimilation Board this morning.” He patted his messenger bag. “I’ll file your exam results with them, and you’ll be officially released from the necessity of supervised shifts.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “Hey, it’s my job.” Chase’s smile held a trace of melancholy, unless Tanner was projecting his own feelings. As usual. “And Tanner? If anyone deserves a happy birthday, it’s you. I hope you get whatever you want.”

  Chase closed the door gently behind himself, and Tanner sighed. “Unfortunately,” he murmured as he climbed out of bed, “what I want is you.”

  The Bullpen was always crowded, and tonight was no exception. Standing at the doorway, Chase scanned the place for a table big enough to seat all of them. There. Beyond the horseshoe-shaped bar that thrust like a tongue into the enormous room, a party was vacating a six-top.

  “Gage, grab that table, will you?”

  “Sure.” Gage wound his way through the crowd and plopped down at the table, smiling up at a server who was collecting empties and wiping the top down.

  Chase rounded up the rest of the guys and herded them toward their goal. Tanner. Hector. Dakota. Jor— Where was Jordan? He whipped his head around and caught the youngest junior staring in fascination at the taut ass of a passing supe—fox shifter or kitsune by the scent.

  “Jordan!” Chase snapped, infusing his voice with alpha authority. “No butt sniffing!”

  Jordan straightened up, practically spinning in place. “I wasn’t!” But his eyes slid sideways to track the guy’s ass, and a low whine vibrated in his throat.

  “You so were,” Hector muttered.

  “Yeah, like you don’t want to do the same.” Jordan scuffed his trainers along the scarred wooden floor as he headed toward the table.

  “The whole point of your Howling years is to overcome those urges,” Dakota said, in a fair approximation of Chase’s lecture mode. “We are not slaves to our animal nature. We can learn to function in the Wider World without endangering ourselves or others.” He plopped into a chair next to Gage. “Or violating the Secrecy Pact.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jordan muttered. He patted the chair next to his. “Tanner! Here! Sit next to me!”

  Chase’s heart sank a little when Tanner complied. Wait . . . What? Did I just go there? Tanner was undeniably cute—that nearly-black hair, the dark eyes, the cheekbones—gods, the cheekbones. But he was one of Chase’s charges. Chase couldn’t take advantage of his position as RA to hit on him.

  But I’m not his RA anymore . . . technically.

  Yes, Tanner was still a Doghouse resident, but as a full adult under pack law, he wasn’t subject to Chase’s tutelage anymore. More like a tenant in a building I manage.

  He snorted to himself—splitting hairs much?—and resolutely chose the seat farthest from Tanner—and temptation. But he couldn’t help fantasizing a little bit about how their relationship might change in the coming months now that they were peers.

  Jordan sat up tall in his chair, gazing around the bar with shining eyes and an eager grin—as opposed to Tanner, who huddled in his seat, a forlorn half smile on his full lips. “This is so cool!” Jordan crowed. “Everyone in here is a shifter?”

  “Not everyone. Fae in the house.” Dakota nodded in the direction of the bar. “Mal’s over there, talking to”—his eyes widened—“whoa, the drum
mer from Hunter’s Moon. Epic!”

  Jordan’s head whipped around. “Mal? Mal’s here?” He planted his palms on the table and half rose. “Should we go say hello? We should go say hello. He’d want us to say hello, wouldn’t he?”

  “Sit down, Jordan.” Dakota gripped Jordan’s shoulder and pushed him back onto his chair. “Because Dr. MacLeod is here too. You really want to draw his attention? You dug three more holes in the backyard after he warned you about interrupting the ground cover lifecycle.”

  “Oh. Um . . .” Jordan slid down in his chair until his chin barely topped the table. “You won’t mention anything to him, will you, Dakota? Please? I’ll fill the holes in again before our next lesson with him. I promise.”

  “Weeellll . . . I don’t know . . .” Dakota drew the words out until Jordan was practically vibrating.

  “Don’t torture the pup, D,” Gage said. “Tonight’s about— Hector, did you just pick that pretzel up off the floor?”

  Hector froze midcrunch. “Maybe?” he mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs.

  Gage shook his head. “Honestly. You coders take your junk food way too seriously.”

  “At least it’s not fish,” Jordan said, struggling to sit up again. “Hey, we should order some nachos. Or cheesy fries. Or nachos.”

  “Don’t forget Tanner’s beer.” Dakota flashed a thumbs-up at Tanner. “This is his twenty-oner party after all.”

  Tanner seemed to shrink even more, and Chase regretted not digging a little deeper into Tanner’s opinion about this trip. “Tanner, if you’d rather go back to the house and have a quieter celebration, we can—”

  “Did I hear someone’s having a twenty-oner party tonight?” A group of unfamiliar weres stopped next to the table. Chase immediately bristled, his jaw aching as his canines threatened to descend at the challenge to his authority.

  But the weres—most of whom wore OSU hoodies—didn’t appear to be much older than Chase himself: twentysomethings, which meant they were probably freshly out of their service commitment years, especially if they’d been cleared to attend a university.