Shifter Alpha Claim 1-6 Omnibus

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  I've been watching Talyn Phisher for two months. I know where she's going. I don't even need to follow.

  But I do.

  Just being thorough.

  Or at least—that's the line of bullshit I feed myself every day.

  *

  Talyn puts herself through the same laborious paces five days per week. The mile-long walk to get to the gym.

  The elliptical.

  The hand weights.

  It's the squats that get my full attention. Her ass cheeks splitting like twin goodness as she gracefully drops into a deep plunge then comes up to repeat.

  I watch every repetition.

  She moves like the Lycan she'll become. I randomly wonder if she's ever noticed she's faster and stronger than other females. That her sense of smell is almost painfully acute.

  My eyes narrow as a human male approaches her.

  Growling begins from deep inside me, humming through my chest like my very own motor.

  Then a vibration begins inside my pocket so high only dogs, and a few other fine-hearing creatures can hear the buzz. I slip my pulse device out of my pocket without looking.

  I watch the mundane human try to put the moves on Talyn. One of our future females.

  Move on, douche.

  I tap my pulse to activate with my thumb.

  Charles: status.

  Status? Status is: Talyn is not changing. She smells like a sweet piece of fruit that's just on the cusp of ripening.

  But not yet.

  Me: negative. Still under surveillance.

  Charles: maybe too old—past her prime. Possibly a false read?

  No! I calm my shit, and prepare to think my response. But first, I set my pulse to low emotive transference.

  Yeah. Don't need Alpha Lycan Boss to get that I'm sort of wrung out over this change.

  Fuck no.

  Me: possibly, but because she's older, standard protocol might not apply to her.

  Charles: can't afford to waste manpower on a dud.

  Talyn is no dud.

  Me: give me a couple more weeks. Once I see physical degradation, I'll move in.

  The wait of almost a minute is an uneasy one. What if Charles terminates the mission? That Talyn doesn't deserve the time—that a hybrid female pushing forty is too much of an anomaly to waste time on?

  Sweat beads on my forehead. I swipe it away in irritation.

  I glance at Talyn.

  The human has his hand on her forearm.

  Talons burst from my fingertips, and I groan at the pain of the partial change.

  The high hertz frequency buzz alerts me to Charlesʼ reply.

  Charles: two weeks then it's a wrap. There are other hybrids waiting and too few Changers.

  My breath leaks out of me in relief.

  I don't even realize I'm across the street and peering none-too-subtly inside the window.

  If I could wish that human to death with my stare, he'd be zombie food right now.

  I think into my pulse device with the side of my thumb.

  Me: Roger that.

  I palm the slim communicator, sliding it into my pants pocket.

  Talyn disengages from the ballsy fuck inside the workout room and walks away.

  Her look of mild and dismissive disgust makes me smirk. Especially when the human looks after her with pure lust. And something else.

  My nostrils flare to catch the scent of his emotion.

  Glass is no barrier for a Lycan warrior.

  Violence.

  Violence is mixed with his lust.

  My growl is not soft anymore. But a warning nonetheless.

  He doesn't hear it, his ears are far too human—too dull to the danger I've just offered.

  But the small creatures of the nearby forest halt the busyness of their lives and listen to the sound I've made.

  They heed the danger with their communal silence.

  4

  Talyn

  Jerk.

  I rub my arm where he touched me. Do I have a sign that says, desperate tattooed across my forehead?

  Why can't the decent guys that I hear about show up at the gym? Oh-no, it's got to be the pudwacker types.

  So when is: I love the way you fill out your yoga pants—a healthy intro?

  One answer: never.

  I stomp into the women's locker to grab a shower. I take off my yoga pants, athletic top and kick off my shoes. I strip my socks and toss them to join the damp pile of clothes.

  I slip into my flip flops and shuffle to the faucet, jerking it to H.

  I wait, the old pipes groaning in resistance. When steam begins to rise, I step beneath the spray. The hot water flows over my dark hair that needs a trim. I let its heat pour over my face where it beats softly against my parted lips, the water cleansing and hot inside my mouth and on my skin.

  Water runs out my mouth and dribbles down the front of me. It's the only thing I can stand right now on my sensitive skin.

  My flesh burns, my teeth and joints are back online, hurting like forgotten wounds.

  Damn.

  My palms hit the tile, my chin lowering to my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes.

  I can help anyone, no matter how big the problem. If it's real, I can puzzle out the solution that's meant for them.

  So why can't I fix my own chaos?

  I must love it.

  I palm my soaked hair off my face and flip it behind me. The wet strands make a smacking sound as they hit between my shoulder blades and I flinch, my skin's so hyper-sensitive.

  The flesh of my exposed back, buttocks and legs rises into gooseflesh, the small hairs running across my skin becoming spikes of alert.

  I scan the locker room, taking in the vast shower stall. Aqua tiles from the fifties stare back at me with wilting indifference. I fully revolve, the hot water now soothing my back. My breasts tighten, the nipples becoming completely erect.

  My vagina comes alive, throbbing between my legs.

  What the hell is going on?

  A wave of heat flushes over my skin as if kerosene is pouring over my body. And a match is struck.

  I gasp, trying to breathe through the heat engulfing my body.

  I manage to turn and slap the lever to C.

  Barely.

  I tighten my thighs, squishing my pussy lips together to stop the ache. Nothing works.

  God!

  Icy water pours over where hot water just flowed. Moving from under the spray, I walk away without turning it off, and grab my towel I flung over the tiled half-wall, wrapping my drenched hair.

  My body is radiating heat, but I'm shivering.

  Something is really wrong. First my fangey teeth, now I've got hot flashes.

  I stop in the middle of the tiled floor. My raspy breathing echoes back in the strange acoustics of an all-tile room with high ceilings as icy water sprays down the drain.

  “Hot flashes?” I sing in a half-yell into the room. “This is dumb!” I scream like a juvenile delinquent. In fact, they behave more maturely than I'm acting.

  My teeth and crotch are throbbing, my nipples ache, and I feel like someone's lit a torch inside my body.

  I need a doctor. There's no denying that. Maybe this is early menopause? The thought makes me want to cry.

  I don't.

  I do the most unhealthy thing I can. The one thing I caution my patients to never do.

  I stuff it.

  That stupid emotion of helplessness will not defeat me.

  I bite my lip, drawing blood. I suck on it.

  The overwhelming feelings of sexual need, mixed with burning alive begin to subside while I stand naked and dripping cold water into a puddle at my feet.

  Finally, I grab my second cheap towel and cover my body. With slow deliberation I walk to my gear bag and carefully pull new clothes out of the soft duffle.

  I don't tremble as I dry off then put on my clothing or stuff my dirties inside a plastic grocery sack.

  I turn off the water with a guilty twi
st. The sound of water dripping follows me as I leave the gym.

  When the night air hits me, tears begin to pour out of my eyes.

  I don't know what to do. Even trying to turn the tables, and intellectualize how I'd handle this from a client's perspective doesn't help.

  Because I've never had these symptoms present in my room. My world.

  My face rises, tears of frustration tremble on my chin as I look at the crystals of brightening stars, sprinkled like chunks of raw sugar in the deep twilight blanket of the sky.

  I wipe away my wet anger with a hasty stroke. I'll get to a doctor. Figure out what my stupid problem is.

  I forget about the blue eyes. The lame come-on from the guy in my gym.

  I walk the mile back to my car alone, lost in my thoughts—buried in my uncertainty.

  Two sets of eyes follow me.

  One as protector, one as predator.

  If I'd been more aware, and less caught up in my emotions, I'd have forgotten all about what was to come—and rather, what was already happening.

  5

  Merck

  I feel the knot form between my brows.

  I'm not emotional. You can't be a Changer and get all buried in superfluous bullshit. Lycans are an economical group. We don't take time to feel.

  But I'm feeling Talyn. When she exits the gym and just stands there by herself, looking so—lost—I have to smother my instinct to go to her.

  She's not ready.

  If she were, all this restraint would be a moot point. I'd introduce myself, tell her she's a human-werewolf hybrid, and guess what? You've won the jackpot of becoming a Lycan. Congrats.

  Wrong.

  Every change is different, but I've never had a female I couldn't subdue. I've always been Alpha.

  I hold still while silent sobs fall out of Talyn like pieces of a broken heart.

  Moon dammit.

  My fingers tense, my talons making crescent-shaped marks inside my palms.

  Talyn puts herself back together piece by piece. Her efforts at resurrecting her aloof exterior are hard to witness.

  But I do.

  A branch groans. I drop to my haunches, surveying the immediate environment. Nothing.

  My eyes swing back to Talyn. She's already making her way back to her office.

  I follow, and though I can't scent anything threatening. My instincts are blaring an alarm.

  Something's out there.

  But I'd sure-as-fuck like to know what could be out there in silence and without me scenting it.

  *

  I love the challenge of my wolfen form. Half-lycan, half-wolf, I lope after Talyn, using the forest's border as a sort of superficial cover.

  If humans knew what to look for, they'd see us.

  But they don't. They only see what their mind will allow them to easily explain.

  My pants are of the stretchy, black athletic variety. A zippered pocket at the side of my thigh keeps my pulse at-the-ready for contact with my superior. Charles keeps tabs on all his Changers. Or he's more like our warden.

  It's a fact in my life that I don't like.

  But I love what I do. There's nothing more rewarding than saving a hybrid from a mundane existence, and inevitable early death.

  I had been tasked with Talyn Phisher because she's considered a complicated change.

  She might be more complex because she is a full fifteen years older than our average change. But she's only female. She will want to transition just like the dozens I've helped before her.

  I slow to a jog as Talyn draws nearer to her vehicle.

  Counselors must make good money.

  She pulses her lock to open, and slides into her fully loaded beamer. I watch her car buckle her as she pulses the engine to life.

  The soft purr is impressive. My acute hearing, made even more so by my wolfen form, tells me she's a regular at getting her ride serviced.

  So many little details about Talyn Phisher.

  None of which matter right now.

  I follow her departure until her car is a bright red dot in the last of the early summer twilight.

  *

  I'm not winded as I sprint through the forest. Leaves churn with my passing, branches appear to lift and I recognize it for what it is—velocity. I'm sure there's an explanation of physics somewhere in there, but I never was a school boy.

  Rather, I've been self-taught through the school of hard knocks.

  Talyn Phisher's probably never had the challenge like a Lycan of the pack would. Of beating—and being beaten—until your life hangs in the balance of forfeit to another.

  Females do not fight for Alpha status. They are born Alpha—or not. Males must prove their Alpha role.

  I proudly wear the scars of my position. It was an even fiercer test within the warrior ranks of Changers. Lycan Changers must be ready for the challenges that present in acquisition, in transition. And the very real possibility of aggressors who would take who we seek to change.

  I hunker down, grabbing a low-lying branch in a rare patch of conifers. In Sioux Falls, there's not sufficient forests to cloak me. It's an urban oasis. Islands of trees, mostly deciduous, rather than true swaths of trees allow a sort of complicated stealth.

  I manage.

  Near Talyn's small craftsman bungalow, great trees stand in a vacant lot, and I use those as habit. They dance above my head, a testimony to the plains wind, sweeping without obstacle of mountain or sea to stop its assailment of everything in its path.

  Her sleek luxury BMW creeps along the antique cobblestone alley and the garage door lifts. The car slowly rolls inside. I hear the muted click as she slides the gear into park and the shuffling descent of the garage door.

  An exhale of relief slides out of me.

  My change is safe.

  I've already been through her home. It is scentless. Absent of danger.

  That is—if you're looking for threats. Her house is filled with the exotic scent that is Talyn.

  Her house cat stays on the top of the fridge during my illicit visits. Long tail shaking high above its head like a snake shaking its rattles.

  Still my disquiet is not completely put to bed. My talons are full of bark from nervous motion. I've made a bare spot on the trunk of the tree I lean against.

  My eyes see nothing.

  I shut them and let my sense of smell do its job. I scent the pine needles beneath my feet. Below that, the decay of last autumn's leaves reek of earth and musk. Further away, blacktop from five years ago still smells like it was laid yesterday, fresh rain slicking the surface like oily water.

  Further I smell Talyn.

  My eyes open as I suck in a deep breath. It expands my lungs, and I hold the many scents that present themselves inside me. Engaging, identifying and cataloging

  I exhale slowly.

  I'm pleased she's finally degrading. I'm not thrilled with what I think I'm scenting.

  It's rare, but not unheard of that a female hybrid can transition and go into heat at the same time.

  But it's not a good development. It's calling the dinner bell for any werewolf within a hundred miles.

  Lycan Changers hunt their hybrid females in secret.

  Humans are already a problem. But they're not the number one problem.

  My own kind is the real threat.

  6

  Talyn

  I slop to the bathroom—do my business.

  Then do the worst thing I've done since getting up at six a.m.

  I look in the mirror.

  Oh shit—I look like roadkill.

  My face is flushed red like I have a sunburn. My normally clear gray eyes are slightly shiny and bulge in my pinched face like poached eggs with muddy glass dotting the center.

  The best news—I have a big zit on my chin.

  I am way too old for pimples.

  My head slumps. God, it's like I have a wart. All I need is a pointy hat and I'm good to go.

  The hell with it. I jerk open the medicin
e cabinet, grabbing the zit zapper astringent and nail the boil.

  I used to have perfect skin.

  Not anymore. Now that my crotch is imploding, my skin is boiling from the inside out and my teeth are aching—it's a whole new reality.

  I slam the medicine cabinet shut, ignoring my urge to take a second glance at my reflection. Instead I stalk to my pulse.

  I swipe the thumb dock and initiate, thinking voice call.

  I probably shouldn't do general for this, but there's too many symptoms for me to play around. He's diagnostic, at least. And I know him.

  The canned female voice comes online, telling me to think my message after the chime.

  A musical note sounds. I wait. When it ends I think:

  This message is for Dr. Colbert. This is Dr. Phisher. I'd like to schedule an appointment for a full physical and blood work set. Please phone back with a time that is mutually beneficial.

  I think end message.

  The screen of my pulse darkens, slowly fading to the deep black of hibernation.

  Some of the tenseness leaves my body.

  I don't know why I put that off. Oh yeah, because going to another doctor is always awkward when you're one yourself.

  And it's a big time-waster.

  I guess it won't be a waste of time if there's something to be done.

  *

  I pet Pooky's head, and she meows her acceptance of my gesture of affection then turns, giving a dismissive tail flick as she jumps to her favorite perch on the top of the fridge.

  She gives another plaintive meow.

  I put my hands on my hips. “I don't know what you're saying. But I do know you're making me late. It's Friday and we already have our date of Pride and Prejudice, and Ben and Jerry are coming for ice cream.”

  Large greenish-gold cat eyes give an unimpressed slow blink. Another meow. The orange that covers her left eye looks back at me like a pirate's patch. Wrong color, same effect.