He smiled gently at her and shepherded the two frightened people into a small office I’d never noticed before at the back of the store. He left me to watch the till and went out and had a short talk with the man at the pump. When he came back, he had two hundred dollars cash for her, and her husband drove away with a speed indicating either terror or rage.
Warren and I waited with the battered pair until the lady who ran the local women’s shelter drove over to collect her newest clients. When they left, I turned to him and finally introduced myself.
Warren was one of the good guys, a hero. He was also a lone wolf. It had taken him a while to trust me enough to tell me why.
Perhaps in other ages, in other places, it wouldn’t have mattered that he was gay. But most of the werewolves in power in the US had been born in a time when homosexuality was anathema, even punishable by death in some places.
One of my professors once told me that the last official act of the British monarchy was when Queen Victoria refused to sign a law that made same-sex acts illegal. It would have made me think more highly of her, except the reason she objected was because she didn’t believe women would do anything like that. Parliament rewrote the law so it was specific to men, and she signed it. A tribute to enlightenment, Queen Victoria was not. Neither, as I have observed before, are werewolf packs.
There was no question of Warren’s staying in the closet, either, at least not among other werewolves. As demonstrated by Adam and Samuel just a few hours ago, werewolves are very good at sensing arousal. Not just smells, but elevated temperature and increased heart rate. Arousal in werewolves tends to bring out the fighting instinct in all the nearby males.
Needless to say, a male wolf who is attracted to other male wolves gets in a lot of fights. It spoke volumes about Warren’s fighting ability that he survived as long as he had. But a pack won’t accept a wolf who causes too much trouble, so he’d spent his century of life cut off from his kind.
It was I who introduced Adam and Warren, about the time Adam moved in behind me. I’d had Warren to dinner and we’d been laughing about something, I forget what, and one of Adam’s wolves howled. I’ll never forget the desolation on Warren’s face.
I’d heard it all the time when I was growing up—wolves are meant to run in a pack. I still don’t understand it completely myself, but Warren’s face taught me that being alone was no trivial thing for a wolf.
The next morning, I’d knocked on Adam’s front door. He listened to me politely and took the piece of paper with Warren’s phone number on it. I’d left his house knowing I’d failed.
It was Warren who told me what happened next. Adam summoned Warren to his house and interrogated him for two hours. At the end of it, Adam told Warren he didn’t care if a wolf wanted to screw ducks as long as he’d listen to orders. Not actually in those words, if Warren’s grin as he told me about it was an accurate measure. Adam uses crudeness as he uses all of his weapons: seldom, but with great effect.
I suppose some people might think it odd that Warren is Adam’s best friend, though Darryl is higher-ranking. But they are heroes, both of them, two peas in a pod—well, except Adam isn’t gay.
The rest of the pack weren’t all happy when Warren came in. It helped a little that most of Adam’s wolves are even younger than he, and the last few decades have seen a vast improvement over the rigid Victorian era. Then, too, none of the pack wanted to take on Adam. Or Warren.
Warren didn’t care what the rest of the wolves thought, just that he had a pack, a place to belong. If Warren needed friends, he had me and he had Adam. It was enough for him.
Warren would never betray Adam. Without Adam, he would no longer have a pack.
“I’ll give him a call,” I said with relief.
He picked up on the second ring, “Warren, here. Is this you, Mercy? Where have you been? Do you know where Adam and Jesse are?”
“Adam was hurt,” I said. “The people who did it took Jesse.”
“Tell him not to let anyone else know,” said Samuel.
“Who was that?” Warren’s tone was suddenly cool.
“Samuel,” I told him. “Bran’s son.”
“Is this a coup?” Warren asked.
“No,” answered Adam from the backseat. “At least not on Bran’s part.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “But this is my phone call. Would you all please pretend that it is a private conversation? That includes you, Warren. Quit listening to the other people in my van.”
“All right,” agreed Warren. Having heard Adam, his voice relaxed into its usual lovely south Texas drawl. “How are you today, Mercy?” he asked sweetly, but as he continued his voice became gradually sharper. “And have you heard the startling news that our Alpha’s house was broken into and he and his daughter disappeared? That the only clue is the phone message left on the damned Russian witch’s phone? A message that she has refused to let anyone else listen to? Rumor has it that the message is from you, and no one can find you either.”
Samuel leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and said, “Tell him you’ll explain when we get there.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’m doing better all the time, Warren. Thank you for asking. Montana is nice, but I don’t recommend a November vacation unless you ski.”
“Haven’t put on skis for twenty years,” murmured Warren, sounding a little happier. “Has Adam taken up skiing during this jaunt of yours to Montana?”
“He has skis,” I said, “but his health wasn’t up to it this time. I brought back a doctor, but the two of us found out that we need to go out tonight and were wondering if you were up for a little nursing.”
“Glad to,” said Warren. “I don’t work tonight, anyway. Did you say Jesse’s been kidnapped?”
“Yes. And for right now, we need you to keep it under your hat.”
“I drove by your houses on the way back from work this morning,” Warren said slowly. “There’s been a lot of activity there. I think it’s just the pack watching, but if you want to avoid them, maybe you all ought to spend the night at my place.”
“You think it’s the pack?” asked Adam.
Warren snorted. “Who’d call and talk to me about it? Darryl? Auriele called to tell me you were missing, but without you, the women are mostly left out of the business, too. The rest of the pack is supposed to be keeping their eyes out for you—all three of you—but that’s all I know. How long do you need to keep them in the dark?”
“For a day or two.” Adam’s voice was neutral, but the words would tell Warren all he needed to know.
“Come to my house. I don’t think that anyone except you and Mercy even know where I live. I’ve got enough room for all of you—unless there are a couple of people who haven’t spoken up.”
Each of the Tri-Cities has its own flavor, and it is in Richland that the frenzy of the dawn of the nuclear age has pressed most firmly. When the government decided to build weapons-grade plutonium here, they had to build a town, too. So scattered over the city are twenty-six types of buildings designed to house the workers for the nuclear industry. Each kind of house was given a letter designation beginning with A and ending Z.
I don’t recognize them all, but the big duplexes, the A and B houses, are pretty distinctive. The A houses look sort of like Eastern farmhouses—two-story, rectangular, and unadorned. B houses are single-story rectangles. Most of them have been changed a little from what they once were, porches added, converted from duplexes to single-family dwellings—and back again. But no matter how much they are renovated, they all have a sort of sturdy plainness that overcomes brick facades, decks, and cedar siding.
Warren lived in half an A duplex with a big maple tree taking up most of his part of the front lawn. He was waiting on his porch when I drove up. When I’d met him, he’d had a sort of seedy I’ve-been-there-and-done-everything kind of look. His current lover had coaxed him into cutting his hair and improving his dress a little. His jeans didn’t have holes in them, and his shirt had been ironed sometime in the not-too-distant past.