Chapter Werewolves Have a Howling Good Time
Werewolves Have a Howling Good Time
Rasmus didn’t like holidays, and contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t much of a drinker. But he owned a bar, which meant all the sad fucks who had nowhere else to go on Moonrise came to him now.
Theoretically, he could’ve stayed home and crashed the pack’s celebration, but he, like many of the bachelors in the new Merced Pack, couldn’t stomach the lovey-dovey family shit. Being at The Broken Tooth was the best of two bad options.
Well, he thought, popping a chip into his mouth, I suppose things could be worse.
It wasn’t like he was really working. He didn’t do shit behind the bar. He’d inherited a damn good staff from the previous owner, which meant they were smart enough to keep him around only to sign the checks.
It was a pretty sweet gig. The gods knew he’d had worse jobs over the years. He’d grown up on the wolf pack’s farm and he’d spent most of his formative years in one army or another, digging trenches and killing men. After that, it was all crime, scams, and scraping by.
Compared to all that, owning a bar in a city like San Francisco was living the high life. Of course, it helped that it gave him a clean transition into more legitimate business. Everyone needed a place to wash their money, and a bar was just below a strip club on that very particular scale.
What a bar had that strip clubs didn’t, however, was social capital. Only a certain kind of person could be compelled to go into a titty zoo, but just about everyone could make up an excuse to dip into a dive bar. That made it a good meeting spot, and Rasmus was the man to make introductions.
That was a damn powerful position to be in. Favors and exchanges and secrets were a steady drip into his invisible coffers — not to mention his very real bank accounts.
But there wasn’t much business to be had on Moonrise. The bar was lined with sad bodies stooped over half-finished drinks, and something about the attempt to liven up the place with cheap decorations actually made it more depressing.
Rasmus swept a judgmental gaze over the pathetic lot.
At least his people didn’t weep into their vodka.
All the weres seemed to be having a damn good time as they bickered over a game of pool and tried to hustle each other.
But weres had a lot of experience pushing aside piddling things like depression, loneliness, and dumb shit like missing family.
The first Moonrise after infection was always the hardest, but it got easier after that. Especially if one was lucky enough to find a pack.
None of the sad-sacks slumped against the bar had a pack.
That much was obvious. A couple stray vampires sipped synth beside an arrant, and a smattering of other beings dotted the main floor of the bar.
Most of them weren’t talking. Their focus, weak as it was, tended to stay on the televisions mounted in corners playing an array of sports events.
Only a lone screen behind the bar showed the annual bonfire lighting in the Orclind.
Rasmus looked away from the screen with a curl of his scarred lip. He’d spent too much time conscripted in the Orclind’s army to ever be able to look at the territory the same. When he looked at those fields of bonfires and cheering crowds, all he saw were trenches and bodies.
He saw the green grass and the round stone homes and he thought of being dragged into a sterile cell. He felt the cold metal of his shackles. He remembered Josephine shivering, her delicate frame wracked by the chill, and how she tried to be kind to him.
And then he remembered the death of the only good part of him — and that pissed him the fuck off.
Suddenly realizing that he was dangerously close to becoming one of the pathetic lumps currently lining his cash register with their sorrows, he grabbed his basket of chips and hopped off the stool.
His fellow weres erupted into howls and cheers as someone, probably Woody, bagged a nasty shot. Rasmus normally liked the ruckus, but things grated at him a little worse this time of year. Feeling a headache building behind his left eye, he turned toward the poster-covered door to his office.
“Where’re you going?” Orren, a big redhaired bastard who’d joined their pack shortly after Rasmus, called out. Pointing his pool cue toward Rasmus, he challenged, “You owe me a rematch for last time, when you cheated.”
Lifting one tattooed hand in a mocking wave, Rasmus replied, “Some of us have actual work to do. And don’t blame me for your bad shot. It’s not my fault you play like you’ve never met basic fuckin’ physics before.”
Orren blew a raspberry his way and showed off one clawed middle finger. “Sounds like you’re running away to me!”
Scenting blood in the air, the rest of the weres joined in on the razzing. They stomped their feet, howled, and banged the ends of their pool cues on the table, all while demanding he face them for a game.
Normally he wouldn’t put up with that kind of shit.
His wolfish pride wouldn’t let them think he’d been scared off from a challenge.
Not to mention the fact that it was just some damn good fun.
No one knew how to party like weres, because no one knew how important it was to take joy by the balls like they did.
But tonight he just couldn’t.
Rasmus turned his back on the rowdy crew of ex-criminals, forgotten soldiers, and men with cosmically bad luck. Waving his hand over his shoulder in a dismissive gesture that morphed into an obscene one, he slipped into his office.
It wasn’t nearly as nice as his office at home, but it was quiet. And quiet was what he needed.
Rasmus sank into the cheap rolling chair behind his cluttered desk with a heavy sigh. Dropping his basket of chips on top of a stack of papers that were probably important, he let his shoulders round.
He wanted to ignore the reason this year’s holiday was worse for him than it had been for decades. He thought he’d gotten awfully good at ignoring the memories of his captivity and the torture he’d been put through while the good doctor celebrated the holiday with his wife and assistant.
Not Josephine, he recalled, protectiveness for the submissive still fresh and mean after so many years. They treated her worse than a stray dog. Worse even than me.
He wanted to ignore the memories of that brutal winter when he lost his soul more than anything, and usually he was pretty good at it. But when he stared at the open letter on his desk, he knew it was hopeless.
It was good, heavy cardstock he’d had to slice open with a clawtip. The invitation within was one of those fancy vellum-covered things with gold foil over the ritzy scrollwork. It looked like a wedding invitation, maybe, though he couldn’t be too sure because he didn’t get invited to those.
But it wasn’t for a wedding. It wasn’t even for a funeral, which would’ve been preferable.
It was for a gala celebrating the opening of an exhibit at the Fairmont, sent by the director personally.
Rasmus’s throat constricted hard. His eyes smarted as he stared at the stupid thing. What a gift, he inwardly snarled. Can’t we all just fuckin’ move on?
A roar of laughter from the bar made him blink and look away. Scarred lips tightening, he carelessly swiped it into a haphazard pile of bills and junk mail, revealing an official-looking letter from the city he’d been ignoring.
Figuring he was already in a sour mood, Rasmus tore into it with far less care than he had the invitation.
Finding only a letter from the sovereign’s health board signed by Margot Goode herself notifying him and all relevant parties of new were-centered programs on the horizon, he rolled his eyes.
They wanted his input and would he please, please contact the director of were outreach for a meeting?
It was typical performative bullshit. The letter crumpled in his fist. Tossing it into the trash, he snatched another chip from the basket.
I may be a sad fuck, but I’m not a sucker. If they want to talk to me, they’ll have to do it in person. He snorted, chip crunching between his molars with a viscous bite. I’d like to see that director walk into this bar — but only if she’s brave enough.