Sumage Solution GL Carriger

by G. L. Carriger

  Biff did want oblivion. He needed a place where his mind stopped singing at him, over and over again. I hurt him.

  So, he let the VOICE take him, and slept.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Texting into the Void

  Biff awoke sometime later, curled on the couch. Most of the pack seemed to be gone and there was only the subdued clatter of his brother and Marvin puttering about the kitchen. He smelled bacon and eggs.

  Biff picked up on some of the conversation. Worry colored both their voices and they were talking about him. He felt a pang – he didn’t want to upset anyone, he wasn’t like that. Betas solved problems, they didn’t cause them.

  “But he used to look at girls’ legs all the time. I mean, he was always checking out your sister.” Alec sounded so confused.

  “So, maybe he’s bi. Or maybe he put up a really good front. He passes as straight awfully well. Why push your father when he didn’t have to?”

  “He was married!”

  “Poor lady.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that explains the divorce. I did wonder.”

  “I guess he’s figuring things out now.”

  “With a sumage? Why not with one of our other pack members? I mean, there’s Judd and Colin and probably Tank.”

  “What, like you so conveniently stuck to your own species?”

  “I take your point. But I’m Alpha – everything is always done the hard way.”

  “Mmmm, yes baby, always.”

  “Oh stop it. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m sure Biff isn’t trying to be difficult. Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”

  A sigh from Alec. “That’d be even worse.”

  “We’ll figure it out, baby. We’ll make this better. We’ll take care of our boy.”

  “Is he going to let us? Usually, it’s the other way around.”

  Biff hated to hear the stress in his brother’s voice, but this time, he didn’t have a solution, because it was his own fault. So, he tuned them out and reached for his phone.

  * * *

  Max couldn’t get Bryan’s expression out of his head. What a fucking nightmare.

  To wake up after such a wonderful evening to find a man he really liked – maybe even loved a little for that shy way he lowered his lashes – looking like he was going to throw up. Just from seeing my body.

  I knew it. I knew it was a bad idea.

  And all the idiot could say was Did they hurt? Of course they didn’t hurt. Well, they did when there was a lot of quintessence around, but the rest of the time, they were just there…hideous.

  Max paced. Oh, he’d been kicked out of bed for his scars before. Gay men, regardless of species, were often just as superficial as the stereotype suggested. At least the ones Max picked up. Max might have gotten a pass in the kink scene, but he wasn’t kinky. Learned that the painful way.

  Of course, Maximillian, because you have to do everything the painful way.

  God, Bryan’s face.

  And I chucked him out naked.

  Well, he’s used to being naked. Fucking werewolf.

  I was right to be worried. Be honest with yourself, Max – you thought it would be the smell that sent him away. Not the scars.

  God, I need a run.

  Max pulled on his gear: long-sleeved top and track pants. Even mid-summer, that’s what he ran in. Because I wouldn’t want anyone to see my scars. Leaving the mess of his apartment and his life behind, he headed out into the stupid cheerful morning.

  The exercise didn’t help, for he could not stop remembering the disgust on Bryan’s face. He returned home just as gloomy, only now sweaty and exhausted.

  There was a text waiting for him.

  Muscles: Max, I need to know. Do they hurt?

  Max ignored it and took the hottest shower he could stand. But all that did was make him feel guilty, because Bryan would hate that he’d washed the scent of them off.

  Fuck him and his wicked tongue.

  Max tried not to think that he didn’t smell right anymore.

  He tried not to think of Bryan’s repulsed expression.

  I’m doing a whole lot of not thinking.

  He didn’t put on any deodorant, or cologne, or hair gel. And he loathed himself for it. And tortured himself with it.

  Ping! Another text.

  Muscles: Is it a sumage thing?

  Max turned off his phone.

  * * *

  Max kept his phone off all weekend, and he wasn’t certain if he was trying to punish Bryan or himself. He half-expected the werewolf to come back in person. To chase when he received no replies. Wasn’t it a wolf’s nature to chase?

  But he didn’t. Either he was so turned off he ran, or he didn’t care at all, or he was respecting Max’s boundaries. Max didn’t want to care about how hard he hoped it was the final option.

  He supposed werewolves were big on territory.

  He supposed he had been kind of tough on Muscles, that poor shocked boy.

  He supposed he might check his phone.

  But he didn’t. He let it lie, snake-like. Or, more accurately, apple-like. Gay sex temptation apple.

  He tried to eat but he hadn’t any appetite. He stared out his kitchen window feeling angry and miserable. Glared at his father’s house and lived his father’s reality. Alone. The house was looking old and neglected. Like me.

  How long has it been since I set foot inside? Not since he died. Ten years? Twelve?

  I was so young.

  Perhaps it was childish of him to live in fear of a place. It was, after all, only a building. But he’d been too hurt to make peace with any of it at the time – man, house, past. And now it was too late, period. The fear was easier than the confrontation.

  Darkness fell, and Max finally turned away from that lonely, sad house to his lonely, sad apartment.

  The werewolf had been inside it for all of twelve hours. But it was like he’d taken all the comfort of home with him when he left.

  What’s the recovery time on a relationship? Half as long? I should’ve been over him yesterday by lunchtime. I’m such a sad sack.

  If Bryan hadn't seen Max’s scars, would he have stayed the weekend? It’d be nice to find a man who looked on Max’s body and actually wanted to stay afterward. What was the werewolf like in the mornings? Was he gruff? Did he snuggle? Would he come up behind and wrap his arms around Max, nuzzling into his neck while bacon sizzled? I’m pathetic. And I have no bacon in my fridge.

  The phone glared at him, silently threatening connection and hope.

  Max glared back.

  The sun had set and there was a full moon tonight. Bryan would be out running with his pack – it was relatively safe to pick up that phone.

  Max couldn’t stop himself from reaching for it. I’m weak in the face of apples.

  He turned the darn thing on.

  A rush of texts. A rainfall of zinging noises.

  Muscles: Please tell me.

  Muscles: Max. I’m sorry.

  Muscles: I didn’t know.

  Max couldn’t stop reading them.

  Muscles: I didn’t mean to hurt you.

  Muscles: I’m so sorry.

  “Well, then, you should have kept yourself from looking so disgusted.” As if that’s fair. As if me hiding it all from him and then surprising him with it is his fault. A man can’t control his natural reactions. Who wouldn’t be repulsed? They’re horrible-looking.

  Time-stamped yesterday afternoon:

  Muscles: I tried looking it up online. So has Colin. Colin’s good. There’s isn’t much about them.

  Then yesterday evening:

  Muscles: Trace lines. That right? It doesn’t say if they’re painful. Max, I hope they aren’t.

  Muscles: They look painful.

  Then yesterday late:

  Muscles: Goodnight, Max.

  Sunday morning:

  Muscles: Morning. I would have done this all better, if you’d given me a chance.

&
nbsp; Muscles: I’ll leave you be.

  Muscles: Please call or text. When you’re ready.

  Muscles: I’ll be here.

  Muscles: If you like. I don’t want to be all stalkerish.

  Muscles: I kinda thought we were good together. I’m not experienced. Maybe I was wrong.

  Muscles: I didn’t mean to hurt you.

  Silence.

  Max scrubbed his face with his hand.

  This sucked.

  He switched his phone back off.

  * * *

  Biff usually looked forward to full-moon runs. This time, they were in a new territory, with new grounds to explore and new smells. It should have been glorious. But his nose was full of burnt-butter sweet.

  This is ridiculous. One date. One night. Why am I so hung up on this guy?

  It’s like Max had captured him with scent and words, until his wolf was tamed and consumed with wanting. Wanting to be near him. To please him.

  It wasn’t at all like being Beta. Biff felt Alec in his bones. He needed to obey him. It was culture, and genetics, and pack. But he wanted to be close to Max. To help him. Maybe even love him a little.

  So, he pushed himself to run after his brother’s wolf form with single-minded intensity.

  All the Frederiksen kids were tall – five brothers and three sisters. Biff’s mom used to joke – one more for a baseball team. Most of them were bulky too, like their father. But Alec was lean and svelte, making him a rangy wolf, and terribly fast. He was also beautiful, cream-colored with striking brown and black markings. Biff was also mostly cream but dirtied and mottled with browns and grays, and much bulkier. Sometimes he looked half-bear. Trying to catch his Alpha at a full run was impossible.

  Tonight, he tried anyway. Muscles screaming. Breath tearing through his chest. Blood pounding in his ears. Anything to forget.

  Alec did not make it easy. He seemed determined to challenge his pack, or maybe just be difficult.

  Since Alec was by far the fastest, it was a struggle for the others to keep up. Occasionally, they would all stop in a huddle of confusion, searching for a scent trail. Their Alpha would appear out of the bright moonlit night and chuff at them in amusement.

  Then take off again.

  Judd and Kev were disposed to get annoyed by Alec’s teasing. What else could one expect from enforcers? As wolves, Judd was massive and black with startling yellow eyes. Kev equally big, only cream-tinted auburn and gray.

  Lovejoy was probably the quickest of them apart from the Alpha, being a leaner wolf, like Alec. But even he couldn’t quite catch up, although he had a keen nose and was good at picking up the Alpha’s trail.

  Colin did his best to stick with the pack. But their littlest member ran because he needed the monthly outlet, not for joy. He was, in the end, an indoor type. Honey russet in color, he looked more like a large desert fox or coyote. Biff kept an eye on him until he realized that Kev, Judd, and Tank all occasionally circled back to make certain Colin stayed close. Kev out of brotherly care and Tank out of kindness (because he was a total sweetheart for all he was the biggest and meanest-looking wolf imaginable). And Judd? Who knew why Judd did what he did?

  Biff was grateful. Usually, it was his job to worry about pack cohesion. The others were taking up the slack that his funk had left them in.

  Look at us, he thought. Allowing a tiny measure of emotional bonding. Almost as if we were a real pack.

  They found and tracked a nice plump white-tail doe, Alec bringing her down in a clean kill and presenting her to them proudly. They shared almost nicely – Judd and Kev bickered over the liver.

  Biff watched them, his gaze – he hoped – caring and fraternal, but he didn’t eat. He didn’t feel like he deserved it.

  * * *

  Monday, Max went to work, still without turning on his phone. It’s not like he needed it for his job. Those few friends he had, he mostly communicated with over social media, the slackers.

  Max knew that he wasn’t at his best, even for a Monday. Normally, the Korean great-grandmother on one side and the Japanese grandfather on the other meant he looked younger than his actual thirty. But today, that Greek grandfather – the one the family never talked about – had stuck his oar in and painted dark rings under Max’s eyes.

  He got a double vanilla latte from the coffee kiosk on his way in, saluting Gladiola in an only mildly insulting way. She was sipping broth out of a shot glass – a bit early for that, but who was he to talk? Today, her hair was blonde and she had on massive fake glasses, a red beret, and a boxy T-shirt with “BOOST” written on it.

  She grinned and gave him the bird. Literally. A tiny quintessence hummingbird illusion formed off her middle finger, flew at him, and buzzed his cheek. Then evaporated with a mild whomp. Nice control for a savage mage. That’s one talented kitsune.

  A bird bird was a weirdly complimentary insult. Ordinarily, Max might have grinned, but he’d decided to wallow in misery, so he ignored it. They’d an all-staff meeting at nine which would have given Max reason to wallow even without a werewolf emotional crisis.

  Ms Trickle was in rare form.

  She started by complaining about pretty much everything and everyone on her staff. Apparently the WWE forms should not be confused with WWF anything, choice of attire notwithstanding. Despite very clear instructions, employees were still confusing the check boxes for unnatural, undead, and unwrapped immigrants. “There’s a difference, people! Trust me. Especially if you find one in your bed.”

  Finally, the kelpie calmed down and handed out their assignments for the week. As if they weren’t the same every single week.

  For the sumages: Pinchers on processing, Plugs on guard detail, and Max hidden away in his office where he couldn’t insult anyone important. For the civic mages: Siphons on research, Sluices on wards, sticking to the top floor as far away from the sumages as possible. Shifters to their various duties and details.

  And so DURPS became once more the bulky, awkward, immeasurably annoying bureaucratic nightmare it always strove to be.

  I love my job. I love my job. I hate my job. I wish I were good for anything else. I miss my werewolf. Don’t be an idiot, he’s not your werewolf. Coffee. Drink more coffee. That’ll solve everything. Paperwork, focus on the paperwork.

  As a result of despondency and avoidance, Max managed to blow through most of his day’s work by lunchtime. Usually he, like everyone else, tried to draw it out. But Max needed a distraction, so he was accidentally efficient.

  Unfortunately, his boss noticed.

  At about 11:45 a.m., she stuck her head in.

  “What are you doing, you miserable twat?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You’ve had six interviews in and out already. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

  “I see. You don’t want me to be competent?”

  “Why on earth would I want that? If I wanted someone actually good at this job, I would never have hired you in the first place.”

  “Fair point.”

  “What, no snappy comeback? What’s the matter, Mr Barker? Bad weekend turn you into a model citizen? Oh dear, did you find religion? Fall in love? Join the Boy Scouts? Die?”

  Max considered. “Sort of all four, actually.”

  “Go to lunch early, you sterling example of worker productivity, you. Take a long one. And don’t come back until you’ve rediscovered your slacker ways.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  So, Max went.

  It being early, it wasn’t his usual lunch crowd at the kiosk. None of his particular friends. Okay, so not really friends, but other human-types with whom he exchanged banter. Probably for the best. I don’t have much banter in me today.

  Max contemplated his food options. It was strange to have actual choices. Usually, he was stuck with yesterday’s sesame bagel, or savory smoothie, dried dragon fruit – let’s be clear here, no one likes dried dragon fruit, no one – or the two-hundred year egg instead of the one-hundred year one.


  Unfortunately, Max wasn’t hungry.

  He got a hummus box thingy with pita chips and some sad wedges of carrot and celery, because why not continue his self-inflicted torture?

  He mooched over to the far corner of the eating area, to contemplate the horror of life in general and his in particular.

  Why, for example, did anyone ever bother to put a pull tab on a seal? Everyone knew it’d just break off and never, ever open properly.

  He contemplated the taunting bit of plastic.

  It’s a torture device.

  Then he hopelessly mangled it, for all the care he took. An epic failure in human ingenuity. Somehow it made everything worse.

  A group of Siphons came down from the archives. Didn’t even look at him, thank heavens.

  Max munched on a celery stick and questioned the universe’s decision to make celery taste like soap. Then he ate another one.

  He stared out the window. The view was beautiful. The Civic Center sat on a very nice golden hill, amongst a bunch of other golden hills, with trees and all manner of annoyingly attractive vegetation. Fortunately for Max’s peace of mind, it was delightfully gloomy today. One of those typical Bay Area gray summer days that comforted locals and upset the tourists – which made locals enjoy it even more. What would Bryan make of it? New to the area. Would he know about the fog? Stop it. No werewolves.

  A small presence settled into the other chair at Max’s table.

  “Well, aren't you the saddest of sacks? Someone die?”

  “Hello, Gladiola. How’s the love life treating you?”

  “How’s the love life treating you? You’re the one who looks like a vegan at a raw meat bar.” The kitsune grinned at him. Her pointy teeth gleamed. She probably rubbed petroleum jelly into them. Gleaming teeth were considered very attractive in fox circles. Max thought about Bryan running his canines along his back muscles and shivered.

  “It’s complicated,” said Max.

  “No! Shocking. Not complicated? Never that.”

  “You always this much of a sympathetic bitch at lunchtime?”

  “Vixen, puhlease!” The fox shifter opened a yoghurt-style container of what looked exactly like cat food. She worked her pull tab beautifully, getting the seal off in one smooth motion.