The Omega Objection Read online

  Isaac’s tall form flickered under the diffuse lighting – quick, quick, quick, then still and focused. He smiled in small uplifts, one corner of his mouth, but he wasn’t cheerful. It was more welcome mixed with self-deprecation. He had a new shifter sitting in front of him, talking in earnest and at length.

  “He never stops, does he?” Tank didn’t bother to keep the awe out of his voice.

  Oscar was distracted by a trio of mermaids paying their cover. The ladies regarded both him and Tank with interest but no fear. They had a very poor sense of smell, merfolk, so it’s possible they didn’t know Tank was a werewolf. Or it’s possible they didn’t care. They also had some stellar supernatural defenses in the savage mage arena, especially the ladies.

  Oscar, riveted by the stunning women, grunted at Tank’s question. But when the mermaids made their way inside, he said, “You’re fascinated with our boy, aren’t ya? Just like all the other shifters who come panting after him.”

  Tank winced but soldiered on. “They all just come to talk to him?” Or do they all want to fuck him, too?

  “Seems like.” Oscar’s eyes stayed on the mermaids as they swayed into the crowd, liquid beautiful.

  Tank felt himself tense a little. It was just this side of too odd. Why were all these shifters coming specifically to talk to this one human male? Not that Tank could deny the attraction. But surely not everyone wanted those pretty lips on them the way Tank did. Not everyone. Tank, after all, could think of a million more things to do with Isaac than talk.

  “I’m gonna do a pass around the floor,” he told his fellow bouncer.

  Oscar snorted. “Sure you are.”

  Tank made a show of being intimidating muscle, moving by stages toward Isaac’s section of the bar. It looked like he was on a break from counseling at last. Or, more likely, it was now too busy for that level of focused attention – the psyche-office was closed for the night. The bartending side of Isaac’s job now took precedence.

  “Hey.” Tank leaned one elbow on the bar, gave Isaac a long look and a slow smile. Isaac smiled back. Tank glowed under it. That smile was a real one.

  He swiveled so he could watch the floor but still keep an eye to Isaac in his peripheral. The man was now fussing with the till.

  “Hey,” said Isaac back.

  “Gonna come greet me proper, now that you’re safe behind your counter?” Tank coaxed.

  Isaac’s eyes went big but he slipped over to Tank quick enough, almost like he couldn’t quite help himself.

  Tank thought Isaac’s eyes might be gray. The pack’s Magistar adjunct, Max, was Asian (well, mostly Asian) with the bluest eyes Tank ever saw. Tank had thought when he first met Max that it was the most amazing combination. Until he met Isaac. Brown skin and gray eyes were just about the hottest thing ever.

  “Hello, pretty one,” he said, putting his hand, open palm up on the bar top.

  “Said the wolf in the fairy tale.” Isaac’s breath caught, but he slid his own big hand into Tank’s even bigger one.

  “Little red riding hood, are you?”

  Isaac shivered.

  Tank tugged him a bit, getting him closer, needing him closer. He kept hold of Isaac’s hand while he bracketed Isaac’s face with his free one. His skin was butter soft.

  “Your eyes gray?” he asked.

  Isaac blinked at him. “Uh huh.”

  Tank pursed his lips. “Fairytale got it wrong, I want you to eat me up.” Best to be clear on this kind of thing from the get-go.

  Isaac’s lovely eyes flared hot and aggressive – oh, he likes that idea. The human pressed down on Tank’s palm, pushing it into the cold granite of the bar top. Tank’s breath hitched, wanting all the textures of Isaac’s skin thrusting into him.

  Isaac leaned a moment on his one hand, giving Tank his weight, giving him something precious and dominant. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing and flinched back.

  Tank had a horrified moment of feeling like he’d offended him. Too much too soon and too unexpected. “Only joking.”

  “I don’t think you were.” Isaac still looked frightened.

  Tank was resigned. He hated that about himself. He was so big he scared people. It wasn’t what he wanted – to loom and threaten. He wanted to use his body as a foundation, something for a lover to build on, glorious or cozy, safe or generous, he cared not what so long as it might be a home. No one seemed to want that from him. No one ever saw his size as welcoming.

  “You met a werewolf before?” Tank asked, needing to know where the mine fields might be.

  “Oh, yes.” Isaac shuddered, flinching away from some memory that Tank suspected would haunt them both.

  Tank took a cautious sniff. Human, but stale, like Isaac was wearing someone else’s clothes. There was no other smell under that overlay. The scent of the bar was on him too, and tendrils of the people around him. But Isaac had no real scent of his own. It almost felt to Tank like nose-blindness. Another oddness about this mysterious man.

  Isaac, consummate bartender, moved away to tend to a needy customer.

  Tank maintained his position. He saw Xavier, the owner, appear on the edge of the dance floor. The man gave him a nod. The shifter-meet-and-greet scheme seemed to be going well. Not that Tank knew what normal attendance was like at Saucebox on a Thursday night, but the place was now packed.

  Xavier tilted his head at someone and Tank was instantly alert. There was a man pushing through the crowd. His eyes were intent on the bar and his expression was not friendly.

  Tank’s hackles rose and he moved to intercept.

  Soon as the man was close enough to smell, Tank clocked him. Fur and flesh, hearth and home, blood of the hunt but less wild than wolf. Black dog, then. Big, although not as big as Tank. And hunting.

  Hunting in Tank’s territory.

  So now both of them were hunting.

  * * *

  “You sure it’s Thursday?” Clara danced around Isaac, flicking the tap for a local IPA.

  Isaac stood next to her, coaxing a stout into low-foam submission. “Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

  Clara shook her head in awe. “This mixer was a killer idea.”

  “Don’t say that to Xavier, his ego doesn’t need any boosting.”

  “I think he’s probably figured it out for himself.” Clara switched to a new glass, another IPA. Humans had horrible taste in beverages.

  Isaac glared at the club. “You know this basically just gives tacit permission for humans interested in dating shifters to come hang out.”

  There were fewer shifters (even in the weirdo Mecca of the Bay Area) than there were humans in the world, so a shifter-only event would have low turnout. But throw it open to humans too? A hundred years after Saturation and humans still found supernatural creatures exotic. Thus, the club was packed not just with shifters but also tail-chasers. And the flirting between the two was off the charts.

  “It’s a meat market out there,” Clara agreed.

  “Fur market?” suggested Isaac. He turned away, braced a new bottle of wine on his thigh, and cranked the cork pull with a satisfying pop.

  “Don’t be prejudiced,” yelled Clara, moving down the bar away from him, “Some of them have scales.”

  Things were actually going really well, apart from that one hiccup with Tank. God, so hot. How had Isaac forgotten himself so quickly? Forgotten all his hard-won lessons. The chief of which being: avoid werewolves at all cost.

  But Tank seemed so perfect. His hand under Isaac’s had been firm and sure, but pliant and oh, so willing. No doubt Tank’s body under Isaac’s would feel much the same. Isaac wanted to press down onto him, into him – full length and both of them naked.

  His wolf had been, for one moment, sublimely happy.

  And then he’d remembered, Tank is a werewolf. And things had not gone well after that. He’d pulled away. Tank saw it and was hurt. A small careful beginning crushed, as it should be. Isaac
knew he could have been nicer about it. He was nice to everyone else, but not to werewolves.

  Isaac was well aware it had been a coward’s retreat. But his world was once more made up of careful smiles, and serving, and making others happy in order to disguise himself. There was safety in that. He’d forget about Tank.

  Until things went very badly indeed.

  Because Hayden turned up.

  Isaac’s first warning was Tank, who swung into motion away from the bar with remarkable speed for such a massive man. Something or someone tipped him off, or perhaps it was just instinct. Isaac was watching him out of the corner of his eye (had never stopped watching him, truth be told). So, when all that mountain stillness unfroze, Isaac turned to track why.

  And there was Hayden.

  Isaac hadn’t ever slept with Hayden. But it wasn’t for Hayden’s lack of trying.

  Isaac had always figured that his self-imposed regulation, avoid werewolves, applied to weredogs as well. Hayden had taken to single-handedly disproving this a good rule. The barghest had come to him weeks ago with relationship problems and it took Isaac ten minutes to realize they were self-inflicted.

  Hayden was one of those men who seemed so reasonable talking about himself. But when he talked about his exes and his inability to keep a boyfriend, it was always the other guy’s fault. With a more reasonable person, Isaac might have laid this out before him and said, “What I see is one common denominator. You. So perhaps there is something in yourself you might fix, before fixating on someone else.”

  Unfortunately, Hayden was not at all reasonable. In fact, he was highly unstable. So what Isaac had done instead was decline to see the man again. Hayden took this as acknowledgement of a desire to sever professional relations so they could have personal ones. Of course, Saucebox was a club, not a medical facility. So Hayden could keep turning up. Which he did. Trying to buy Isaac drinks (“I’m working”), trying to take Isaac on a date (“I’m so not interested, dude”), and finally trying to force Isaac into sex one evening in the men’s room (“I’m stronger than I look”).

  His wolf fucking loathed the man.

  Frankly, Isaac had dealt with worse, and he didn’t want to cause trouble. But Clara was not so reticent, and she mentioned Hayden’s harassment to Xavier.

  Xavier was not pleased. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this was going on?”

  Fortunately, Clara had only mentioned the verbal shit Isaac had been putting up with. She didn’t know to mention the bathroom incident. Isaac kept that to himself, because Xavier also wasn’t stable, although in a different way.

  Yet now Hayden was here, and Hayden was angry, and Tank was intercepting him.

  “Barghest.” Tank barred the man’s path.

  Hayden’s lovely chiseled lips drew back in a snarl. “Werewolf.”

  Tank’s eyes flicked up briefly to check with someone across the room.

  Xavier. Of course, he’s here for this. Isaac burned with embarrassment.

  His boss was a slight, angular man, with a face both mean and beautiful, black limpid eyes inherited from his Filipino mother, and intricate full-sleeve tattoos that told stories of lost islands in a language Isaac wasn’t meant to comprehend. Xavier preferred his vodka cold and neat, his food fried, and his women leggy. He liked all three expensive and was protective of his passions. He also did not hold with anyone messing with his club or his staff. Whether Isaac liked it or not, when he joined Saucebox he became part of Xavier’s weird dysfunctional family.

  Xavier gave Tank the nod.

  Isaac began pulling the expensive shit down and hiding it behind the bar. Just in case the fight got ugly. Also, it gave him something to do while his wolf went quietly bonkers.

  Tank said, “You’re not welcome here.”

  Hayden reared back. “Excuse me?” Then he tried to dodge around Tank. “Isaac, snuggle-muffin!”

  Hayden had underestimated Tank’s speed based on his size. Isaac suspected that happened a lot.

  Tank blocked Hayden’s path easily. “I’m asking you nicely.”

  “But Isaac’s my boyfriend. I just need to tell him something.”

  Tank put a hand to the man’s chest, steady rather than threatening, and then swiveled to catch Isaac’s eye.

  Isaac shook his head in denial.

  “You little shit! You’re mine!” Hayden lurched at him.

  Tank wrapped his hand in Hayden’s tight shirt, no doubt grabbing chest hair with it, and held him back. There was the sound of tearing.

  “You asshole, this shirt is a Coda & Zucchero!” Hayden did something important in finance downtown and liked to dress that way.

  “Walk with me.” Tank’s tone was low and calm, but he dragged Hayden bodily along in his wake. The dance floor cleared before them. Tank lumbered toward the front door.

  Clara came up next to Isaac, mouth slightly open. They watched Tank swing and toss Hayden out into the street, Hollywood movie-style. The werewolf then stood, arms crossed, barring the entrance, like some stone sentinel. No way would Hayden get back inside.

  “That was anticlimactic,” said Clara.

  “That was effective, is what it was,” said Xavier, coming up to them. “I liked it.” His eyes gleamed. “You alright, Isaac?”

  “I’m cool, boss.”

  Xavier gave him an evaluating look.

  Isaac tried to look unperturbed. What he felt was creeped-out and humiliated. The dog shifter had clearly fixated on him. He’d caught Isaac’s scent or decided Isaac was his precious bone (well, no boning and no scent, but whatever the allegory). Hayden had decided he wanted to own Isaac, and Isaac hadn’t any way of protecting himself from intent. If Hayden had a pack and an Alpha, Isaac might petition for discipline. But a large part of Hayden’s problems stemmed from his solitary living condition. Stray barghest weren’t as unstable as lone werewolves, but they certainly weren’t stable either.

  Isaac did have one recourse, of course. Hayden didn’t know he was a werewolf. But a black dog of Hayden’s size against a wolf of Isaac’s temperament and rank? His wolf was eager to try, innately aggressive or not. But Isaac hated to shift. And he hated to fight. Plus, he didn’t want either known by his coworkers, and Hayden kept coming at him inside the club.

  If anyone found out Isaac was a werewolf, they’d ask about his pack. And then about his birth. And then about his records. And they’d demand all the things he did not have. And then he really would have to run.

  Again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Wolf in the Man

  The barghest was no trouble. Tank hadn’t thought for a moment he would be. The man wasn’t anything important, not Alpha or even enforcer level. If it came toe-to-toe between shifters, all status markers being equal, it was merely a matter of mass. Under those circumstances, Tank mostly came out on top, especially with dog shifters. Werewolves were bigger than barghest, and Tank was one of the biggest of his kind.

  The black dog knew this too, it was just that he wanted the bartender so badly. While Tank could hardly fault the wanting, the stalking and the demanding were disgusting. So Tank was delighted to toss the dude out.

  The idiot lingered outside the club, spitting vitriol like he was the injured party.

  The patrons, lined up to get inside, had seen it all before. They, no doubt, took comfort in witnessing a bouncer effective at his job and were entertained by the spectacle. The shifters amongst them understood the dynamics without requiring an explanation. Those who could smell knew wolf versus dog. Those who had other senses knew equal rank meant victory by size. Any with a feel for the social layout of supernaturals in the Bay Area had heard that there was a new wolf pack in town, and knew that there was no dog pack to speak of. The outcome was inevitable.

  Wolf won. By rule of backup alone. But also by rule of sanity. This wasn’t going to escalate. It was merely cleanup. So the shifters watched with expressions of mild interest and approval.

&
nbsp; The barghest finally got tired of yelling and stormed away.

  Oscar grinned. “You handled that easy.”

  “Helps that I am what I am.”

  “No doubt, man. No doubt.” Oscar clearly forgave Tank then, for his arrogance earlier. It would have been a hell of a lot harder for Oscar to manage an angry barghest. The regular bouncer was big and strong, but he was only human.

  Still Tank wanted to explain. “Stray dog won’t take on a whole wolf pack.”

  Oscar looked around, confused. “But there’s only you.”

  “Here, right now, there is. But he knows, just like all these others know, there’re more of us. And there’s only one of him. Dogs are good. Smart. Hunters and trackers.” He shrugged. “But wolves are better. In the end, he doesn’t want to piss me off, not because of me, but because of what I represent.”

  “Man, you shifters are weird. It’s like some biker gang or protection racket.”

  Tank shrugged. “My pack does actually ride motorcycles on occasion.”

  “Oh? Whatcha ride?”

  “Sirius Roadster.” Tank liked his bike, mainly because it was practical and big enough for him. “Gets me from point A to point B with no fuss, but I’m no motor-head to care all that much.”

  Oscar nodded. “I ride a Creature Six myself. Good bike.”

  “Yeah? Shaft drive, gotta love it.” Tank grinned at him. Shaft drive, get it?

  Oscar didn’t follow the innuendo.

  Straight men. Bah.

  They talked bikes for a bit while they ran the rope.

  Xavier came by at about midnight, when they’d let inside most of whom they were going to. The man-in-charge wanted to tell them that they were at capacity.

  Oscar smiled. “Real good for a Thursday, eh boss?”

  “You’re telling me.” Xavier’s harsh expression warmed briefly. He turned to Tank. “You coped with that, whatever he was, nicely.”

  “Barghest, and thank you, sir.”

  “Barghest?”

  “Black dog. Kinda like a werewolf only a lot uglier.”

  Xavier’s dark eyes gleamed in amusement. “Shifters got so many layers to their interactions. It was the right thing to do, by your people’s standards?”