Cat Scratch Fever; Blue-Collar Werewolves V

by Buffi BeCraft

  The doors glided open. He shook his head and left the elevator. Obviously, his first stop would be Milton Hambly’s office.

  He looked around the subdued lighting, a power saving feature that still allowed security and housekeeping to do their duties by, but gave the company a way to call themselves environmentally conscious. The effect was creepy, giving the building a hushed, funeral atmosphere. He’d hate having to work in an empty, darkened building.

  “Hambly?” He pushed the door open, noticing the blatant disregard for power conservation. That wasn’t like the accountant at all. Lights blazed, the computer equipment hummed. Even the full wastebasket paper shredder blinked with a ready green light. Paper littered the accountant’s desk in front of the door. Stacks of books piled haphazardly on top of the wall length bay of filing cabinets to Matthew’s right. Looking back the way he’d come, he took a second look at the room.

  “You know, this would be the perfect time for a slasher to jump out,” he said out loud. But like that didn’t happen in real life. Right. As if werewolves and vampires coming out on live television didn’t happen either. Live in his hometown. Matthew frowned as he wondered again if the werewolves were anyone he’d gone to school with. Did his sister know any of them? “Great, now you’re stalling. Move it Ridley.”

  Chapter Two

  With effort, she opened her eyes. The memories were easier to call back that than before. My name is Naomi Lindi, daughter of Shiar, Lia of the Primus Lion Clan; the mantra was her lifeline. The drug induced fog that kept her locked in human form felt lighter. Her instincts demanded for her to change into the lioness, to shred her enemies with teeth and claws

  She wanted to pace the confines of her cage until the right moment came to use her teeth and claws to tear her enemies to shreds. The remaining bit of her rational thought said, wait. The time will come. Pacing fed the increasingly feral animal nature that tried to consume her. All the while, she wondered if she were waiting out her last moments, allowing her enemies to kill her when she could fight and die with honor.

  The weretiger in the next cell coughed, distracting her. The scent of panther reminded her of the new arrival on her other side, though he was quiet. Sympathy flooded her unstable emotions, tearing her eyes. Confinement was worse for the males. Twisting she thought she might offer some comfort at least. Naomi saw her enemy through the silver bars. A fresh surge of hate and adrenaline toward the white-coated scientist helped her clear the cobwebs in her mind.

  Naomi stared at the dark skinned man, using her emotions to bring each fact about herself and her people to come into focus. Her mother Shiar led her clan, her family. Other animal groups tended to stay close, but the werecats were independent, their males wandered. They had no need of fickle gods, kings, life tasks.

  The scientist, no better than the Nazis that ‘experimented’ on their own captive subjects, moved to her cell. He bent in front of the bars, meeting her at eye level. The tease of air moving through the barrier bringing scents of chemical, fear and pain, was better than the stifling stillness when the clear shield at the end of shift, covering the front of the cage. Then she was locked in a box, a silver lined coffin.

  Like any other female specimens, she wore a cotton gown, to keep the humans’ distraction level down. At least she was covered from neck to knee, offering her torso a bit of protection from accidentally brushing against the silver walls and bars. The male werecats and other supernaturals in the lab were given cotton pajama bottoms or boxers. Sometimes the air brought her the stink of singed bare skin along with their whimpers of pain.

  Naomi growled, pulling the sound from deep in her chest. This scientist was the new one, she remembered, dragging the memory of the other one’s death from the still foggy edges of her brain. It hadn’t been long. Just long enough for the haze of drugs to fade.

  He consulted the clipboard in his hand. The dark skinned scientist had a nice, deep voice. The sound might have comforted her if she weren’t his prisoner. “Fifiteen-Leo, how are you feeling today?”

  Naomi Lindi, she reminded herself again. Sometimes, with the old doctor, she would forget and respond to the cold designation. I am not a number. I am a person. She rested her gaze on the white-coated scientist and waited. Naomi could never seem to catch this one’s scent. Instead, she relied on the tense set of his dark, autocratic features and the concern hidden behind his black industrial-sized nerd glasses.

  He looked back down at the clipboard and grabbing the attached pen, jotted down some notes with his latex covered hands. “You are looking better. Backing off of that sample that Dr. Corban was administering seems to bringing you back to a baseline. Very good,” he muttered to himself.

  He wasn’t sadistic like the others, but that did not make him a good guy. Not only that, he was the largest non-specimen in the room. His coat strained at his shoulders, as did glimpses of the padded shirt underneath. His dark skin and strong jaw line practically glowed with health. The giant’s doughy softness was all pretend.

  Irritation prickled along her nerves, causing Naomi to growl faintly. She wasn’t fooled. She vowed that the scientists were going to die. If not by her claws and teeth, then he’d die by another’s.

  “Dr. Drake, you’re not supposed to talk to them.” One the other four sadists walked into the narrow view of her cell. She growled again at the small man, a low warning growl. She knew him. The small one liked to inflict as much pain on his charges as possible. “You’re just supposed to figure out what makes them tick.” With malicious glee, the small scientist twirled his long silver wand between his fingers, and then poked it through her bars. “Then kill them.” Despite her swollen joints and hot skin, Naomi shuffled back to the far edge of her cage.

  Dr. Drake snatched the silver wand away in his gloved fingers. A trick of the light and his ugly black glasses gave the illusion of feral anger in the scientist’s deep brown eyes. “Doctor Sanderson. Please refrain from antagonizing my subjects.” The gleam was nothing more than the cold black stare of an irritated scientist. Dr. Drake blocked the path between the intruder and Naomi. “The added metabolic stress affects the test and defeats my baseline analysis.”

  “Yeah, Sanderson,” one of the other white-coats yelled. “Stop screwing around with our guinea pigs or I’ll report you. Supernaturals are hard enough to come by.”

  Sanderson puffed up. His face turned an even uglier splotchy red. “Up yours fatso. You think you’re so important because you’ve something to work with. All Mr. Big-Wig, Faust Kemlec, cares about is results for the Achilles project, not how nice you treat the lab rats. And I get results.”

  “Right,” the other scientist sneered, loudly. “What kind of results? The kind that infected and killed Corban? Is that why you haven’t been able to get any more pets to torture?”

  “That wasn’t my fault. I turned in a requisition. I’ve talked to Kemlec and he promised me the next werewolf.” Sanderson’s unsaid, so there, was plainly understood.

  “Wasn’t your fault? You designed the virus that killed him, you idiot.”

  “I said it wasn’t my fault!” Sanderson yelled back then turned to glare at Drake as if his lack of prisoners were the newcomer’s fault, then at Naomi through the bars. She couldn’t help but let out a breath of relief as he suddenly marched out of sight, mumbling at the unfairness of laboratory politics and how that ass-kisser Drake got all the new equipment.

  Undisturbed by the outburst, Dr. Drake slipped a bottle of water into her cell. Unlike the late Dr. Corban, this scientist didn’t seem concerned that the monsters might grab his latex-gloved hand or bite him. He possessed a quiet confidence that she felt herself responding to.

  Once, Naomi would have been insulted that he might think that she was no longer a threat. Then, she might have proved how dangerous her kind was by hauling the human against the bars or bitten him. The agent in most shape shifters saliva might not be able to change psychics any longer, but he’d remember her sharp teeth while he fought off t
he resulting sickness from the failed Change.

  “Drink,” The large coffee skinned scientist said. “You will feel better in short order.” The seal on the lid had already been opened. None of the food or water given to them was tamper-free, but again, Naomi didn’t care anymore.

  Out of habit, she ran her hand over her head, feeling that the stubble had grown long enough to be considered real hair. She mourned the loss of her waist length hair and dressing up. For now, the new growth stuck out in spiky clumps around her head. They’d taken everything from her. Her freedom, her dignity. Every part of them had been poked, prodded, or sampled in some way. She hurt too much.

  From the next cage, she heard the tiger drink his bottle with the slurpy messiness of someone half-Changed. A scarred claw tipped hand emerged and flailed in her sight. Wrestling with the silver bars tended to scar badly after too many attempts to break out. Yet, the tiger was much better. Just seeing how close he’d come back to his human form was good. Corban’s experiments had trapped him into horrible degrees of his human-tiger form for months.

  Dr. Drake passed another water bottle to the tiger and lumbered back to his workstation. Naomi wasn’t fooled by soft smart words and bulky clothing. Female werelions were deadly hunters by nature. Like knew like— and the scientist was dangerous. Dr. Drake was right. After drinking the water, the next wave of pain was less. Her shape shifter healing was waking up and metabolizing the toxins that were keeping her weak. She sucked in a shaky breath, wondering what her new keeper was up to.

  She didn’t have to guess for long. Moving as close to the bars as possible, she watched the scientist take another bottle to the quiet leopard on her left. The faint scent of leopard and forest tinted the air making Naomi wish she were closer so that she could bury her nose in the newcomer’s fur. It had been too long since she’d smelled freedom. The scientist murmured, taking notes on his clipboard, absorbed in his work. Losing interest, Naomi went back to her own mat, and fell into a light doze.

  “My queen,” Mathais buried his face in her neck. He pulled her close, his knee between her legs. Naomam moaned as pleasure swamped her body. She loved it when the day was at an end and it was just the two of them. No servants, no responsibilities, alone in their chamber. “My heart.” His large, battle scarred hands grasped her waist, pressing her down into the soft mattress. Goddess, she loved him.

  Urging her mate’s hands to her breasts, she arched into the warmth, kneading the fullness before tweaking a nipple. Naomam blinked to alertness when he paused in the foreplay. “Tell me what you want, my Lia.” Mathais looked at her, his amber eyes intent.

  Her body screamed for him to fill her, not play games. She frowned, remembering the rumors of dissention and bit her lip. The priests, their people, the ambassadors, everyone wanted a piece of the king. Even her, with her maternal instincts riding her to procreate, wanted her own part of him growing inside her.

  Naomam pushed at his chest, smiling wickedly when he gave way. “You know what I want?” Mathais eased off, his rigid member showing her just what he wanted. Pushing her mate onto his back, she straddled him. Tracing a finger down his whiskered jaw, down his battle scarred chest and the faint dusting of hair that led to his penis; she watched his eyes glow with desire. “I want you, my love.”

  He watched while she scooted lower. Making eye contact, she slowly lowered her lips to his twitching sex and gave a teasing lick. Mathais rumbled, deep in his chest. His fingers tunneled into her hair. Naomam wrapped her fingers around him, resisting only slightly as he guided her down. Feminine power filled her as she took him into her mouth, deep and slow. Mathais rumbled again in pleasure, bucking gently against her mouth.

  She gave into her desire, grasping his length in both hands as she sucked and nibbled on his cock. Her mouth slid down, matching the pace he set. Mathais growled, his hands tightened in her hair as he bowed up, his seed spilling into her mouth.

  The dream shifted.

  Mathais, but not-Mathais writhed in pain, but the restraints held him down. Sweat rolled from his body; one with significantly less scarring. He was leaner and taller, but her heart still knew him, whatever form Bastet brought him back as—he was her soul mate. The Leo moaned and yelled, caught between torture and the Change.

  Naomi wanted to help him, but she was trapped. Tears burned her eyes as she stretched through the bars, trying desperately to reach him. Grief shredded her at the idea of losing him again, this time to his death. She would pray, but the goddess abandoned them long ago.

  * * * *

  “Lia.” Naomi started awake at the tiger’s respectful address and scooted closer to that edge of the cage. Dr. Drake had provided a lightweight blanket that she used to protect herself from the bars. “Lia,” the weretiger hissed.

  “Shhh. I hear you Tigre.” She pronounced it, Tig-ree, recognizing him as a powerful male weretiger. “Let go of the bars. I can smell your flesh.”

  “No,” The tiger rumbled. “The burn reminds me that I am alive.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see her. Naomi had her own tricks to keep her sanity. Though, she could do without the smell of blistered skin. “Lia, if you would give me your name…” the tiger paused to cough. “ I will give it on to the Leo when I pass on.”

  Naomi smiled. Most cats did not bother about the gods anymore. Some still followed the Bastet the Egyptian goddess. Some worshipped the Leo—the cursed king prophesied to return one day. The cat shifters had a rich oral history, so that the old stories told and retold over the centuries. The truth was lost in myth and fantasy.

  Her mother claimed that the Leo was Bastet’s chosen king; he was both lion and tiger. Others campfire stories said that the king had powers like the psychics. Naomi had heard a few say that king could change into any cat form at will. The Leo was a combination Robin Hood, King Arthur, and superhero. Naomi stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

  The panther coughed from her left. “Do not give up so quickly, Tigre. Where there is life, there is hope.” The deep rumble of the leopard male’s voice had a raw quality, as if he’d screamed long and hard before coming here. Torture by the psychics was nothing new.

  “Still a fighter, leopard?” asked the tiger. “Just wait until they start carving pieces off of you, or infect you with their virus to see how long death takes.”

  “What will be, will be,” said the other male. Naomi envied the newcomer. A calm surety, as if he were still the master of his own universe imbued the panther’s words. “I’ll hold out as long as needed.”

  The tiger laughed. The deep sound was full of all the things that had been done to him. “You’ll die, just like the rest of us.”

  “Like you said, Tigre. Panthers, like the rest of the leopards, are fighters. Unlike the tigers and lions, we do not aspire to be counted among Bastet’s royal line. We are Her claws, the cat’s paw guided in Her service.” No malice or sarcasm laced the panther’s simple words. The leopard-kin were The Leo’s guard in times past, before the wandering, just as the tigers and lions were once the royal lines. According to myth, the rare panther, a black leopard, was a sign of the goddess’s favor.

  “Just know Tigre, Lia, that I know my duty.” Nathan said; the surety of a true believer in his voice. “The cat clans may have forgotten their tasks since the Leo fell, but we panthers know that Bastet has not truly abandoned us. We stand ready for the return of Her favor. We fight where She sends us.”

  “Oooo. Panther. I wouldn’t have taken you for the cliché religious sort. Didn’t think anyone actually followed that crap. No one has believed in life tasks for generations. We wander until it is time to fuck or die.” The tiger’s snide comment had the edge of pain to it. “Does the dead Leo speak to you too?”

  “You’re hurt, Tigre, so I’ll let that slide. I can be respectful or I can be a vicious bastard. I choose to begin with respect. How do you want to finish?”

  “Enough.” Naomi whispered. “Thank you for your words, panther. They do bolster the soul. You r
emind us of who we are, though I am far from being clan leader, much less a queen.”

  “For your pretty words, my Lia, you may call me Nathan. I am at your service, lovely lady.” his voice warmed, bringing a pang to her heart at his insistence on the title. If only they knew.

  “I am not so pretty, Nathan, but thank you, again.” As if she could ever be pretty again. Her shaved head, the scars that must cover her face as well as her body, and the ugliness the psychics left inside her soul made her unworthy of such loyalty.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” The tiger growled.

  “Have you chosen then, Tigre?” Nathan’s voice was smooth as silk. “The bastard in me is more than welcome to sharpen my claws on your hide.”

  “Sorry. My name is Morrow.” The weretiger sounded truly contrite.

  “I am Naomi.”

  “Ah. A lovely name for the Lia.” Nathan’s words practically dripped with approval. And was that interest? Naomi thought she might be reading more into a conversation than she should. Breeding males pumped pheromones and hormones that only other cats could register. Only normal male scents of panther and tiger were in the room. The supernaturals in the room were often injured, so blood, sickness, and charred flesh were a constant. Still no breeding hormones enticed her.

  “I imagine you flirt with all your fellow prisoners.” She couldn’t believe she just said that. Once, Naomi might have engaged in wordplay with a male, but that was before her capture nearly a year ago. “I mean, you’re taking this all rather well.”

  Nathan’s rough chuckle was almost a purr. “Not really, my Lia. I’m just where I’m supposed to be. I’m not particularly happy with a lot of Bastet’s plans lately. But what’s the point in bitching?”

  “You hinted at that before. Are all panthers as…secure as you?”

  “Oh, Lia. I’m very secure.”Nathan crooned.