ALPHA vs ALPHA
CHANNING SHEFFIELD
Dedication
To every writer, reader, and friend.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the Author
Titles by Channing Sheffield
Copyright
1
Whether my journeys involved business, entertainment, or hightailing out of tenuous situations, I traveled light. Today was no exception. Duty called. I’m a tracker by profession. Nose detective. A few idiots had used “noser” as a slap to my undaunted ego.
Refreshed after an ice-cold shower, I shook out my slightly long hair and smoothed the dark brown waves off my forehead, then toweled off. My sister said I needed the “shaggy mess” cut. Whatever. Maybe next April or May I’d spring for a trim. Leave it to her, my “scruffy” Fu Manchu would’ve been a figment of my imagination.
I’ve lived under my parent’s roof most of my life. My bedroom’s located on the upper southeast corner of their two-story farmhouse. Yeah, I know. At twenty nine, I should be renting or owning somewhere. Don’t even think to call me or two of my brothers lazy. We must maintain cleanliness and neatness on the second level, rotate on kitchen detail, dust cobwebs from ten-foot ceilings throughout the house…we dwarf Mom and we love her homemade meals.
Through the open window I breathed in fresh autumn air deeply, staring out at dawn’s new day, its beautiful denim-blue sky brushed with pale pink and orange, and noticed a change coming our way. Crisp, a light breeze nipped the air swaying pine trees and aspens. For three days I’ve sensed a thickening beneath the surface of my suntanned body. Harsh weather has never been a problem for me, not when I shift into the skin I was born in. My body acclimates easily to cold climates. Bred to withstand shitty conditions, animal shifter bodies heat well under thick fur. When temperatures rise steadily during springtime, we shed our winter coats.
I’m hitting the highway, so to speak, got a job to do, and I have no plans to dress. I own little more than jeans, T-shirts, shorts, flip-flops, and a single pair of jogging shoes: no socks, boxers, tight skivvies, or any clothing inhibiting free movement.
Once I reach my destination, the pack’s Alpha will provide clothing, if necessary, and food and shelter—natural consideration by our distant kinfolk when we aren’t feuding. I require nothing more…well, maybe a warm body to relieve the tension after the tedious trip north.
I looped my small, brown satchel containing cash, ID, and my debit card around my neck, including condoms in case a hot female I intended to fuck happened to be in heat or nearing her cycle. Wolf males have great scent receptors. Mating and raising pups were not going to be part of my future anytime soon, if ever, despite my Alpha father’s demanding abrasiveness.
We’ve lived near Durango, Colorado for ages, it seems. In fact, Wolf Creek Pass runs close to our property. Past generations seized the land and my family—and its pack—have owned an abundance of acreage for the duration.
Dad, at his Alpha father’s insistence, moved us here some twenty-six years ago when I turned three years old. Like my sister and four brothers—sextuplets are common among our breed—I was learning to shift into human form. For a kid, transformations between the two entities were painful training sessions. Then, to our mortification and utter disbelief, my parents required that we attend school—in human form since wolves can’t “talk” English and humans can’t “hear” our thoughts unless they’ve joined our pack. Fat chance of the latter happening.
Blending in was tough for me as a child in human society, particularly when my wolf emerged. I disciplined playground bullies, made my naptime nest with my teachers’ coats, and scent marked the classroom if I had a crush on someone.
My brother, Cain…well…his temper was, and still remains, unmatched. Shaking the principal by the necktie wasn’t the ideal method for advancement into first grade. He was suspended, but Cain was also remanded to kindergarten, under adult shifter tutelage, with several other temperamental shifters.
All of my littermates caused one problem or another and school officials contacted my mother often, for one reason or another. So, at her insistence, homeschooling became the norm of our community until we reached puberty. Age thirteen for most humans and shifters. Past middle age for domestic canines, the poor devils that are leashed and arthritic by that time.
As our township’s numbers increased, we built educational facilities, supermarkets, restaurants, department stores and so on. Tucked away from the outside world like most shifter communities, we’re ostracized to a certain extent. Do we care? Nope. As long as we kept to ourselves, and we weren’t systematically offing humans, only a few of their stringent laws applied to us. For centuries, they’ve known of shifter populations living among them, have cautiously, if not distastefully, accepted the unchangeable. Some humans dated shifters, even married on occasion, and many of them suffered familial contempt, barefaced hatred, or banishment.
To be honest, we scared the shit out of humans. Why? Because we don’t fit their norm? We breathe air, we eat and drink to survive, we bleed the same color, and we show emotions. We’re also intelligent creatures. If anything, shifters should be the fearful ones. Humans made guns, ammunition, killed each other because of religious beliefs, killed because of an innate fear of the unknown, killed for sport. Not shifters. We fought with our claws and fangs. Hand-to-hand combat and the all-famous bite. We killed for food or righteous justice. Until human weapons fell into our paws.
And it isn’t just fear of wolf shifters and not simply fear in the United States. Shifters are everywhere, from wolves, to felines, bears…then the threat from vampires upended lives, adding stunned panic to every red-blooded being on the planet.
My pack lucked out; we’ve avoided contact with the bloodsuckers, seeing how we keep isolated. Avoidance still doesn’t mean vampires haven’t played a role in luring or snatching our kin and sucking their victims dry. I’ve seen them in action from a distance. Vicious creatures when pissed or in bloodlust. Too bad early-Europeans were unable to segregate the fiends from society or destroy every last one of them. But then, as dominants of all upright species, humans were xenophobic by nature, even among themselves. Weird, and chances were they’d attempt to annihilate shifter populations too. Their fear factor: monumental. Probably through eternity.
“You about ready to head out?” Dad asked from the doorway to my bedroom.
Spencer Fairchild built the farmhouse Mom coveted, which took two years of backbreaking work. Since, as Alpha, he’d become architect and construction contractor for every new home and business—including renovations—among pack members and the human population living near our neck of the woods. Of course, Fairchild Innovative Building Contractors employed my entire family. Except me. Dad was a big man, a smart man, a resourceful man-wolf—the rationale for his top-level position.
“Soon,” I replied. “Gotta say tally-ho to the family or I’ll never hear the end of it from Mom. Or Kasey.” My sister’s a bitch on wheels—or paws—and sure to rise in status, become some future pack’s Alpha female once she finds her mate, the unlucky fool. To the unknown person who’ll spend a lifetime with the runt of our family…good luck, you’ll need it
When Dad raked his fingers through his graying black waves, a nervous habit, I knew something unsavory was up. “We’ve had another report of a missing wolf. From Jamison’s. Female this time, snatched right from under the
ir noses during a hunt. Three young wolves in as many weeks, two different packs. If we find them dead the count will jump to seven, all in two months time.”
The Council should’ve called me in sooner. I’d’ve cut my getaway short and left Muscle Beach immediately.
“As future Alpha, I want you to stay far away from Villere’s property. Remember, there’s barely a mile easement between Branson’s and theirs,” Dad reminded. “Anyway, something’s going on we haven’t figured out yet. Open trouble out of the Villere camp? I don’t know. They follow a culture of secrecy. Feral rogues, vampires? Possible. Second worst-case scenario, human vigilantes, but save us all if the damn hyena pack returned, looking to retaliate. By now, they’re numbers have increased exponentially.”
War broke out five years ago after the Purcell hyena clan destroyed, and ate, two young lionesses and their cubs. Wolves, wild dogs, lions, and tigers tracked down the stinking murderers and their co-conspirators, slaughtered Queen—their bitchy leader—and five of her eight sibs. An eye for an eye. We lost one wolf and one wild dog in the battles. Three male lions and three female tigers kicked much ass. They ran the remaining killers out of Colorado and into Utah
Last we heard, splinter groups from the Purcell clan had migrated to Salt Lake City and Boise.
“If you’d quit refusing to buy a car or bike, tightwad, you wouldn’t be going through trials and tribulations and risks. I’d prefer you go by bus or hitch. You could take a safer route through Moab and work your way down. Or go through the Springs.”
Colorado Springs sits about sixty miles south of Denver. When I visited last time, I left long before dawn, via the motel’s bathroom window to escape the big blonde, sporting cactus legs, hell-bent on marking me to secure a mate anyway possible when my mate alarm had neither whimpered nor whined. Never would, not the way I lived footloose and fancy-free. I’d spent four days with her, had a great time partying and fucking. I liked her, just not as much as she wanted me for a mate.
And future Alpha? I sure as hell don’t want the job. I don’t need the hassle or drama associated with pack politics.
I had plans and expectations, to go where I wanted to go, see the world, do what I wanted to do without issuing directions to others or others relying on me to pass judgments.
Freedom.
“Dad—”
“No, son, this is non-negotiable. It’s time for you to grow up, time to step into your rightful position and master an Alpha’s duties. Your mother has her mind set on me retiring in the next few years. The pack needs you.”
Rightful? Sure, we all knew I was born to lead. I’d made it known during childhood, kicking ass when necessary, protecting the weak, sorting out problems to stop a worthless fight, and threatening rogues encroaching on our lands or sniffing after our females. I’d followed my dad’s footsteps: played running back in football, earned an architect’s degree at the University of Colorado, although, I’ve never a constructed a damn thing other than worthless gizmos built with my Erector set as a child, and mimicked my father in every way. He was the guy I looked up to, my mentor. Until I turned twenty-one.
I left family and home two hours after graduation. Packed my gear in a duffel bag and thumbed my way to LAX. I took off for Hawaii. Fun in the sun without a pot to piss in or window to throw it out of after buying a first-class airline ticket. Broke, but fully independent, I lived a sixties, hippie life for two solid years, surviving on odd jobs, surfing, loving the awesome freedom. Got a great tan and fucked a shitload of women and a few good-looking dudes. I’ve changed snippets of my life for the better, but I still leave home for extended periods, still fuck men and women if the timing is right. Nothing like a good old-fashioned orgy, an endless rutting spree for two or three days. Horniness and wolves were inseparable during the days surrounding the full moon.
“We’ve been over this shit time and time again,” I said through gritted teeth. We were equal in height, bulk, and nearly equal in might. I outmatched Dad in the strength department and in finesse. No way would I back down by intimidation. Neither would Spencer Fairchild. “I didn’t ask for the job, don’t want it. Now or ever. Let Nick take the crown. He’s ready. He’s already given you and Mom grandkids too.”
“Now, you listen to me, Hamilton Fairchild.” Dad’s the one who kept a tight leash on his anger. Today, a thick bush of gray and brown fur materialized, spread quickly from chest to throat. “You’re my son, my firstborn, and I’ve invested—”
“Stop. Just stop. We’ve been over this shit a hundred times, Dad, and I’m not discussing it again. I’m not a fucking—”
“What in the world is going up there?” Mom snapped. She could hear a mouse squeak in the barn while winds howled through the trees. A stone Alpha, at five foot nothin’, Catherine Fairchild paraded a wicked temper when provoked and, barefooted, she was on her way up the staircase as Dad and I glowered at each other. Mom muscled her husband aside and stood between us. Her glistening, shoulder-length hair was deep auburn, her skin creamy-white and, once she shifted, Mom’s fur was as soft as the finest summer mink.
She folded her arms under pendulous breasts, glaring at her husband through penetrating blue eyes. Then, she pointed a slender finger, tipped with a blood-red talon, at his face that had him backing out of the bedroom. “Spencer, you promised to put a muzzle on it. The boy is almost thirty years old. Let him live his own life, not your wistful fantasies or your family’s legacy. We’re in a new century, a new millennium! Times have changed, and I will not have you badgering him or any of our children. Do I make myself clear?” And she had spoken. Mom’s words were gospel in this household. Hell, gospel in every home, den, and lair throughout our pack’s land.
Her six-four husband, who smartly skipped a comeback, stomped down the hallway. Boot heels pounded wooden stairs. Then, the front door slammed shut, echoed, and shook every wall. Dad was king, but Mom was pure power sitting on her jeweled throne. She ruled with manicured claws.
See, the problem with Dad was, like all Fairchild Alphas before him, he wore blinders, kept his mind on a straight and narrow pathway to success with no deviations. He mated young, except he started a family late in life. His wife had alternate plans to breeding, earning her master’s in business administration and then joining the workforce over a fourteen-year span against her husband’s wishes. Taking over as Alpha, building a good life, and dealing with politics aged Dad physically, aged him at the same fast pace as grandfather and every Fairchild leader before him who mated an Alpha female boasting intellect, who had a mind of her own, and one who bowed to no one. Of course, raising a wayward firstborn likely burned a few years off his lifespan. Mom said I took after my great-uncle Thurman, Old Doggie’s (every pup called grandpa by the name) brother on Dad’s side, who made tracks to Canada to avoid donning an Alpha’s crown.
The eldest son, automatically king unless determined crazed or unequivocally inept, was expected to follow the paw prints of our forefathers. Find your chosen one. Settle down. Have a litter or two or three. Exist in a virtual happily-ever-after and all other bullshit coming along for the ride…like live-in in-laws. Twyla, my maternal grandmother who’s currently living at her sister’s home in Florida for the winter, took up part-time residence in, what she calls, the “mother-in-law” wing of Fairchild’s farmhouse twelve years ago.
I’ve had no reason to “marry” or mark, lesser reason to settle down, and I’ve never looked forward to raising a litter of rugrats—or puprats—nipping at my haunches. During my adolescent years, young pups always shadowed me, yipping, nipping, falling over from youthful un-coordination, and peeing on my legs to get my attention while I stretched out to nap in the open forest. Little shits. I liked kids, but I would rather not father my own and simply deal with youngsters belonging to someone else. You know, spoil ‘em, get ‘em riled and obnoxious minutes before bedtime, and send ‘em home. Like grandparents often did.
And, of course, managing the pack would cost more time than I was willin
g to devote to every pressing task.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t thank me yet, pup.”
Hell, I’ve never peed on Dad’s legs. Too bad Catherine Fairchild was on a serious roll, both tiny fists akimbo on her widening hips.
~~~~~
Half an hour later, I shook hands with littermates Nick, Devon, Cain, and Tommy. Their strong hugs had me feeling more love than ever before. They, including Nick’s eight and counting family and Devon’s hugely pregnant mate, wished me safe travels and much luck.
I had a job to complete. Not one as Alpha as Dad would have it, except I couldn’t deny an obligation to protect and serve. Natural instinct. Every wolf of every pack is a tracker, but I’m the best nose detective this side of the Colorado/Kansas state line.
Little sister Kasey leapt into my open arms, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, her big, wide-set brown eyes filled with worry. I swung her around in circles to ease her trepidations.
“You be careful, okay?” she said, her voice on the verge of breaking. “I’ll miss you, Hamm.”
I laced my fingers through the mess of dark auburn curls at her nape, tugged her head back, and kissed her forehead. As pups we fought daily and sibling rivalry never ends, really. Now, we fought with scathing words. But no matter what argument raised my hackles, family members were my heart. “After I finish at Branson’s place, I’m off to Aspen to piss around with some friends and bug the elite class. I suspect this job will only take a few days. I’ll be back in no time. Meanwhile, with the moon pushing toward full, you should wear clothes more often than not.”
Most of us preferred au naturel. On the spur of the moment, clothes were a hindrance for shifters, and wolves were uninhibited creatures. Nudity was norm unless patrol guards warned of human visitors. Plus, Kasey’s hourglass figure and hefty knockers lured males into risqué sniffing and licking.
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