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“You’re a dick, but thank you. We’re very excited.”
I looked to Patrick. “Anything I need to know? Everything going smooth with the regime transition?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t.”
“Only a few people know I’m pregnant,” Briana said. “How did you find out?”
I hadn’t known until I caught her scent, but I’m not above lying to make myself seem a little scarier. “I’m a Slayer. It’s my job to know such things. You have to know every supernatural you come into contact with is going to know right away.”
She nodded. “I’ve only known three weeks, and I’ve stayed home since I found out. Can you sense gender?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, not yet.”
If I had to guess, I’d have leaned more towards male than female, but I couldn’t be certain, so I wouldn’t guess.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how you got into our secure backyard?” Patrick asked.
“You have a new member who just moved here from Seattle. How’s he fitting in?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Like a hothouse flower in the wilderness. I’ve never met a fucking snowflake werewolf before. He’s always lived in the city, and he changed in an unlit, wooded portion of a city park in Seattle on the full moon, apparently for ten to twenty minutes, and then he went back to human.” Another eyeroll. “He never killed and ate, even as a wolf. He worked as a hair stylist and had this romantic notion of retiring to the woods, but he’s horrified by bugs and snakes and spiders.”
“I’ve tried to be patient with him,” Briana said, “but he is truly ridiculous. Like a caricature, rather than a real person.”
“Have you talked to Cora about him?”
Patrick shook his head. “He’s fifty-seven years old, and he’s been a wolf since he was twenty-six. He isn’t a danger to the secret, and there’s no reason to believe he’s a threat to humans. He’s my problem, and I’ll figure out how to help him. He sold his home and his business for a lot, apparently, and bought land and a small house here for a small pittance of that.”
“He doesn’t fit in here at all,” Briana said. “This leftist feminine man right in the middle of redneck central? He had no idea the culture shock he was in for. His hair is blond now, and no longer every color of the rainbow, and he’s toned his wardrobe down a little. Honestly, I think he’d be happier in New Orleans or parts of Atlanta, but he’s going to have to figure that out for himself.”
“So, if a bunch of human rednecks gang up on him and threaten him, try to beat him to a pulp, there’s no danger of him shifting and taking them out?” I asked.
They both stared at me, and I told Patrick, “He’s an accident waiting to happen. Talk to Cora. If I can help ameliorate the situation, I’d rather have the opportunity to do so before he does something that requires his death.”
Patrick nodded, and I told Briana, “You are glowing with good health and happiness. I look forward to seeing your little bundle of joy when he or she arrives.”
“Rumor has it there’s a divide between slayers. Old and new. Kill all the monsters versus only kill the bad ones,” Patrick said.
“Rumor has it there are evil werewolves and good werewolves, too. I’m happy to have good Alpha wolves in this territory, making sure the evil ones know their kind isn’t welcome here.”
I turned and walked away, and wrapped the shadows around me when I hit the first heavily wooded portion. I shut my scent down at the same time, and I heard them both take a deep breath.
“Motherfucker. Where the hell did he go?” Briana asked.
“Scary asshole,” Patrick said. “Glad he isn’t trying to kill us.”
I teleported a few short jumps, and then walked the rest of the way out and back to my car in less than a fourth of the time it’d taken me to make my way in.
I own nine properties in and around Chattanooga, and all have clothes for any occasion, the toiletries I prefer, and a variety of foods that don’t spoil, which means I have an extra freezer at each property, and a large pantry.
I own a house just a few blocks from TBC, and that’s where I headed when I left Ringgold. I’d grab a few hours of sleep and a shower before I arrived for whatever demonstration I was to see.
Well, I didn’t head straight there. I drove to another of my properties, where I store the vehicles publicly associated with me. I parked the car inside the fourteen-car garage I erected when I bought the land, showered and changed clothes, walked through the underground tunnel to another property I own on adjacent land, came up in another garage, drove my nineteen sixty-eight Harley motorcycle out, rode through the woods into a shed, turned the bike off and made sure I had my phone, stepped outside the shed and activated the EMP device, went back in, climbed on the bike, turned it back on, and drove off the property onto the road.
I have several vehicles I can drive to my various homes in Chattanooga — the bike, two different old Jeeps, an ancient Chevrolet truck with a practically brand new engine in it, and a 1972 Ford Bronco. All can withstand the EMP device without even thinking about it. Because I enter one property when I’m Ryan the Slayer, and exit a completely different property on another road nearly half a mile away when I’m John Miller, even people following me from overhead surveillance don’t pick up on the fact I switch vehicles.
This particular home is in one of those cookie-cutter subdivisions, and I drove into the garage and went inside. There’s a master bedroom, but I sleep in the basement in a hidden room. Call me paranoid if you want, but this strategy has saved my life several times.
My alarm woke me at five twenty, and I showered, ate, cleaned the kitchen, and was out of the house by six. I walked down the road, keeping to the shadows, and made my way the mile and a half to TBC. I’d arranged for someone to bring the BMW SUV Etta had already seen to the parking lot while I slept, and I used my key fob to unlock the truck and put my phone under the front seat, and then finally made my way to the front door. Etta hadn’t told me no phones would be allowed, but I knew they’d all be confiscated at the door, and no way was I handing mine over.
