Hidden Powers

by Tara Lain

  Cole and Paris had joined the Vanessen pack by choice, but by birth they were members of the Harker and Marketo packs. Each of them would have taken over leadership of their pack if they hadn’t both been antisocial… and gay. Gay shifters. There wasn’t supposed to be any such thing. Damon was also a Marketo, the pack leader Merced’s brother, although he’d adopted the name Thane. And Winter was his son by an alpha female werewolf from Canada. Lindsey was also his son, but since Lindsey was half-human, he’d missed out on the alpha characteristics. Jazz had all the alpha signs, though his most prominent sense was smell. No one knew where he got it from since he was an orphan, a rare thing in a society as communal as werewolves.

  “You haven’t got a chance!” Winter howled and playfully punched Cole’s arm.

  Paris, who was a lot smaller and lighter than the huge wolves, inserted himself between the behemoths. “Don’t strain yourselves. Everyone knows a panther can outrun a bunch of canines.”

  Cole grabbed him and kissed his neck. “N-no one knows that but you. Besides, half the race takes place in human form.”

  Winter threw back his head. “Ha! We’ll leave you in the dust.”

  Matt, who sat on Winter’s lap, said, “Don’t you think there are males in the other packs who can compete?”

  “Nope. Vanessen forever.”

  Jazz grinned at his platinum-haired brother. Winter was the most in-your-face alpha among them.

  Winter cocked his head at Jazz. “Of course, I predict Jazz might give us a run for our money.”

  “If he’s not too distracted,” Paris said in his silky voice. “Hey baby, what’s wrong, hmm?” He leaned down so his face was suspended in the air below Jazz, gazing up with his huge, heavily lashed eyes. Paris was a pole dancer and had amazing physical control.

  Lindsey glanced at Jazz, then said, “He’s had a falling out with his best friend. I think he’s wishing he turned down the invite to Packarama.” He nudged Jazz. “True?”

  “No. I’m okay about going. But yeah, I’m pretty concerned about Carla.” He took a breath. No use wrecking the party. “Okay, you guys, let’s not worry about this today. You have a race to win. What else are you entering?”

  Winter raised a finger. “Rifles and pistols.”

  “Throwing.” Cole always spoke modestly.

  Paris chuckled wickedly. “Long jump.”

  “Before you all go, would someone show me where to enter the big race? I’ve only got today, so if there’s a second round, I can’t compete.”

  Winter said, “There’s a relay tomorrow. It would be great to have you on it, but I think we can win without you.”

  Jazz made a face. “You don’t need me.” Just saying that made him sad.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE BIG car pulled ceremoniously into the parking lot. Before they’d arrived, two of Pop-Pop’s other drivers, werewolves of course, had brought in an SUV crammed with a pack tent that would have done justice to Ali Baba, their gear for all the events, and lots of food they could serve throughout the day to guests as well as themselves. Their tent site had been selected from a map earlier, and the Vanessen pack crest flew merrily from on top of the center pole. Packarama was billed as fun and games, but it was serious alliance time, when partnerships were struck and support was garnered.

  The Vanessen Pack climbed out of the car and, as a group, walked into the Packarama grounds. Around their site, various tents, teepees, and campers housed the other packs, while barbecues were already being fired up. On Sunday, a huge banquet brought them all together, but until then, everyone did their own thing.

  Harkers and Marketos called out to them to come say hello, but Winter and Cole marched boldly forward, leading, aka hauling, Jazz toward the registration table for the big race that would begin in two hours. Since it was the premier event of the day, it was held once all the packs had arrived.

  Two males from one of the big allied packs on the Massachusetts border manned the table. They both straightened up and puffed out their chests at the sight of Winter and Cole. No wonder. Cole resembled a regular, big, handsome human, if you didn’t count the fact that his brown hair shone silver and his gold eyes reflected light. Winter just looked plain supernatural. His hair was as white as the season he was named for, and his eyes were so pale and icy, they made criminals want to confess just looking at them. But when they got to the table and shoved Jazz forward, the biggest dude of the two raised a lip. “Seriously? You want me to register him? Aren’t you afraid he’ll die if someone knocks him over?”

  Okay, he might be skinny, but damned if they got to say so. Jazz leaned down until his face was so close to the registration dude, they practically touched noses. “Are you in the race?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Good. Be sure to try and knock me over—”

  The guy started to grin.

  “—as I run past you and leave you in the fucking dust.” He shoved the filled-out form and his money in front of the guy. “Sign me up, asshole.”

  As he walked away with his participant number two minutes later, both Cole and Winter burst out laughing. Winter pressed a hand against his own middle. “You crack me up, Jazz. Half the time, I can barely tell you’re even a werewolf, until somebody ruffles your fur. Man, then the claws come out.”

  “Yeah. It’s not my finest trait.” He frowned. “But fuck, I didn’t even want to enter this damned race.”

  Cole patted Jazz’s shoulder. They were nearly the same height at six feet four inches—Winter was still taller—but Cole outweighed Jazz by a good sixty or more pounds. Jazz was still growing, vertically. “We’re glad you’re in the race, Jazz. Taking offense with that asshole was completely in line. I’d have done the same,” Cole said.

  Of course, the guy would never have insulted Cole.

  As they passed the Harker Pack’s tent, Cole’s father, Landon Harker, alpha of the pack, waved a hand. “Cole, Winter, Jazz, stop for a moment.”

  They slowed their steps, and Cole walked over to embrace his father, though their relationship was a little strained since Cole and Paris had chosen to join the Vanessen Pack instead of staying in Harker.

  Winter extended his hand to Landon, and the three began talking, leaving Jazz hanging out. He’d been asked to stop but now didn’t feel included. Then again, it certainly wasn’t the first time.

  “Jazz.”

  He turned to see Radsy, aka Bill Radser, and Wreck, whose real name was also Bill—Bill Jones. The two hulking guys, both a few months younger than Jazz, walked toward him, their giant shoulders flexing. Neither of them went to human public school since no coach would ever pass up pressing them onto the football team, a sure recipe for werewolf disaster.

  “Yo, Vanessen, how’s it hanging?”

  “Hi, Radsy.” How he was hanging was none of their business.

  “You entering the race? I saw you at the table,” Wreck said.

  “Yep. My brother and Cole asked me to.”

  Radsy snorted. “Right. They wanted to be sure there was someone in the race they could beat. You’ll faint before the finish line.” He snorted. “Hell, maybe even at the starting blocks.”

  The beating part was definitely true, but the rest? Jazz crossed his arms. “Obviously you two haven’t had a lot of experience coming up against the alphas of the Vanessen Pack, right?” Jazz raised his lip. “I’d suggest you withdraw your entries before you look like the fools you are.” With that, he turned and marched back to the Vanessen encampment.

  As Jazz approached, Pop-Pop patted a folding chair next to him. Jazz flopped into it.

  “Did you sign up for the race?”

  “Yeah.” He realized he sounded surly. “Excuse me, sir. Yes, I did sign up.”

  “I gather you’re less than enthusiastic about the prospect.”

  Jazz turned in his seat. “Look at me. It’s great that Cole and Winter believe in me and all, but I want to uphold the honor of the pack, not trash it.”

  Pop-Pop’s cl
ear eyes gazed deeply into Jazz’s. “I am looking at you, and what I see is a strong alpha with skills and potential far beyond that of most werewolves.”

  Jazz sighed. “Thank you, sir. But look closer. I’m a tall skinny wimp. I don’t run regularly. Hell, I barely show up for the full moon runs.” Jazz stared toward the entry table where werewolves were lining up to participate. “Everyone can see that I’m a loser except for Cole and Winter.”

  “I don’t see you that way. Nor does anyone in the pack.”

  “You all love me.” He grinned in spite of his prickly mood.

  “Yes we do, and don’t you forget it.” They both chuckled as Pop-Pop gave Jazz a one-arm hug.

  Winter and Cole walked back, talking. When they got to the camp, they grabbed their own chairs and pulled them over by Jazz and Pop-Pop. Cole turned to him. “Sorry, Jazz. No one meant to ignore you. My father’s still trying to persuade me and Paris to reaffiliate ourselves with Harker. He maintains that Damon, Winter, and you are enough alphas for any pack, while he and my mother haven’t got a successor.”

  Pop-Pop nodded. “He has a point, Cole. We love having you and Paris as members of Vanessen, but Harker Pack and Marketo Pack are yours and Paris’s by birthright.”

  Cole shook his head. “I tried, Pop-Pop. I really did. But Harker doesn’t want a gay alpha, and Marketo wants a gay panther even less. They should fight it out among themselves when Landon, Crystal, and Merced decide to stand down.”

  Jazz blew a soft breath. “Nobody in either of those packs could stand against you or Paris.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t m-much like being an alpha, anyway. I mean, I enjoy making the pack stronger and getting work for our members, but all the fighting? Forget it. And if I’m reluctant, Paris is worse—he digs in and hisses. He hates groups to begin with, and there’s no way to drag him into one that doesn’t want him. He loves being part of Vanessen. He respects Pop-Pop and your mom and Damon and Jason and, well, the pack. And that’s saying a lot, because that cat hates almost everyone.” He shook his head while smiling with love. “Paris won’t go back to Marketo. He snarls if I even mention it.”

  “Where is our favorite feline?” Pop-Pop asked.

  “He slithered off by himself. He hates Packarama.”

  “I thought he entered the race,” Jazz added.

  Cole snorted. “No. He just likes to razz Winter. But the thought of running with a bunch of clumsy canines gives him hives.”

  Jazz laughed. “Shame. I’d love to see those assholes gaping as Paris ran through the trees in human form.”

  Jazz’s mom and Lindsey, with lots of help from the two drivers, brought a few huge platters of meat—about the only food the wolves needed—with some added veggies for the humans, and they all dug in. Damon, Matt, and his dad, Jason, arrived shortly after, and joined in the lunch.

  ON THE other side of the Packarama grounds, Nardo threaded his way between the raucous wolves as they gorged themselves on meat, downed a lot of human liquor, and plotted and strategized against and with each other. Of course, no one saw him.

  To assure that remained the case, he stayed far back from the Vanessen camp. Not that he believed the kid had actually seen him. Exactly. But today, he wasn’t going to take a chance. Still, he did want to know what was going on. Nothing was more boring than big gatherings of wolves. They were so predictable. You could rely on them to do whatever stroked their egos and filled their stomachs the most.

  Chances were good that stroking and eating were all that would happen there.

  But he tried to never rely on chance.

  HALF AN hour before the race was scheduled to start, Jazz walked, reluctantly, with Winter and Cole into the tent to change into shorts. He and the others would run half the race in human form—hence the shorts—and then shift into wolf form for the balance of the route. The Packarama was always scheduled on the full moon specifically to allow the shift during the race, and there was actually a pause in the action of exactly four minutes to try to even the playing field on shift time. Everyone knew, but few admitted out loud, that some like Cole, Winter, and even Jazz, for that matter, could shift at will anytime, not just at the full moon.

  Jazz pulled on his shorts, looked down, and sighed noisily. All he could see were the knobs on his knees. He walked toward the flap of the tent. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Cole and Winter got on both sides of him, each throwing a heavy arm around Jazz’s shoulders, then hauled him toward the racecourse, laughing and giving him noogies. They about squashed him, but he had to admit, it was pretty fun to have such great packmates.

  Harsh reality set in at the starting line—about twenty-five wolves, most of them looking like they belonged on the cover of Men’s Health, if you didn’t count a couple of beer bellies, waited to run. Right, a couple of bellies and a beanpole. Him.

  Alpha Merced Marketo stood on a small platform holding a mic. “Racers, you’ve all signed your agreement to the rules of the race. You will run in human form to the shift tent. As soon as you arrive there, your four minutes will begin. Complete your shift, wait until your timer releases you, and then complete the race in wolf form. Remember, controlling your wolf is part of the race. If your shift requires more than four minutes, the extra is added to your time. If your wolf refuses to stay on the track or breaks the rules, you’re out. No excuses. All participants will accept the decision of the judges, even in the case of a photo finish. The winner will receive the five-hundred-dollar prize and, of course, the Packarama trophy and bragging rights. Are there any questions?”

  The males shifted restlessly. One yelled, “Let’s just start!”

  Marketo frowned. He was kind of a formal guy, and crass young wolves didn’t please him. “Racers, take your marks.”

  A couple of males whooped, and the line tightened, with the racers becoming focused and quiet. Beside him, Cole and Winter poised. Jazz took a deep breath.

  “Set.”

  What the hell. Might as well give it my best try. He leaned forward.

  The gun fired. All around him, huge grunts of effort burst out of racer’s lungs as they propelled themselves off the starting line.

  Jazz threw out one foot and hit the ground right on a small hole in the dirt. His knee and ankle went in two directions, and he stumbled forward but managed not to fall. Beside him, Wreck laughed. “Forget which foot to use, Vanessen?”

  A searing flash of heat stabbed through Jazz’s head and his vision blurred. The slam of his sneakers against the dirt pounded in his head like a gong. His head spun, and the acid burn he usually got from shifting blazed over his body like a ground fire. Only he didn’t shift. Or at least he didn’t seem to. I’m still running–aren’t I?

  The smell of sweat from so many bodies swamped him until he could barely breathe. The wind whistled in his ears, and the sound of his feet thudding matched the thumping of his heart. All around him, the trees blurred, their outlines softened as if he ran in a Monet impressionist painting of a forest. No bodies or forms, just undulating colors rising up like trees, falling like a lake, rising like a tent. There was a flapping, and the wind ceased, but the flow of colors and sound swirled around him.

  Thump. Thump. Thump, thump.

  “I’m timing.”

  “Wh-what?” Jazz stared around. No trees or water. I’m inside. Somehow he’d gotten inside.

  “I’m timing. You have four minutes to shift.”

  “I don’t… understand.” Jazz stared at the pack member standing beside him staring at a stopwatch. Jazz wandered around the big tent. Where am I?

  “Two more minutes to shift. Uh, shouldn’t you be making an effort? I mean, you don’t want to lose.” The big male looked at Jazz with wide eyes.

  “Oh, should I shift?”

  “Yeah, that’s the idea. Come on. You’ve got one minute.”

  Jazz shook his head. “So it’s time to shift?”

  “Yeah, fuck. Come on, stupid!”

  Oh man, I hate
shifting. He opened his mind, his heart, his soul, to the force of the universe, the energy that pervaded all. Flame, fire, his blood ran like acid, and every muscle burned. His very bones screamed in agony as his inner nature rose up to meet the pull of the cosmos and… bam!

  Fur, sinew, teeth. All perception altered, both clearer and less clear. More brilliant and softer edged. Wolf.

  Wolf. Run. Run.

  From somewhere he heard the timekeeper say, “Holy shit!”

  Get away. Must get there. Run. Run.

  Canvas slapped his face, rough sand scratched at his paws, and low-hanging branches whipped his fur. Fun, run, run.

  Like skipping, dancing, playing, fun; then he heard it….

  Breathing, panting, pounding paws behind him. Racers. No. Run fast. Fast! He leaped forward, paws eating up the sand, throwing it behind him. Must run. Must win.

  Wind whistled in his ears, and his eyes watered and burned, but he couldn’t stop.

  A huge rock blocked the path and he hurled himself into the air, landing so hard his teeth bit through his lower lip, but he kept going.

  Cheering, whistling, clapping.

  Must run. Run.

  “Jazz!”

  Run.

  “Jazz, stop. Stop. You won!”

  What? No, run. Wolves chasing. Still, he looked back. Behind him, a huge silver wolf ran at full speed. Cole wolf. Friend. Jazz wolf slowed his pace a little.

  Suddenly, a huge white wolf came up beside him. Woof. The wolf made a leap and turned in a circle, yipping.

  He slowed, glanced behind him a little nervously, and finally stopped. The white wolf leaped in and licked his wolf’s face as the gray wolf danced around them.