CHAPTER TWO

Werewolf Conundrum

Biff arrived, parked, took off his helmet, and got pelted with a hail of tiny orange vegetation. What the hell?

He looked around but couldn’t identify the cause. There were no trees around shedding buds. No random wedding party. He plucked one off. A whole flower, as if it had launched itself into the air and taken flight.

He sniffed it and sneezed. Cast quintessence. Not as bad as it could be. Not so much coolant as burnt buttery sugar.

Of course, this was the Marin Civic Center – all sorts of shifters would be here to register, pay fines, testify in court, that sort of thing. And guess what lucky schmucks keep tabs on the critters? Mages. The kind that made a werewolf sneeze. And covered a parking lot in a hail of orange flowers.

Biff wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. I hate civic mages. Stuck-up posturing pompous twits.

Then, with a whomp, the flowers vanished back into static state.

Eyes watering slightly, Biff stomped into the stunning old building. There was a sumage on security detail at the door, ready to Plug up anyone’s casting. As if a mage would be dumb enough to cast inside the Civic Center. That’d be like a perp bringing a gun to his arraignment, just plain stupid.

The Plug gave him the evil eye.

“Werewolf.”

“Mage.”

“Like I’d be holding the door for your hairy ass if I could actually cast.”

Biff sneered at him. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Sumage.”

The man shifted to the balls of his feet. “You trying to start something?”

Biff grunted.

The man looked surprised.

Yeah, you bastard. Beta. You can’t push me into a temper. Perhaps it’s a good thing Alec sent me. Judd would have slammed the sumage’s head into the door just for looking at him wrong.

Biff found his way to the Department of Unnatural Registration and Processing of Shifters. DURPS was tucked into a far corner of the long pink building. There he passed another Plug (they sure weren’t taking any chances) and stood in line for an hour. This yielded up a numbered ticket that gave him a new line to stand in. Whoopee. Half an hour after that, he’d gotten the application forms at last. Despite the fact that Alec had already submitted them online, they also wanted hard copy. Biff ambled over to some chairs, filled out the forms, and stood in yet another line. Twenty minutes after that, he handed the pack’s residency application over to a Pincher. Pincher sumages weren’t good for much – they could only cancel out the small spells. This seemed to be what she was searching for, as all she did was touch the papers. She handed them off to someone else who actually read them. Then she told him to take a seat and wait.

So Biff sat and waited.

And waited.

* * *

Max felt the blast under his skin all morning, scraping and raw over his chest in particular. He tried to concentrate on the paperwork he was processing, because it’s weird to have your DURPS caseworker idly rubbing his pectorals at you.

One particular application was rather upsetting. Max glared at it for a long time, looking for flaws. He hated dealing with werewolves. Usually he only had to process them remotely through port authority to ship back out as quickly as possible. But this was an official werewolf pack residence request. Why is a pack petitioning to move here? And why Sausalito? Maybe I can persuade them to take West Marin instead. Olema would put them an hour away from civilization and provide major parkland for runs. They’ll be nothing but a headache in Sausalito – too close to the city. Plus, that’s where I live. Last thing I need is a pack of homophobic biker asshats hassling my neighbors.

He needed a break, it was midmorning, and the coffee kiosk was singing a siren song. Not really – of course, mermaids didn’t work land-bound jobs, even drink-related ones. No, the DURPS coffee stall was manned by a perfectly ordinary human, who passed over Max’s large latte with three pumps of vanilla syrup in silent judgment. Max grinned, unabashed. He had no proof the sugar helped with the remnant tracer itching, but he liked the excuse. It’d been too long since he’d had to Place a hit and he was feeling wobbly. Nothing like vanilla syrup to de-wobble a guy.

He saw Gladiola and her boyfriend still sitting in deep conversation nearby, clutching hands. Nice that she doesn’t have to actually do to her own job today.

She caught sight of Max and had the temerity to wave.

He raised his latte in salute and returned to his office, shaking his head.

“Barker!” His boss, in the flesh this time, stopped him.

“Ms Trickle.”

“Where’s your ear-bud?”

“Fried, ma’am, in the kitsune blowup.”

“You’re joking.”

“I never joke about blow jobs.”

“They’re designed to take a Surge.”

“Well, that one didn’t. Here.” He reached into his pocket and fished out the sad, wilted thing. It looked a bit like a dead earthworm.

“Christ. That’s awful.”

“You know, I slept with this guy once had a d—”

“I don’t want to know.”

Max grinned and sipped his latte, waiting for her to get to the point.

“You better give that to specs down in R&D. If it should have survived a Surge, they got themselves a Surge problem.” Trickle paused and gave Max a malicious simile. “They’ll want to interview you.”

Max placed a palm to his chest in a Southern-belle manner. “What, little ol’ moi? I’m just some poor sad ol’ sumage with no useful skill and no—”

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

“I do if there’s something in my mouth.” Max’s eyes gleamed. Torturing his boss was always fun. Of course, he’d probably get fired for it someday, but what other joy in life was there if she insisted on going around being all pompous? I’m turning into a lonely waspish old queen.

“Barker, those werewolves are coming in this afternoon. We’re putting them through the usual lines and paperwork and so forth but you know they’re ending up at your desk.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I think you up against werewolves will be hilarious.”

“You couldn’t just send them to me directly? They’d be a lot less grumpy.”

“No preferential treatment, you know that.”

“Everyone is part of the bureaucracy.” Max slurped his vanilla syrup with a coffee twist.

“Even you.”

“Especially me.” Max was well aware where he sat in Civic Center hierarchy – at the very bottom.

“Pain in the ass.” Trickle walked away.

“Only when asked nicely.”

Ms Trickle flicked him off without turning back toward him.

Max drank another gulp of his latte, sighed, and headed back to his office. Annoyed werewolves incoming. Smile, Maximillian, this is going to be a glorious day.

* * *

The number of people in the waiting room made Biff twitchy. Too many other shifters. He sniffed, trying to identify them all. He’d rarely met any other types of shifters in his life. He was coming to understand how insular his upbringing had been.

Eau de wet dog and old carpet to the left. Barghest? His curiosity was piqued – he’d never met a black dog before. He moved to the next scent marker. Blubber and seaweed. That means selkie. Biff knew that smell. It’d been a seal shifter incident back in Boston that threw Marvin and Alec together. He focused idly on a tall good-looking Norse type with a bad attitude, who might be a berserker with those bloodshot eyes. Or a pothead. There was a family of cute kitsune just coming in. But who minded foxes? Although they gave both him and the black dog wary looks. Right in front of Biff stood a fantastic-looking Latino man smelling of sun-warmed fur and sardines, with a certain feline grace and cocky attitude that could only mean werecat. Nahual? Again Biff was intrigued – puma shifters were supposed to be very beautiful in either form.

Biff flinched away from that thought. I must be getting hard up if I’m lusting after a cat shifter.

He knew the Bay Area was accepting of all sorts but this was pretty amazing. So many different species in one place. He tried to be relaxed and comfortable but he couldn’t shake the creepy feeling of not pack. He shivered with that instinctual Beta sense of wanting to take responsibility for a crowd yet not actually having legitimate responsibility for that crowd. It made him hunch in on himself protectively. A big man trying to look small.

The mages didn’t help. The place reeked of coolant and ozone and melted rubber. Worse, sumages, all of them. There was the Plug at the door and the other Plug guarding the entrance to the inner sanctum, and more than a few Pinchers behind the counter. He’d never seen so many sumages in one place.

Biff didn’t like any kind of civic mage, the working ones or the sumage failures. The real ones were arrogant blowhards who looked down on shifters, but at least they only stank of quintessence when in use. They were, after all, professionals.

Sumages were a different story. A sumage’s only purpose was to diffuse a quintessence discharge. They didn’t have the same kind of control and thus disrupted quintessence at all times, in a haphazard way, simultaneously drawing it to them and not holding on to it at all. They oozed that sweet chemical scent until it tickled a wolf’s nose. Itched his eyes. And they were unpredictable – you never knew what a sumage might have an effect on. Biff had seen a Plug once step in and stop a shifter from changing forms.

That’s just creepy. Unnatural.

No wonder DURPS kept so many on staff. Government processing loved putting people on edge. Especially powerful shifters.

Speaking of which, the berserker didn’t look so good. Biff didn’t think a bear shifter could change during daylight, not without his pelt, but they were anger-triggered. And this was an aggravating environment. He wondered if the guy was an Alpha.

So, Biff sat and waited patiently, tried not to sneeze, and kept his eye on the twitchy Norse god in front of him.

It got physical way faster than Biff thought it would. Frankly, he didn’t think DURPS was as prepared as it should have been either. For quintessence attack, yes, but not for a physical confrontation.

The berserker must have taken offense to something the barghest said or did, because the dog shifter suddenly had a fist in his face. Since both were confined to human skin by the sun, it quickly became a two-man punch-and-grapple match…in the waiting line of a government department. The Plugs at the doors had no idea what to do. They were trained for mage casts and shifting forms, not macho idiots.

Biff stood up. Stretched languidly and extended his Beta power outward. Calm down. No contest here. No one’s after your territory, No one’s after your mate. Relax.

He wasn’t sure it would work. After all, he was a wolf, wrong species.

He moved in closer.

Biff was big, but nowhere near as big as the berserker. The bear shifter clocked in low for a bear, four hundred pounds and six foot seven or so. The barghest was about half that but way quicker. The two men were clinched together, almost wrestling, which would give the bear the advantage. It was a weirdly erotic, horribly violent embrace.

Biff reached up and grabbed each man by the scruff of his neck. It worked great on the pups in his old pack. Then he shook them gently, grip firm and slightly on the edge of pain.

“Be still,” he barked, and pushed at them with his Beta power. Settle.

Touch was good, touch helped. It usually did. Biff centered himself, grounded himself, shooting out calmness like a weapon. Blanketing them with it, as those little flowers had blanketed the parking lot when he arrived.

The black dog bellied up first. Not offering his neck, nothing so extreme, but sinking into the surety of Biff’s calm. Then a few moments later, the berserker followed. They were both Alphas, thank heavens. No other rank would react like that to a Beta’s touch. The two relaxed, pulled apart. Biff let go of their necks.

“Is there a problem here?” A new smell wafted in, wet mud and horse manure. The voice that came with it was sure and commanding. Bossy. Female. Very powerful.

“I don’t know,” growled Biff. “Is there?”

Both men seemed to realize what had nearly happened and went red with embarrassment. To lose control like that, in public, in a place of business. Humiliating. Especially for Alphas.

The berserker instantly apologized. The barghest only hung his head.

The woman behind the powerful voice gave Biff an interested look. She was big, wild-haired, and dressed in green. “You the werewolf application?”

Biff nodded. Kelpie? Never met a female kelpie. Horses of the water. Ain’t DURPS just full of surprises.

“You’re next, then – come with me.”

* * *

Max looked up as his latest appointment entered his office. Big man – quiet, predatory, grumpy, and diffident.

Of all things, his boss walked in after.

“Barker, you show this one some respect. He just busted up a brawl out front. I may even be moved to offer him a job.”

“Ma’am.”

The big guy sat down almost self-consciously. He was awfully muscled. Many shifters were, but this one looked like he worked at it. Max was slightly afraid for the chair. Gym bunny? Gym not-a-bunny-because-not-prey?

Ms Trickle lurked in the doorway to let off more steam. “Dude, scarlet pimpernel flowers? All over the parking lot! Really?”

“You know I can’t control the outcome.”

“What are we, celebrating the birth of bloody spring?”

“Kitsune, ma’am, whatcha expect?”

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for some flipping dignity around here?”

“Can’t get what you never had.”

“Speak for yourself, Barker. Scarlet pimpernels indeed. What are we, French fucking spies? Unbelievable.”

Max glared at his boss’s retreating back. He hated to be put in an inferior position. He was already the bottom of the pecking order. Being a sumage, the only time he had any kind of authority, especially over someone like this guy sitting in front of him, was when he was behind his desk. Max was a stepping stone, and his boss had just made him very easy to step on.

He glanced down at his paperwork. Flipping heck, the werewolves. Fine, the werewolf. Lucky me, looks like they only sent one. He glanced up at his dour companion. Guessing from the size of the man, they’d sent him the Alpha. Just great. Bring on the arrogant comments, overbearing opinions, and ridiculous charisma. I hate talking with someone more charming than me.

Strangely, his visitor didn’t instantly start ordering him around. Just slumped into the chair and looked at him, almost shyly, from behind some seriously unfair eyelashes. He was kinda adorable, which was absolutely the wrong thing to think about a werewolf. Thick brown hair, on the lighter end of things, kept short on the sides and a bit longer and messier on the top. Eyes oddly wistful behind those absurdly long lashes. Scruff of a beard, more absently forgotten about than intentionally sexy. Wide mobile mouth that looked as if it could smile but didn’t.

Screw those Alpha werewolves. Was it something in the genes? They always seemed to be hotter and meaner than other shifters. This one was like some poster child Mr Full Moon – he could barely cross his arms over his chest, both of them bulging too much. Maximillian, don’t you dare think about bulging right now.

Conscious of his instructions, however unlikely he was to obey them, Max gave what he hoped was a friendly nod and started the interview.

“Alpha? DURPS is honored.”

The big man snorted. “Not Alpha.”

Max blinked. How’s that possible? “You mean they come bigger than you?”

“It’s not always about size.”

Max couldn’t stop his own mouth, but he could keep to a mumble. “Not in the clubs I go to.”

The man only blinked at him.

Not a big talker, eh? Well, that’s fine, I talk enough for two. “And you are?”

“Bryan. Bryan Frederiksen. Beta. Most people call me Biff.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s just a nickname.” A tiny hint of a smile peaked the corner of the werewolf’s mouth. He knew perfectly well Max wasn’t reacting to his name. Werewolves and bikers tended to go hand in hand, and they always had stupid nicknames. This stupid nickname also had the sexiest voice Max had ever had the misfortune to meet. Low and growly in an I just deep-throated your cock kind of way. Jesus H, what is going on with you, Max? Get it together.

Max was a huge flirt but he wasn’t a tramp. His mouth resided firmly in the gutter but he could usually keep his brain functioning enough to do his blasted job no matter how hot the client.

He forced himself to concentrate. Werewolves.

Max hadn’t had a lot of experience with packs, but he had met a half dozen or so when he worked portside. Bryan Fucking Frederiksen was like no Beta he’d ever met.

“Beta, my ass.” Although it did explain why hot-as-shit-Biff – God, what a horrid name – didn’t have that crazy charismatic draw that made everyone and anybody want to follow him. Not that Max wasn’t drawn to the man, but he was more Beta calm than Alpha zing. Still, Betas rarely had that kind of muscle. Betas weren’t made for battle, everyone knew that. Didn’t matter what kind of shifter, it wasn’t their role to fight or enforce but to fix and repair. This man’s appearance was just weird.

“You should meet my Alpha.”

“Yeah, I probably should.”

The big man grimaced. “It’d be best if we could handle this without him.”

“Now, that sounds like a Beta. How did you…happen?”

“That part of the interview?”

“Naw. Just curious.”

Bryan Frederiksen shrugged, looking bashful. Beautiful lashes lowered over hazel eyes.

God, he’s so cute. Stop it, Maximillian. The kind of Beta werewolf who waltzed into DURPS and busted up a brawl was going to be too complicated by half. The paperwork alone.

“All right, big, brawny, and beautiful, I see you’ve no pack name listed here?”

The large man didn’t look as offended as Max had hoped. If anything, ol’ Bryan took the address as a compliment. A little bit of red tinged his cheekbones. Max found it suddenly hard to breathe. This one plays for my team? Not possible. More likely he just wasn’t used to a compliment. So many straight men weren’t.

“Alec wants to name us after we’ve settled.”

“So, you aren’t already established?” New pack, big black mark against allowing them residency. New packs could be rough going for everyone – angry and fractious. Max made a note.

“Sort of. We splintered off an existing pack. Red Paws, near Boston.”

“Like from the Red Sox? Cute.”

The werewolf grimaced. Not happy with his previous pack? Guess that’s why they splintered.

Max looked back down at the form in front of him. “I’ve got seven names here and not much else.”

“What else do you need?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Anyone ever tell you that talking to you is like trying to screw a statue?”

“My wife. Though she didn’t put it quite like that.” Mobile mouth quirked.

Of course he has a wife. “And yet I see no female names on this list.”

“No longer got the wife.”

Max was shocked by the profound relief he felt at that precious bit of information. “So, this is it, all of your pack, just the seven? No associated spouses or girlfriends or boyfriends or children?”

The man cocked his head. “You consider non-werewolves pack members?”

“Don’t you?”

Biff frowned, giving it serious thought. “Yeah, well I guess my ma would be pack, in terms of how she was treated, but she never ran with us. You know, being a human and all.”

Was this werewolf purposefully acting slow on the uptake or was he an actual idiot? Or was he keeping secrets? Or did East Coast wolves really have a different definition of pack? Max hoped it wasn’t idiocy. Although the man across from him did seem to be slightly hypnotized. Max wasn’t accustomed to being the focus of such undivided attention. As if the next words that came out of his mouth were going to be something wonderful. Christ, this is just a government interview.

“All right, Sport.” Max leaned back. “You’re not making this easy on me. Let me lay it out for you. In this one moment, I control your future.” The horizontal and the vertical, he wanted to add. Because wasn’t that some lovely imagery? But lecturing must take precedence over flirtation, for the time being. “We don’t need or want a pack in the Bay Area. It may surprise you to learn that, in these parts, werewolves aren’t welcome. The only way for your pack to even be considered is to get through me. I know, I’m nothing more than a lousy sumage paper-pusher to you, but you gotta make nice and open up or you’re going right back across country. And I’m sure your Alpha won’t like that one bit.”