Fire Of Love

by Preston Walker

  Being a much larger target than an ant, Isaac knew he was caught. This was it. They were sunk. Cain would stop him and send Ralphie off to fetch Destiny. Destiny would call an ambulance, explain how his friend here seemed to be on a suicide mission. Then, Isaac’s future was all padded cell walls and mindless childlike activities performed from underneath a haze of behavioral drugs.

  Cain nodded and looked away. He went back to loving on his mate, kissing him, their arms tangling around each other with their pup held wriggling between them.

  The sudden, terrifying vision which had overcome Isaac faded. He moved off toward his motorcycle, feeling guilty, relieved, and foolish all at once. That was unfair not only to himself, but to psych wards as a whole. They were meant to be havens for recovery, not stagnated prisons.

  And didn’t he remember something about Destiny taking in a wolf who had been very mentally ill? Her name might have been Stacy or Tracy, something like that. Rather than let her continue off down a spiraling path, Destiny had taken her under his wing and was working to give her a better life when she was tragically murdered.

  As Isaac grabbed his motorcycle, cold metal shocking against his skin, he wondered if it might not be better to stay here and be taken care of. His future would be certain. He could settle down, settle in. Find a job. See a counselor for his bad memories. And maybe, just maybe, he could make amends with Moody, and they could make up for the time he had foolishly denied them.

  If he did that, all of his waiting up until this point would be for nothing. He couldn’t abide by that.

  So, he mounted his motorcycle and rode as quietly as he could to the street, where Moody waited for him in the shadows of a nearby alleyway. He looked like a dangerous predator, all sleek shadows and stealthy power.

  Warmth unfurled in Isaac’s loins, like a bird spreading forgotten wings. He quickly wrestled the feeling under control, not a moment too soon. He’d come very close to pouncing on Moody and taking him right here and now, his emotions given impossible strength by adrenaline and, yes, excitement.

  If Moody noticed anything amiss, he gave no comment. Instead, he just tilted his head to the left, gesturing vaguely off in the general direction of Daphne. “Are we going?”

  “Have to talk to Arlo first,” Isaac murmured, trying to focus again. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Now that he had his wits about himself again, lingering here felt much too dangerous. What if Cain changed his mind about letting them go? That was a very real possibility, especially since Isaac didn’t understand his reasoning in the first place. Cain hadn’t really participated much in the conversation after Destiny declared Isaac should live in the garage from now on; it was possible he’d been entertaining his own thoughts, and his silence now was part of that. At the same time, Cain might question his own decision and tell Destiny what he’d seen.

  Or, hell, what if someone else came by? Another wolf. Ulysses had a habit of turning up in places where he wasn’t wanted. If he remembered Isaac and Moody out here later on, when Destiny was questioning their disappearance, that would be bad.

  “I guess so.” Moody sounded disappointed. The idea that he would have to wait even longer to get to Daphne was leeching some of the excitement out of this journey for him. “Are we going to have to ride with him the whole way back?”

  “I’m pretty sure he drove.”

  It was an answer, though not a full one. In fact, Isaac knew Arlo drove here. Arlo had no patience for motorcycles, no real use for the learned finesse. What if he insisted on driving all of them back, since there was plenty of room in his vehicle?

  They would just have to see.

  Following the highway north, Isaac took them to an At Home Inn and Suites. For a small hotel, the place had seemed very clean and professional when Isaac went inside with Arlo. The room was small but put together in a fashion that left plenty of room to get around. Plus, there was a mini-bar. Isaac didn’t know much about alcohol, and his recent experience with the stuff left him even less inclined to learn more, but he did think a mini-bar was a nice touch when you were staying in a place that only cost about $50 per night.

  The location, however, was rather unassuming. A person could drive by the place and never know a hotel was there. The street looked like any other random street in America.

  Isaac parked in the side lot and waited for Moody to do the same. When the growl of their engines dulled from a roar to a fading purr, he spoke. “We’re going to have to go inside.”

  “Well, I didn’t think we were going to throw rocks at his window like in Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I don’t think that was part of the play.”

  Moody shrugged, unbothered. “I thought it was. But fuck if I know for real. I might be a poet, but I think Shakespeare is overrated.”

  Isaac tilted his head. Everything about what Moody said resonated with him as being true, especially the part about Shakespeare being touted as more of a master than he was. The guy might not even have been real, according to some historians. However, there was a part in there which struck him as a little odd. “You’re a poet?”

  Moody glanced away, biting his lip for a moment as if he’d said something he didn’t mean to. Isaac felt a wall being constructed between them, bricks and mortar laid down with clean swipes of thought. Where during sex they were so intimately connected, now they might as well have been on different planets.

  Stretching his thoughts, Isaac tried to see over the top of the wall. A few well-placed bricks put an end to his attempt.

  In the silence that followed, he scrambled for something to say. “Did you hear that they think Shakespeare might have been gay?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he started giving himself mental kicks in the ass. God, it was like he’d never held a conversation before. Why did he think this factoid, probably more rooted in the desperate hopes of millennials than in proper research, would inspire Moody to talk to him?

  In fact, the look Moody gave him, a combination of pity and apathy, was enough to make him want to dig a hole, crawl in it, and cover himself up. Or, a cheaper and less demanding alternative, cover his mouth with duct tape.

  Rather than answering, Moody turned around and walked along the side of the building to get to the lobby entrance. Hurrying to catch up with him, Isaac took the lead. He walked across the floor of the lobby, ignoring the greeting from an overly-enthusiastic employee. The last thing he wanted was more delays, because he clearly couldn’t be trusted to function normally in times of duress.

  Moody is a poet? Why didn’t I ever realize that he liked poetry? Or that he wrote anything? I should have paid more attention to him when I had the chance.

  He should have paid attention to Moody as a person, rather than just a means by which to find excitement and pleasure.

  His mind whirled with thoughts of the past and the present, an unholy blend which started to weigh heavier on his shoulders the longer he went without banishing it. Each step down the hallway in the direction of Arlo’s room felt as if it might be the last step he ever took, like his legs would shatter from the weight and that would be it.

  Somehow, he found himself standing outside room 48. Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the doorway. No answer came. His heart pounded too loudly for him to even hear footsteps. The numbered plaques by other rooms took on a strange, wobbly cast where they were at the edges of his vision.

  “How do you even know he’s here?” Moody said, his voice sounding alien to Isaac’s ears. The language didn’t seem to be quite English.

  Before Isaac could respond, something clattered from the other side of the door. A chain, miniscule links rattling against the door frame. A deadbolt clunked, the sound heavier and deeper than the regular lock, though that was also flipped a second later. The door handle turned slowly down, manipulated from inside.

  The strange buzzing, warped quality to Isaac’s senses reached an unbearable crescendo before breaking. He emerged from the sensation like a drowning m
an bursting up above the surface of the ocean.

  Arlo pushed the door open, and stood there, gazing at both of them with puzzlement. “Isaac?” Halfway through saying Isaac’s name, he seemed to realize what was going on and perked up considerably. “Isaac!”

  An omega wolf, Arlo was nevertheless as far from being a regular omega as a wolf could ever be. He towered over Isaac, his height topping out somewhere very near a grand total of seven feet. He looked like a man who had been given a pass or two with a steamroller, his arms, legs and torso elongated to absurd proportions. Yet, for all this height, he had very little muscle definition. Like a willow sapling, he was all flexibility and no strength.

  Even having said that, Arlo was not a graceful wolf. He clearly never grew into his own body, existing in a perpetual state of gangliness much like a cross between a baby giraffe and stork. His shoulders stooped. His back bent in on itself. Whether he was aware of his terrible posture was something Isaac had never been able to figure out. Clearly, the slouching was an attempt to be shorter, to be less noticeable, but there was no telling whether or not Arlo did this on purpose. It might only have been a subconscious thing, a natural instinct ground into him by years of bullying and questions about how the weather was up there.

  The only thing about Arlo that seemed right was his demeanor. A person could look up “submissive” in the dictionary and find a picture of Arlo there.

  “You’re here!” Arlo said, sounding relieved and confused all at once. He turned his head to look at Moody, obviously trying to size him up. He stuck out his hand, and his fingers were reminiscent of the absurdly lengthy claws of a sloth. “And you brought a friend. Uh, hi. Hello. I’m Arlo. And you are?”

  “Moody,” said Moody, shaking hands with Arlo. His hand was completely dwarfed by Arlo’s. The handshake went on for an inordinate amount of time, during which Moody frowned with annoyance and Arlo started to look panicked. The shaking motion of their hands gradually lessened until they were only holding onto each other, staring awkwardly.

  Finally, Moody tried to pull away. Arlo held on for a moment, looked even more panicked than before, and then let go. Moody wiped his palm on the leg of his jeans, doing nothing to hide his grimace of distaste.

  Isaac remembered now. Arlo. Sweaty Arleaty. A terrible childhood nickname, one which unfortunately continued to exist throughout the years because Arlo existed in a constant state of unrelenting clamminess. Excited, nervous, sad, or calm, Arlo sweated.

  After a moment of silence, during which Arlo clearly tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing, he said, “So, I guess you decided to come back?”

  “Yes,” Isaac said. “I’ll be coming back to Daphne. And I’m bringing Moody with me.”

  “Is he your mate?” Arlo asked.

  A perfectly valid question. Moody bristled, clearly growing more annoyed by the second. “No! And that’s none of your business!”

  “Okay, okay.” Arlo held up both hands in defense of himself. His eyes, which were a drab and neutral shade of blue, suddenly sparkled with fright. “No need to get angry. I was just curious. You showed up together, you’re standing so close, and your scent is all over each other. And, oh gosh, I’m making this so much worse, aren’t I?”

  Screwing situations up was Arlo’s special talent. He always said the wrong thing at the wrong time, perpetually sticking his foot in his mouth. Isaac used to join in on the teasing—his favorite Arloism was when the omega once told a chubby woman that he hoped she had a happy pregnancy—but now he felt as if he understood. After all, he’d been making a terrible mess of conversations where Moody was involved.

  “Anyway,” Isaac said, hoping he could lead Arlo around to a new topic. “We had best leave as soon as possible. My pack didn’t want me to come with you.”

  “Uh, is this going to be a problem? The last thing we need is trouble.”

  “No trouble,” Isaac reassured him.

  He believed that, too. Destiny was smart. He would weigh the pros and cons. Start trouble with a pack in a different city over the return of a wolf who wanted to be there, or focus on the problems he already had?

  To Isaac, at least, the choice was clear.

  Arlo looked uncertain, though there really wasn’t anything he could do about the situation. “If you say so. Um, I need to pack up my clothes and everything, and then check out. I’ll meet you guys outside, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Arlo shut the door in their faces, opened it and squeaked out, “Sorry!” before closing it again.

  Isaac turned back down the hallway and led Moody back through the lobby and out the door. He took up a position near the landscaping, leaning against the wall of the hotel with enormous bushes crowding against him from either side. Crossing his arms, he waited.

  Not two seconds later, Moody strode up in front of him. His scent was filled with spice, the desire for confrontation showing in every tense line of his form. “That was the weirdest fucking wolf I have ever seen, Isaac. And Shadow Claws is full of weird wolves.”

  Isaac actually laughed. “Yeah. He’s an odd one, isn’t he?”

  “Why were you so afraid of him? You could snap him in half with one hand tied behind your back. Hell, I could snap him in half like that. He’s a huge…” Moody paused, searching for the correct word.

  “Nerd?” Isaac suggested.

  “A pushover,” Moody said.

  Isaac nodded, the word giving him a sensation almost like satisfaction. It just fit, like a puzzle piece slipping right into place. Arlo was nothing. Not attractive, not ugly. Not smart enough to be a nerd, not coordinated or skilled in anything else. He seemed to have no ambitions, no preferences, and no desires of his own. He was the ultimate pushover, a creature made of putty, to be molded into anything that anyone wanted for him to be; he would go right along with it, letting himself be shepherded.

  “Why are you afraid of him?”

  “I’m not.” Isaac snorted. An alpha was never afraid of an omega, and he sure as hell wasn’t afraid of one like Arlo. “I’m afraid of the rest of the pack. Arlo is like the kid brother that only older siblings are allowed to pick on. If I caused trouble for him, I’d have much worse things coming my way to deal with.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Do you like anyone?”

  “Well, no.” A smile flashed over Moody’s lips, there and then gone. Isaac felt that warmth inside him again, unfolding. He bit his lip, trying to head off his desire with the pain. “But that’s not what I meant. I don’t like him. He feels weird to me.”

  “You’ll get used to that,” Isaac said. “He is weird.”

  Moody shook his head. He didn’t smile again. “What I mean is…I don’t know. I just don’t trust him.”

  Isaac was about to respond when the hotel door opened, and Arlo pushed his way through, ducking his head so he didn’t hit it on the top of the frame. He dragged a suitcase behind him, though the handle was too short for someone of his height to maneuver properly. The wheels kept skipping and scuffing over the concrete walk, making the suitcase bounce around. Some of the contents must not have been secured, or else had been jostled loose, because strange rattling and clunking sounds came from within the case.

  “Sorry to take so long,” Arlo said. He sounded cheerful now, probably excited at the thought of returning to his home city. If he had heard any of their conversation, he didn’t seem particularly bothered by what was said. “Are we ready to go?”

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” Isaac grunted. That was to say, he wasn’t prepared at all. He would be leaving behind his trailer without doing anything with his lease. He only had the clothes on his back. And Moody wasn’t in much better shape, since he had practically no money to buy anything he might need.

  Maybe they should have spent some more time thinking about this before going through with it.

  “We’ll be so glad to have you back where you belong so we can get this figured out.”

  Isaac nodded. Someth
ing about the way Arlo said that didn’t sit quite right with him, though that was business as usual with him. “Moody and I brought our bikes. We can ride there.”

  “Well, okay.” Arlo looked doubtful. “I’d feel better if you’d all get in my car, but if that’s the way you want to do things, then I can’t stop you. You just have to remember that if you try anything funny, my pack can be here in an instant. I sent them a message while I was in there, so they’re expecting me to show up.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Moody said. “We aren’t going to kidnap or murder you. So can we just get this show on the road? I’m tired of sitting around, jabbering about things that don’t really matter.”

  Isaac nearly missed it, the look Arlo threw in Moody’s direction. It stunned him, the intensity of that gaze. He had to wonder if he’d even seen it at all, if perhaps he’d only imagined it. In any case, the incident was quickly shoved out of his mind since Moody seemed not to have noticed.

  Arlo pointed across the parking lot to a little red car. The sleek vehicle had a sculpted, flawless and utterly unmistakable design. “I’ll get in and wait for you to come over on your bikes.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Isaac said. “Is that a Ferrari?” He had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping, a battle he ultimately lost when he realized the Ferrari wasn’t just a Ferrari. He took a step forward, not actually needing to do so but unable to help himself. The car was old in terms of pricy vehicles, a 2015 model which had probably already lost most of its value. The thing about such vehicles as Ferraris, Mustangs, and Lamborghinis was that they weren’t meant to last. They were in the price range of people who were fully capable of snatching up the newest model every single time one rolled off the assembly line. They were powerful, flashy, and delicate.

  Isaac knew, because his sportster had the same difficulties. Not even a couple years of daily riding was making the motorcycle literally tear itself into pieces from its own power.

  But it wasn’t just the age of the Ferrari which caught Isaac’s attention. He wouldn’t even have known the age of the car at all if he wasn’t fully aware of who this one belonged to. The front bumper buckled up in the middle from a small collision in the past, and a long, keyed scrape ran down the side from the front right wheel to the back, before arching up into a curve around the trunk and ultimately ending there.