by Trisha Telep
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, for one thing people are always trying to follow me places without my actually doing anything. Can get pretty hairy in a gay bar, let me just say. And I am so not into bears.”
Marvin blinked at him.
“I was trying to be funny.” Alec sighed. “So, technically, yes. I’m alpha. That’s kind of what started all my problems. I always knew, you see? Since right after they changed me. You just kind of do know, once you’re a werewolf. Know where you sit in a pack, I mean. But, can you imagine the hell I’d have to pay if it became known by anyone else? My dad already suspects, and I think Biff might too.”
“I thought they suspected you were gay.”
“Possibly. But that’d just be the excuse to fight me. I might be able to take a couple hits now and again, but a real fight? It’s in my nature to have to prove things. That’d just be bad. So I avoid it.”
Marvin looked at him. “You just don’t want the responsibility of your own pack?”
Alec shrugged. “Maybe.”
Marvin blinked long blond lashes at him in a parody of a fifties housewife. “Honey, are you telling me I’m in love with a single dad?”
“If you count about seven grown-up bikers. Yup.”
“That’s how many you think would follow you?”
“If I won alpha, sure.”
“I always wanted a big family.” Marvin didn’t seem to mind this possibility.
“You’re a loon, you know that?”
The most remarkable high-pitched yet melodic keening wail cut through both their conversation and the seal barking. Alec flinched. The sound was so sharp it almost tore through the delicate drum of his hypersensitive ears.
“What the hell?”
Marvin grinned. “I believe my sister has arrived. Cover your ears.”
Alec did so. Marvin threw back his head and let out a correspondingly painful yet lovely sound.
A few moments later a loud banging commenced and then the door at the top of the cellar steps crashed open, breaking the bolt. Giselle appeared. She was shadowed by three large and bulky figures who seemed to have done the brunt of the damage to the door.
Alec sniffed suspiciously. Eau de Dad, brother, and alpha. Just wonderful.
Giselle and the werewolves crashed down the stairs and then paused, confused, at the bottom. For there were Marvin and Alec, clutching each other on the top of a rickety stepladder while at their feet two large furry sausages writhed about in an entirely unthreatening manner.
“Uh,” said Giselle.
“Marvin found their skins and incapacitated them.”
“Makes them mighty difficult to interrogate though.”
“But not so much of a threat,” Alec defended.
Marvin shrugged. “Bundle them up in a couple of tarps, take them back to Alec’s place and dump them in the bathtub with a bit of salt. Should do the trick.”
“Oh, now really. Must it be my apartment? My tub isn’t nearly big enough for a walrus.” Alec protested.
“We’ll be careful. It’s the only way to get a confession out of them. Need to trace the rest of that money.”
“What the hell are you doing on a stepladder with a merman? Naked!” Butch asked in that tone of voice. Apparently, he had finally taken stock of the situation.
Alec sighed. Suddenly he was very tired of hiding everything all the time. His mouth tasted like seal blubber, the man of his dreams was in his arms, and the future just didn’t seem all that bad anymore.
“Kissing him, if you really must know.”
Butch sputtered.
Giselle grinned.
“Would you like a demonstration?” Alec offered. Might as well go for broke.
“No need to press the matter, pup,” warned Fifi in his alpha tone of voice.
Butch, ignoring the walrus, the seal, and the merman, charged down the steep wooden stairs into the basement and leaped at his son, changing form midair in a spectacular display of werewolf prowess. His clothing fell to the floor with a sad little fump.
“Oh, well, that’s just great,” said Alec, falling off the stepladder with his father’s jaw wrapped around his shoulder.
Then he too changed.
Alec had never actually fought his father before. After he became a werewolf he’d fought his brothers, one at a time, and several at once. None of them talked about it, but Alec had kicked their proverbial furry butts. But his Dad was pack beta. And very very big.
He was also, Alec soon found, a tad out of shape and beginning to feel his age.
Alec never understood how any werewolf could lose his human sense along with his human form. It seemed silly simply to let the slavering beast take over. So Alec fought smart, using his intelligence as well as his wolf body. With his father mindlessly attacking, tearing for the throat and scrabbling at his jaw, Alec – quick and nimble – fended off his attack and steered him in a furry, slathering, growing tumble around the basement towards a promising-looking fish tank.
His dad took a particularly nasty nip to the side of the face, under one eye, and backed away, circling his son warily for a moment.
Alec seized the opportunity to dart in at exactly the right moment, and instead of going for a ruff-grabbing bite as one might expect, he nosed under his father’s belly, and heaved upwards, using leverage and supernatural strength to simply flip the wolf over and into the fish tank. There was a tremendous splash and then the glass shattered under Butch’s weight.
Butch took a moment to recover, shaking the glass and water from his coat. He was just about to charge his son again, and Alec was beginning to wonder how he could end this without actually killing Butch, when both Fifi and Biff stepped in.
“Enough, Butch,” said the alpha. “The fight is done. Consider yourself rousted. He’s fighting smart, and we both know what that means.”
Butch crouched down among the remnants of the fish tank and glared at his alpha.
“He’s always fought smart, you just never bothered to ask any of us why we stopped picking on him after he changed. You thought we didn’t test him?”
Marvin and Giselle were occupied trussing up the two barking sea mammals in a couple of tablecloths they’d unearthed from the kitchen stores. But, drawn by the conversation, Marvin wandered over.
Giselle, apparently tired of all the barking, glared the walrus into silent stone stillness. Without him, the harbour seal seemed far more amiable.
“What’s it mean, fighting smart?” Marvin bent down and began scratching Alec’s ears. Alec leaned into the caresses. It was a little lap-dog degrading but it felt wonderful.
“It’s an alpha trait, keeping the brain with the change, as it were.”
“Oh, I thought “alpha” had to do with dominance and size.”
“Size, sometimes. Dominance, definitely. But that has to do with smarts and how you use them.”
Fifi looked down at Alec. “Enough playing, pup.”
Alec sighed and shifted back to human. He found and pulled on his jeans before Marvin could say or do anything rash.
Marvin gave him a very significant look.
Alec looked to Fifi. “So, now that it’s out, what are you going to do about me?”
Fifi shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for you to get your crap together and take on responsibility for your half of the pack for a couple years now. Couldn’t understand what was holding you back.”
Alec winced.
Biff looked at his brother, head cocked to one side thoughtfully. “I can.”
“What’s your interest in this matter?” Alec wanted to know.
“Didn’t you realize it? I’m your beta.”
Alec took a closer look at his brother. It would explain his protective behaviour over the years. “Oh.” I guess he always knew he was a beta, just like I always knew I was an alpha.
“So?” Fifi demanded, one heavy foot resting casually on Butch’s still lupine ba
ck, as if he were afraid Alec’s dad would leap up and begin attacking once more.
Biff shrugged, looking significantly at Alec and then Marvin, who’d sidled up behind him and wormed one hand into his.
Alec puffed out his cheeks. “So, I’m gay.”
Butch twitched and growled under Fifi’s foot but did nothing further.
Fifi shrugged. “So?”
“You’re not mad?”
“You’re not making a pass at me, are you? Why should I be?”
Biff said, “We all, well, kinda already knew.”
Alec turned to his brother, voice rising, “Oh really? How long?”
Biff raised both eyebrows. “Well, there was that thing when you were six. I was gnawing on one of Ma’s shoes but you took if away from me because it was Italian.”
Alec’s jaw dropped. “You don’t care?”
Biff shrugged. “Why should I?”
“You aren’t worried about your alpha being, well, you know . . .”
“Alec, I just think it’s time you settled down, came out as an alpha, took your piece of the pack, and relocated us. We’ve waited long enough, we’re restless.”
“None of the others care?” Alec was thinking of his brothers and the rest of the younger pack members.
“The ones that do will stay with Fifi. The rest of us don’t give a damn. New generation, Alec, it’s just not an issue anymore. We’re, you know, modern. Though, I don’t know how they’ll feel about the in-laws smelling like fish.”
Marvin grinned at him.
Alec turned to look down at the merman. “So, I come with a bit of baggage.”
Marvin grinned. “Every relationship has its little hurdles.”
“Little? Who you calling little?” Biff glared.
Marvin ignored Biff, nuzzled up against Alec’s neck and gave it a little lick.
Alec jumped slightly. “Behave.” He turned back to Fifi and Biff. “So what do we know about the Bay Area, any packs roaming there?”
Fifi grinned. “Not that I know of. The general feeling on San Francisco, amongst the older pack leaders, is that there are too many, well, you know . . .” He trailed off.
Alec shrugged. “Guess I’m the right kind of alpha for the area then.”
Biff grinned. “So you’re in? You’ll do it?”
“Do I have a choice? At least there are still marine biology labs over there.”
Marvin slid an arm around his waist. “Plenty. I may even have influence with one or two of them.”
Alec smiled and looked down at the merman’s blond head. “I suppose to be unexpectedly in love is a nice change from being unexpectedly alive.”
The merman stood up on his toes and kissed him.
Alec wondered what Marvin looked like with a tail. “Man, this is going to be one weird relationship.”
“All the best ones are,” replied his merman boyfriend.
Zola’s Pride
A Southern Arcana Short Story
Moira Rogers
One
He was going to get the cops called on him if he wasn’t careful.
Walker Gravois dropped his second cigarette, crushed it under his boot and turned his attention back to the wide window across the way. Fluorescent light streamed through the glass, doing more to illuminate the narrow street than the lamp over his head. Inside the dojo, a woman with chocolate skin blocked a punch, then paused to correct her assailant’s form.
She didn’t have to be facing him for Walker to recognize her. Zola. Every line of her body tugged at memories he thought he’d banished years ago, and he couldn’t help but compare the woman before him with the one he remembered.
She’d been thinner then, just as strong but not as curvy. The wicked flare of her hips drew his gaze, and he licked his lower lip to ease the tingle of curiosity.
Walker checked his watch with a quiet curse – half past ten. He’d been standing there for close to an hour. In this part of the Quarter, it wouldn’t take long for someone to phone the police about the pervert loitering outside the dojo, watching the students kick and lunge in their tiny T-shirts and Lycra sports bras. Unfortunately, the neat letters etched into the glass window that listed closing time as nine o’clock seemed like more of a guideline than a rule.
And he desperately needed to talk to her.
He’d just begun to entertain the notion of simply walking in when Zola stepped to the front of the room and turned to address her gathered students. Clearly, she was preparing to dismiss them, so he shoved his unlit third cigarette back into the pack and crossed the street.
Man up, Gravois, he told himself. She‘ll either hear what you have to say . . . or she‘ll kick your ass clear across the river. The hell of it was that he had no idea which she’d choose. Normally, he wouldn’t worry – he could handle whatever fury Zola unleashed on him – but he had more to think about now than himself.
So he’d let her scream at him, get out whatever lingering old hurts plagued her, and then he’d make sure she heard him.
He could do this.
He had to.
The evening class had run long again.
Zola never minded. Friday night was reserved for her private class, the class made up of girls and women who walked among the supernatural denizens of New Orleans as daughters, sisters and wives. Some had powers of their own, like Sheila, a gangly, sweet-faced wolf on the cusp of womanhood, all arms and legs and uncertain strength. Some were psychics and some were spell casters, witches and priestesses who twisted magic and read minds.
Some were human, and they were the most vulnerable of all.
The soft murmur of feminine voices drifted through the dojo as the last few students lingered in the warmth of the building, catching up on the latest gossip or making plans to meet later in the week. February had brought an unseasonable cold snap, the kind of chill that settled in Zola’s bones and made her long for the unforgiving deserts of her childhood.
The floor creaked behind her, and Zola looked up from rearranging a stack of punching targets to catch sight of Sheila’s reflection. The teenager had a jacket zipped up to her chin and a knitted hat pulled low over wild corkscrew curls, leaving just her pale face uncovered. “Zola?”
She looked worried, and Zola tensed. “Yes, Sheila? There is a problem?” Even after all these years, English didn’t come naturally. The words tumbled out in an order that always made others laugh, but she’d spoken too many languages in too many countries to worry now.
Sheila was so accustomed to Zola’s linguistic oddities that she didn’t blink. She did, however, speak in her own nearly indecipherable dialect. “There’s a guy lurking outside. I mean, he’s hot and all, but the lurking is pretty creeptastic and a little pervy.”
Zola didn’t need to understand the words to decipher their meaning. She turned and squinted through the broad windows, her vision hampered by the darkness outside and the glare of the dojo’s lights. Even a shapeshifter’s enhanced senses had their limits.
“Stay,” she murmured, already crossing the room. The hardwood floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the bite of freezing air against her uncovered arms as she pushed open the door.
The scent of the French Quarter hit her in a rush, a hundred smells that would take hours to untangle. Strongest was the coffee from the shop next door, rich and bitter, undercut with the sweetness of freshly baked cookies.
Then the wind shifted, and she smelled him.
Shock held her frozen in place, a statue of ice that might shatter at any moment. Cigarettes. Leather. Lion. Male. His musky cologne should have changed in ten years. The way it heated the blood in her frozen heart should have changed.
Zola turned to face the women who had fallen silent and watched her now, wary and uncertain. She opened her mouth to reassure them and French came to her tongue, so easily she almost bit the tip to keep the words from rolling out.
He’d whispered his words of love in French, under a full m
oon and ten thousand stars.
She fought for English and it came out choppy and abrupt. “Time for leaving. To leave. Time to leave. Next week, I will be seeing you all?”
They flashed her confused looks but left, filing out into the dark night. Zola watched little Sheila until she met her older brother, who lifted a hand in silent greeting. Zola acknowledged him with a nod, then turned abruptly and strode back inside.
Her visitor would follow.
Follow he did, but not so quickly or so brashly as he would have in her youth. Zola had time to slip her feet into her soft house shoes and don a sweatshirt over her tight tank top before Walker Gravois walked back into her life.
His scent hadn’t changed, but he had. Hazy memory had declared him beautiful, with full lips and cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a youthful warrior painted with all the colours of a clear day on the savanna, golden skin and eyes like the sky. But time had left its mark, put sorrow in his eyes and lines on his face.
Jeans and a leather jacket couldn’t hide the strength of him, and instinct twisted inside her, turned a visit from an old acquaintance into something darker. Lion shapeshifters were rare in the States, so rare that she’d carved out her own territory that spanned most of Louisiana. Walker Gravois was an interloper – and maybe lethal enough to drive her from her home.
Sometimes history did repeat itself.
He didn’t greet her, just dropped his bag and leaned against the small counter near the door where she took care of the trappings of business. “You look good, Zola.”
English. She’d rarely heard English from him, though it was his native tongue. Responding in kind would reveal her difficulty with the language, a weakness she felt too unsteady to reveal. So she replied in French, short and to the point. “Why are you here?”
He followed her lead. “I came to see you. I have some news.”
She’d been so recklessly distracted by his presence that she hadn’t considered what it must mean. Walker had been the youngest of her mother’s bodyguards, sworn to her inner-circle with more than the bonds of loyalty holding him. If he was here, alone . . . “She is dead.”