Cat Scratch Fever; Blue-Collar Werewolves V (2 page)

Erica might be the type of woman his father
liked. Not him. He liked intelligent women with real curves and a
sense of humor. The whole supernatural thing didn’t bother him,
though he wasn’t sure he wanted to date a girl with more body hair
than Cousin It. On the other hand, there was a lot of strange
passed down on his mother’s side of the family. He held no ill will
toward the creatures—
things?
—that had recently revealed
themselves in his hometown of Palestine, Texas.

Buying time, he took a sip of his soda.
Matthew didn’t know how to put what had been bothering him into
words that his father could understand. “I like women a little more
down to earth and sensitive.”

“Sensitive? That touchy-feelie shit? Your
mother was a sensitive bitch,” his father laughed, sliding down
further into the recliner. “Down to earth? Where are you going?” he
demanded.

“
Out
,” Matthew shut his bedroom door,
slamming his bottle of cola down on his dresser. A little sloshed
out of the top, onto the solid varnished wood. The jibe about his
mother hit with the force of a missile. Old guilt weighted him
down. To think that he’d been so stupid as to choose Richard
The
Dick
, over his own mother for college money. And for a scrap of
his father’s affection.

Karma was the real bitch. Over the years,
Matthew had more than paid for his defection. The realization that
he hadn’t spoken to his mom in close to fifteen years upped his
headache. His sister? Matthew almost smiled at the pictures laying
on top of his dresser because he didn’t know what to do with
them.

The twin grins of mischief in his nephews’
faces and the sweet little girl cradled in his sister’s arms
probably accounted for her serene smile. The grumpy looking bastard
in the picture looked more likely to tear the camera out of the
photographer’s hands than crack a smile. But if Grumpy made her
happy, then who was Matthew to complain. Nobody. That’s who. He’d
given up that right a long time ago.

Karen was almost as stubborn as him. His
little sister thought that reuniting with her high school boyfriend
and having a few kids meant that everyone could forgive and forget
and become one big happy family. At least Matthew thought it was
that guy, or the other one— the twin. He snorted, as if he deserved
that kind of clemency from his mother and her second family. Now,
if only Matthew could pry his father out of his house, he could
spend the evening in his workshop, doing what he really loved. “You
should go home. I’ll call you a cab,” he called out. He’d pay for
the cab fare, of course.

Silence answered him, punctuated by a loud
gurgling snore. Matthew closed his eyes against the mounting
pressure behind his eyes. Why not face reality? He’d never get his
father out of the house tonight—or out of his life, ever. The
saying,
you reap what you sow,
constantly haunted him.

He needed the escape of his workshop.
Changing into a ratty pair of jeans, and equally worn out long
sleeved t-shirt, Matthew laced up his steel-toed boots and crept
back to the front door for the key to his sanctuary. His father’s
inebriated band-saw snores covered his retreat out the back patio.
The cat wouldn’t move until Richard left, probably plotting his
second round at Richard’s shoes or slacks.

Matthew was on his own for the night. That
is until the dreams sucked him into Mathais’ life where he’d fight,
scheme, and die, again and again. If he was lucky, dream-Mathais
would get laid.

Inhaling the scent of his lawn, Matthew
unlocked the door to the real reason he’d bought his small,
cookie-cutter track home. Inside the mishmash of harsh odors of his
welding and metal shop, drained the remaining tension. The
fluorescent lighting flickered on. Older, finished sculptures held
various places of honor around the room. Against the far wall,
tools competed with a rack of ancient-styled weapons he sometimes
played around with and sold online. On the other side of the room,
he organized the wall with racks, sorting metal rods by different
length and thickness. The current project, or commission, took over
the rest of the space. Matthew was still in awe that people
actually paid good money for his ‘hobby.’ Sawhorses propped up the
huge twenty by forty foot filigree entry gate.

A few years ago, Matthew wandered into a
hole-in-the-wall sports bar and wound up sharing a bowl of
pretzels, and his hobby, with the owner of a small security firm.
One thing led to another and the guy ordered a fancy gate. Three
years and several satisfied rich customers later, he had his own
website. Now all Matthew needed was a bigger workspace and a helper
to cut down on his waiting list.

The intricate gates took up almost all of
his spare time. His commitment to his customers and blue-collar
‘hobby’ tended to drive potential girlfriends out the door once
they realized that he wasn’t the elbow rubbing executive that his
father tried to mold him into.

Truthfully, Matthew had reached his
promotional ceiling at BioPet. Like many other companies, animal
pharmaceuticals—and the making of everything from ingestible flea
control meds, veterinarian and zoo supplies—the company was pushing
to keep labor costs down. He, like a lot of others with successful
side businesses these days, was working to keep insurance
benefits.

Losing himself into the routine of coaxing
the metal into matching the blueprints and the picture in his mind,
he finally stopped thinking. Peace seeped into his soul. He stopped
worrying about the outside world and just let himself
be
.

* * * *

High atop the flat palace roof, carved
out of a pearlescent granite mountainside Mathais stared down over
his sprawling city while he planned his answer to the priests.
Outwardly, he appeared deep in thought, legs were spaced apart,
arms crossed over the royal lion standard embroidered across his
tunic. Inwardly, he seethed. He was a
king.

How
dare
those cloistered fools
tell him how to manage his people! For forty three summers Mathais
kept invaders out of the borders, bartered the best trade
agreements, made improvements in
all
the Bastian cities and
townships. He made sure no bellies were empty at the end of the
day, that all the little ones ciphered and learned basic
arithmetic. He didn’t want his people to just survive; he wanted
them to thrive. All of them, from the humble shepherd to the head
of his guard.

Mathais glanced up as his personal guard
shifted, the anger smoothing out at the sight of his mate. “Naomam,
my heart. My queen, Lia.” Mathais’ eyes automatically tracked to
the love-mark, almost purple against the creamy tan of her neck.
Goddess, how he needed her. Sometimes he lay awake at night,
worrying. What if one of his enemies slipped past her guards.
Matthais knew he’d go insane with grief.

The scent of the fading flavor of her heat
turned his thoughts in a more positive direction. Hopefully, she
was increasing. For his mate’s sake, he wanted her to have her
heart’s desire. Just one babe to cradle at her breast— that was all
she wished for.

His woman was particularly lovely in the
almost-sheer fabric gown that played havoc with his imagination. He
could almost see the outline of her feminine assets. He grew hard
remembering last night. Of course, it had always been that way.
Still, thirty summers later, just the thought of his mate sent a
wave of lust spiraling through his gut.

“
My king. Leo,” Her lashes fluttered down
over pink cheeks. Yes, she felt it too. Pride made him stand just a
bit taller as he went to wrap her in an embrace. He was
half-tempted to ask her to Change, to shift into lioness form so
that they could go running on the plains. Perhaps he could coax her
into a romantic mind. He had no issue with trying again to make
that babe a reality.

Slanting a look upward through tilted cat’s
eyes slammed home the image of her in the bath, kneeling right
before taking him in her mouth. Never mind, running would take up
too much of the day, he reasoned. Mathais’ palms itched with the
need to run his fingers through her thick gold hair, loosening the
braids until the mass fell around her waist. He focused on her lush
lips, almost not absorbing her words. “My love, I would ask a
boon.”

Mathais grinned wide, happy to comply. A
boon? His lovely mate never asked for much. She was queen, yet
disdained wearing jewels. Naturally tidy, she left little for her
servants to pick up after her. He grasped her delicate hands
between his large rough digits. Despite his body’s ability to heal
rapidly, being a warrior had taken its toll; his knuckles were
beginning to ache in the cooler weather.

Naomam cleared her throat, not meeting his
eyes. “I’ve been to the healer.”
Her words made his heart jump expectantly. “And there will be no
babe. Ever.” the last words ended on a teary whisper. “I would ask
for you to reconsider the priests’ request.”

Mathais stepped back, shock sliding a
cold knife in his heart. It wasn’t the lack of an heir. Rule for
the people of Bastet was decided by the cat goddess. Yes, they had
always wanted a babe, a little kit that was part of them. Not being
able conceive was not unusual for their people, so it would be no
hardship to claim an orphan as their own. Any kit they adopted
would likely be spoiled beyond reason. But…his voice was harsh,
unyielding. “I will
not
call some mongrel wolf my
own.”

“
Leo, be reasonable,” Naomam beseeched,
fueling his temper. She was a queen, the Lia of their people should
not have to beg anyone for anything. Not even him. “Please. This
one thing. The priests say that claiming the wolf cub as ours is
Bastet’s wish. It would be like raising the goddess’ own.”

Stepping back, Mathais dropped his hands
to his sides; he turned his back. Hardening his heart against the
swell of grief he felt through their shared matebond. “I will
not
raise a werewolf.” He strode away, aware that he’d plunged
his own knife of betrayal into his mate’s heart. “And mark my
words. If those dogs try to settle on my lands, I will drive them
off. I will not be the one to defile my house or the goddess with
the likes of those primitive nomads.”

Time shifted.

Mathais crouched in grief, clutching the
torn, bloodied remains of his mate to his chest. This was all his
fault. If he’d only watched her closer. Perhaps relented enough to
find one of their own kind for her to raise?

The memory of their last argument slammed
through his mind.
Naomam often slipped away from her
guard.
But why would she come to the werewolves when he
expressly forbade her? It was a stupid question. He knew. Knew in
his gut that she’d come for the wolf babe.

Behind him, the men silently waited for his
orders. Their grief was great, but nowhere near his own. Mathais’
eyes burned as he stared at the trail of the werewolf camp. Hate
and fury burned bright with his magic, infusing his will into his
people.

Fucking dogs. He would kill them all.

* * * *

The ringing of Matthew’s cell phone jarred
him out of the zone. He looked up, blinking, trying to get his
bearings and his sense of self back in order.
Holy Jesus Christ
on a stick, I’m dreaming during the day. What the hell is wrong
with me?

Unsettled to his core, he stared at the
short length of bar in his hand with a bit of confusion.
When
had he walked to the rack for that?
He hadn’t. He’d slipped
while daydreaming and floated the bar into his grasp. Frowning at
the serious lapse of self-control, he put the rod down and fished
his phone out. “Hello?”

“Mr. Ridley, this is— ” The whiney
accountant didn’t know when to give up.

“Mr. Hambly, it’s late.” Matthew glanced at
the accurately scaled Big Ben lamppost/yard clock he’d envisioned
for his mother’s birthday two years ago. He’d found excuse after
excuse to not ship it. He didn’t expect her to accept anything from
him. Still, the daydream had ripped a hole in his chest and he was
harsher than he intended.
Like Mathais.
“Both our days ended
at four o’clock. Do yourself a favor and go home. Play a video
game.” Or whatever supreme geeks like Milton Hambly did for
recreation.

“Sir, please. I need you to see this.”
Hambly’s voice lowered to an almost whisper. “I was going over
electricity usage. Something is going on. This is…you need to see
this.”

“Conspiracy theories, Mr. Hambly?” Matthew
sighed, at the end of his patience.

“
Please
, Mr. Ridley.” The accountant
fell quiet. Matthew hoped the call had dropped. Hanging up seemed
like a good idea, but the quality of Hambly’s voice was desperate.
Hambly’s scared breathing proved the call was still connected. “I
heard something.” Hambly swallowed. “Meet me at the fire door at
G-Four. You really have to see this.” The call beeped and ended.
Matthew frowned at the display.

G-Four? What was wrong with Hambly? The
underground research levels only went down to G-Two.

Matthew debated about two seconds. With a
curse, he turned away from his project. Putting away his tools, he
wondered if other area managers had the same insane accountant
problems. There was probably a looney-bin ward specially designed
for those driven off their rockers by math.

“Dad?” Matthew walked through the house,
pulling on an old, but decent button up work shirt. Technically,
BioPet frowned on anything other than full business attire.
Screw them,
thought Matthew, this was his after-hours
business outfit. “Dad. Wake up. I’m calling you a cab.” He stopped
in the middle of the living room. His father was gone, thank God,
replaced by his
brother-in-law?