by Rhys Ford
“You’re insane, son. I’ve got to be at least twenty-five years older than that boy.”
“Yeah, Da, that’s a thing.” Kane patted his father’s broad back. “And it’s probably not helping that you’re calling me son. Flash your wedding ring at him. That’ll either help or seal the deal.”
“Yer more like yer mother every day.” Donal gave him a light push toward the stall at the far end of the shop. “Let’s see what yer brother is up to. And keep your mouth shut to yer mum about the young man. She gives me enough of a hard time about the women at the PTA meetings.”
It was interesting to see the different kinds of tattoo examples each artist had hanging on the walls of their stall. It seemed like most people in the shop specialized in American Traditional, with a few spots of Japanese here and there. Connor’s tattoo artist was different. His stall was decorated in a variety of styles; although the classic eagle, anchor, and hula girl were present, there were also whimsical drawings of teddy bears and unicorns.
His portfolio included the first police patch Connor had shown them as an example, as well as a couple of others, each with its own flare and take on the force’s beloved emblem. The artist definitely had his name passed around through the department, because Kane found more than a few St. Michael’s in the mix. A sketchbook was open on the table in the stall, and they’d interrupted the artist when they came in, pulling him away from a screaming eagle with its talons clenched into a torn-up banner.
Kane had to admit when Connor introduced them to Bear Jackson, he had his doubts. The man was Connor’s age or a couple of years older and nearly the same size, if not bigger. Bear had a warm smile and a quiet peace about him, a short scruff of beard accentuating his strong features, and his dark blue eyes sparkled as he spoke about the sketch he’d created for Connor. The artist and cop bonded for a few moments about being frost giants, chuckling over having younger and smaller siblings, then focused on the artwork Bear had done for Connor’s tattoo.
If Kane ever got a tattoo, it would be the one Connor was going to get in a few minutes.
There was an Irish feel to the lines, a subtle Celtic flair to their curves. The shield’s emblematic phoenix could have been lifted from the book of Kells, the fire of its feathers knotted and turned, and the lettering on its banners was a fine balance between delicate calligraphy and masculine strength.
He coveted the tattoo as much as he’d wanted the fully loaded metal fire truck with flashing lights and working sirens Connor got for Christmas when he was seven, a fire truck Kane eventually inherited and still held a place of honor in his bedroom.
“Oh, son”—Donal dropped his voice to a hushed whisper—“that is a beautiful piece of art.”
“You know, Da, the three of us can wear this together,” Connor said quietly. “It’s something that connects us. Not that I love the rest of them any less; it’s just that none of the others understand what it means to go through a door or to hear the crackle of a call come across the radio. It defines who we are in a lot of ways.”
“It’ll go nice with the Saint Michael I have on my shoulder,” their father mused. “What do ye say, Kane?”
It was a singular, beautiful piece of art done with such passion Kane could feel the love of the artist in every line. But his star was new, untarnished and clean, a silver seven-point symbol of who he’d always dreamed could be. His father and brother deserved to wear the phoenix and to have Oro en paz. Fierro en guerra emblazoned on their skin. He hadn’t earned it yet. He needed to have more cop in him first.
“I’d like to one day, but I haven’t bruised my star yet,” he confessed. Tapping at the original art, Kane asked Bear, “In case I can’t find you when I’m ready, can I have a copy of the art? But if you’re around, I’d like you to put it on me when I’m a lieutenant. Because I think by that time, I can say I’ve earned the right to have this on me.”
“Sure.” Bear broke out into a wide grin. “I’m actually opening up my own shop in a little bit down by the pier. Signed the lease today, so when you’re ready, or if you want to get any tattoo, come find me at 415 Ink. I’ll be looking for you.”
Hair of the Dog
This serialized series is dedicated to anyone
who has grabbed one of my books and fallen in love with Dude.
Okay, it’s for everyone who has ever gotten one of my books.
Because you are the reason for all of this.
I treasure that.
Beyond measure.
So thank you.
One
“HELLO, DEFENDER of the Concrete Squirrel.”
It was a silly name, but the bulldog took it on with a great seriousness. Apparently the people he called his considered the squirrel an important part of their lives, so he in turn honored them by defending it. It was better than the human-name given to him. Roscoe. A noise at best, and a harsh one. It probably meant something in human language, but I didn’t know what. They rarely discussed their language with us, and mostly it centered around food or toys.
And beatings. Some humans liked to chase away the Pack’s members, as if they had dominion over the ground they squatted on.
It is one thing to be territorial but quite another to be cruel.
Much like the name Roscoe.
“Hello, Chinatown Gypsy Walker.” Defender snuffled a greeting through the chain link fence surrounding his property. Another silly human thing, running a line of tall metal around an area as if they can keep it safe from anything outside coming in. It would be an easy enough fence to scale, or if I were something other than Pack, fly or crawl under, but that would be disrespectful to the bulldog, so I stayed on my side of the silly webbing. “Where are you going today?”
“I am heading down to the end path there. I have found a human I like. I’ll be staying there for my life.” His shock flavored the air, and I sniffed at it, wondering what was such a surprise. I cocked my head at him, pulling my ears forward. “Why the strangeness? Did you think I will give up my roaming? The one I’ve found needs a roamer. He stays inside too much. He’ll need me to bring the outside in.”
“Does he like you?” The bulldog furrowed its brow and I wondered if he’d spent too much time with his humans, as he looks more like one of them when he speaks. But then, thinking back on all the bulldogs I have known, most of the breed were like that. A mass of wrinkles, worry, and defending odd things.
“He feeds me. And when he does walk outside, he goes to the food place on the corner and buys me a sandwich. Just for me.” I catch the scent of a cat on the wind. It is nearby but not one I know. If I hadn’t been on my way to home, I would seek it out, but there are things to do. I had to find my newly claimed human and mark him as mine—an easy task since I’d avoided at least three rains since I’d last seen him so I reeked of my scent. “So, you will see me with him. I thought I should tell you I would be in the area and hope to be good Pack to you.”
“Wait, I know that one. He looks like he owns a cat.”
“He is a cat,” I assert. “But I can work with that. Wish me luck. It will be a hard thing with him, but I am determined.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Defender asks as I turn away.
“Because he is sad inside,” I reply, elated the bulldog did not draw a line of aggression between us. It would be difficult to live near him if he had. “And because, Defender, he deserves to live better than the death he’s chosen for himself.”
Two
THE DEAD squirrel was the final straw.
Okay, stepping in it had been the final straw, but that counted as finding it, especially when the thing squeaked and spurted when Miki’s foot came down on its slightly depressed corpse.
“Fuck! Shit.” His howl echoed through the empty half of the garage, and Miki hopped off the squirrel, shaking his foot. Turning, he banged his elbow on the garage door, rattling its slats and sending a shockwave of pain up his arm. Unbalanced, his bad knee gave and he went down, slapping the concrete floo
r in an inelegant sprawl. The ache in his elbow was nothing compared to the twisting anguish coming up his leg to grab at the base of his neck, a devastating ripple through his nerves.
To add insult to injury, the squirrel’s remains still clung to his bare foot, its gummy flesh poking out between his toes.
More importantly, the bringer of the dead rodent sat there laughing at him, his pink tongue curled up like a one-finger salute poking out of his panting mouth.
A panting mouth reeking of dead squirrel stench.
“Dude, really?” Miki shook his foot, adding another layer of pain to his already aching knee. The squirrel remained lodged between his toes, and he spread them as wide as he could, shaking harder.
The damned dead thing was as stubborn as the dog who now seemed to live with him.
“You see this thing on my foot? What the fuck is this? Shit, now I’ve got to touch it.” Miki debated how long he could lie there with a dead squirrel stuck to his foot before someone found him. “Yeah, the answer to that is fucking forever ’cause no one gives a shit about you, Sinjun.”
He regretted using that old nickname instantly and the pain began again, rushing into his blood with a poisonous sting. No one called him that anymore. Hell, even Edie said Miki or even St. John when she was annoyed with him. Sinjun was dead. As dead as the men who’d once called him that.
God fucking damn it, he missed Damie so much. There wasn’t anyone to tell him it was okay that he woke up in the middle of the night shivering from fear. He missed being held. He missed being able to go down a hallway or across a room to find someone to anchor him to the now. Without the others, he was lost and… drowning.
He was drowning so much, and nothing Miki did seemed to get him closer to shore.
There were some days… most days… when he felt like going under, just so it would all stop.
“You do that, and that bitch family of his is going to get Damie’s shit. Next thing you know, they’ll be selling tampons and mineral water with our crap.” Miki sniffed, his nose clogging up too tightly for him to breathe. “Fuck it, Damie. Why’d you have to leave me here? Why couldn’t you have been the one to stay? You could have done this fucking shit without me, because I sure as shit can’t do it without you.”
Something tugged at his foot and he blinked, wiping away the tears in his eyes to look. Oddly, the terrier had the squirrel’s rather flat tail in his mouth and was tugging its dead prize off of Miki’s foot. Dropping his stench-laden gift onto the floor, the dog trotted over to Miki’s side and swiped at Miki’s tears with his slobbering tongue.
Miki laughed despite himself, then gagged, pushing the dog away gently. “Oh no, Dude. You just had a mouth of squirrel ass. No fucking way that’s coming near me. Never ass to face. Never.”
Three
MY HUMAN was useless.
There was no other way to say it but—useless. He couldn’t hunt. Well, hardly any human did these days. Most of them gathered from food places or had other humans come over with food, but even these simple things, my human failed at.
The noise he used for me was nice. Dude. I’d heard other humans use it to call one another. Much like saying Pack. It was an acknowledgment of equality, and I bore it with honor. I added it to my other names, gleefully in fact. It was much better than the bulldog’s and so much greater a name than the poor Chihuahua-mix I’d met whose owner called it Boobie-Hamster. But Snuffler of Warm, Soft Flesh liked the name and wore it as a badge.
Of course he also called himself Terror of Cats, and we both pretended it was true.
Sometimes, it’s best to let a dog’s pride remain intact, even if he shivered when passing by one of the Pack’s traditional rivals for affection—the canny feline.
No, my human was useless in so many things. He did not gather food that smelled of anything but salt, grains, and chemicals, even though he made sure the sustenance he gave me was primarily protein—even the dried kibble he left in an open bag for me on the floor. He did not walk. He did not stretch his legs. And he hurt. All the time. Inside and out. There were parts of him I could not reach, because humans and their frail communication skills meant they had to chatter and chatter nonsensically at each other just to say hello or goodbye.
I would have liked if he chattered to someone—anyone—but he rarely saw another person. If he left to the food place on the corner of the crossway, he spent less than a few seconds talking to the human there.
Useless.
And he also brought home much too much liquid fermented grain. If he intended to drink his food, I’d have to find a new person to live with before long because the one I’d found was too broken to survive.
No, I was going to need help. The problem with my human was too big for just one dog to take care of. I’d need a bigger voice than the one I had, one my human—my Miki—would listen to.
I was tired of my human tasting like tears. Tired of hoping he would find something he’d like to play with in the things I brought to him every day. I was going to have to bring him something—someone—grumpier than he was. I knew I felt better after a good fight. There was something about getting my blood stirred up that lifted the spirit even in the darkest of days.
That is what Miki needed. His blood stirred.
And I knew just the human to do it.
Four
HUMANS ARE stupid, stupid things.
Someone brought death to my house, and the swarms of metal-smelling, grumbling men who’d invaded my home spent more time trying to shove me into a box than taking care of my Miki. He was scared and sick. I could smell the sick on him, and the Other One—Kane—was doing the best he could, trying to calm my human down.
It wasn’t going to work. Miki already was covered with the stench of the kill, and it made him sick. He was pulling up his stomach, and the salty mess of grains he’d eaten were all over the ground. But that didn’t matter either. The loud people were digging into that too, as if they would find anything but grains and bile.
There was death in the house! How could they not smell it? It was not a good death. Not like a hunt or even meat brought back from a food place. This was death with no intent on eating the flesh—the worst kind of horror any Pack could think of.
It was something a cat would do—bring a kill to another cat’s yard to say he was better than the other.
I needed to get to Miki. To tell him it would be all right and Kane would take care of him, but one of the humans picked me up—as if he had the right to do so.
So I bit him.
And he did not taste good.
There are very few times when I’ve shown my teeth in anger. Usually to warn another of the Pack away if I’m eating and they are perfectly capable of getting their own food. One does not show teeth to a puppy or kitten. My dam taught me manners before I even pulled away from her teat. I knew that from the beginning. Aggression is stupidity, because there were other ways for me to deal with the situation. But in that moment of panic, stress, and anger, I could only think of one thing—getting to Miki.
So I bit one of Kane’s people until he bled and dropped me.
Sorry, I am not sorry.
I took two steps to the garage when someone threw something over me, and the next moment, I was in the cold, hard room with the water dish I could only reach if I stood on my hind legs. A few pants later, a dish with dry food and more water in a bowl joined me, and someone thought to throw in one of the thick bones Miki had another human bring me when they brought his salty bread things.
There were no familiar voices after that. There was chatter. Most of it confused. Some of it worried. A few times I thought I heard Kane, but the sound of the voice was different. Not as old. Not as wise but very much of the same litter.
There was nothing more I could do. Just sit there. And wait.
Well, and chew the meat off of my bone. I only hoped someone would take care of my human. And keep death as far away from him as possible.
Five
�
�DO YOU know what you need?” Brigid tilted her head, studying Miki as he nibbled on the mountain of food she’d put on a plate and plopped into his lap.
The woman purred. Literally purred. As Irish as any pint of Guinness he’d downed in Dublin while on tour, Kane’s mother spoke with a lilting purr meant to comfort and soothe.
But it scared the fuck out of him.
Crawling scary fucks even.
He knew why. Explaining it wouldn’t help. He’d met women like Brigid before. Well, not exactly like Brigid, since she seemed to be the type of person someone would name an unsinkable ship after.
No, Miki frowned, they’d name the iceberg after her. Any poor ship minding its own business in the middle of the ocean was fucked if it ran across her.
And if anything made him feel smaller than a dinghy on a collision course with doom, it was apparently a sweet-faced Irish mother bent on stuffing him like a turkey waiting for Judgment Day. That and she was staring.
It was damned hard to eat when someone was staring at him. Hell, even the dog didn’t do it. But then, Dude’d abandoned him what seemed like hours ago, settling in to gnaw on yet another bone he’d dragged over to a corner of the living room. Staring—like she wanted something.
He held out a grilled Brussels sprouts, putting up a wall of green between them.
Apparently that wasn’t it, because her eyebrows gathered up together like a coiled spring waiting to snap back and bite him.