Sladesatontheback porch of their guest house, wrapped in a quilt with Noah, sipping coffee. Fat snowflakes fell, covering the ground. They’d been here long enough to settle in. Tonight would be Noah's first full moon with the pack. Except for less privacy, the pace mirrored life at their secluded cabin.
But with more people. People with the odd habit of sniffing Slade and looking at him strangely when he jumped back.
Packs of teenagers, backpacks slung over their shoulders, hurried past on their way to the bus stop. One girl lifted a hand, giggled, then ran to join her friends. Friends. Proper schooling. If he’d grown up in a pack, Noah’s life would have been so different.
At least the pack seemed to accept them as a couple, though Slade and Noah didn’t show affection in public, or not more than wrapping in a blanket drinking coffee together.
Nobody else’s business if they shared a bed at night.
Their new normal consisted of Noah attending pack functions and Slade staying in the background. No need to get attached to folks he’d soon have to leave behind.
He occasionally went to town with the sheriff to access Wi-Fi, though he didn’t make any appointments. Planning where he’d go next made leaving too real. In his free time, Slade worked on another surprise for Noah.
Noah sighed, crawling out of the blanket. “I gotta go.”
“Pack history 101 again?” Slade tried not to show disappointment. More often, pack business kept them apart. Noah always came home at night.
“Yeah, the old legends are interesting, finding out where we came from, the different origin stories. Some say we’re a different species from humans; other theories say shifters are cursed humans.”
Slade gave Noah a long, slow, goodbye kiss.
Not long after Noah left, Sam arrived before Slade had a chance to work on Noah’s gift. “Ah, Slade, I’m glad I caught you at home. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
An SUV idled by the road. Okay. This was different. Did Slade need his gun? “Can I let Noah know where I’m going?”And find out myself?
“Noah gave us the idea. Now, get in, please.”
Slade would bet money Sam would be smiling pleasantly while pulling the trigger on a hunter. Making sure to have his gun at his back, Slade climbed into the passenger side of Sam’s vehicle.
The healer prattled on while he drove. “You’re a human, so don’t have a sense about witches, hunters, shifters, and other beings your species refers to as supernatural. Noah gained innate abilities by birth. Now, he’s being taught more about living in shifter society, how to assume his role in pack structure.”
Slade imagined an unspokenyou’re not pack. “What’s that got to do with today?”
“While we can’t make you totally immune to things you don’t understand, we can give you some measure of protection.” Sam pulled behind a tattoo shop. “Come on, then.”
The place looked familiar, design posters on the walls around two tattoo beds. The man standing by the first seemed familiar too: tall, lanky, ink covering every inch of exposed skin except for his face. A tattooed eagle perched on his bald head. Comfort settled over Slade, the feeling of being home missing from the werewolf enclave. It must be the whole tattoo shop feel.
“This is my nephew, Roger,” Sam said. “We have a gift for you.”
Slade shifted his gaze from Sam to Roger. Sam, he trusted; Roger, he didn’t know, despite his resemblance to his uncle. “What kind of gift?”
“While we can’t undo your curse, we can attempt to repel other forms of evil. Protect you as much as possible from wolves who hate all humans, or hunters.”
“Wolves hate humans in general?” Slade flashed back to a few suspicious looks he’d gotten around the compound.
“Yes, the reasons the hunters tried to eliminate us to begin with.” Sam let out a sigh. “I’m afraid wolves started this war. Now it’s turned into ‘no good wolf but a dead wolf.’ Take off your shirt.”
Slade pulled his T-shirt over his head, exposing his full back piece.
Roger circled him. “Wow! Nice! How much of this is your work?”
Ah, a touch of normal, talking shop with another tattooist. “Mostly on my arms, a few on my legs. All the designs are mine.”
“Cool! Awesome work.” Roger waved a hand to indicate a bare spot on Slade’s side—a bare spot Slade always intended to fill one day. “We’ve got enough surface here.”
Slade might not know Roger, but he’d come to trust Sam. Slade lay on his side on the bed, arm flung over his head.
After Roger cleaned the area, he traced over Slade’s skin. Sam hummed along with the buzzing of the tattoo machine. The usual soreness of getting a tattoo set in, along with an odd tingling. Slade didn’t ask questions, didn’t want to interfere with whatever spell these two possibly wove.