Chapter 6 #2
We make idle small talk about the horror of being in planes and how nice his décor is while he leads us to his office, a decent-sized space that was probably originally intended to be a living room.
There are two desks in there, one for him and one for his assistant, a middle-aged woman who’s currently on the phone, and a small seating area. We settle there.
“Can I get you anything? We keep a cook on staff,” he tells Alistair, “since we get so many visitors. Feeding hellhounds is a full-time job.”
“Nothing just yet, thanks. I’m sure we’ll get plenty when the pack members start arriving,” Alistair says, and I realize this is why he was so insistent we eat in the car. I need to stop being distracted by thoughts of sex with him and start concentrating.
Jun smiles. “Definitely. Uh, people are going to ask why you’re here, Alistair. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to tell them?”
Fuck me, something else I didn’t think of. Nobody questions it when I turn up randomly to visit a pack, but Alistair is a high-profile government agent. His presence here is like a neon sign that something is going on. We should have planned for this.
“The lucifer is interested in learning more about the experiences of community members around the world,” Alistair replies with a friendly smile.
“I’d like to chat with your pack members, especially the younger ones, and find out what their perspective is on our government.
We’re also looking at the contrast between experiences of those who live in low versus high population areas.
” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t fully understand how they’re managing the data side.
That’s David’s department—David Carew,” he adds.
“My job is just to talk to as many people as possible and then report on what they’ve told me.
” His self-deprecating charm sets Jun at ease.
It probably helps that the magic definitely doesn’t see Alistair as a threat.
If anyone else had come in with such a bullshit story—although oddly enough, it’s completely true—Jun would likely have been suspicious and possibly kicked them out.
But Alistair is here on behalf of Percy, accompanied by me, and telling the absolute truth with nothing but good intentions.
Within a few minutes, he’s managed to steer the conversation to the more far-flung members in the pack.
“You’d see them less often, of course,” he prompts, and Jun begins telling us about the various pack gatherings they have—usually one, often two each year—and that he likes to personally visit each cluster of pack members at least once every two years.
“It’s hard,” he admits. “We’ve got a big area to cover and a lot of members spread out over it. Modern transportation makes it easier now, but I know there are members I haven’t seen in too long—and even some I haven’t met.”
“Newcomers to the area?” Alistair asks idly. “I’d have thought they’d make a special effort to meet you before moving in.”
Jun shakes his head. “Mostly they do, and if I know there are newbies in a certain area, I try to make it a priority to get out there. But I’m actually talking about children. There are a few places that I know have young children, but for some reason, circumstances mean I never get to meet them.”
“They don’t come to the pack gatherings?”
“The group does, but you know how things are with young children—a cold, a sprained ankle, punishment for misbehavior… and it’s a long car journey with kids in the back seat. There’s often a good reason for families to stay home until the little ones are older.”
That’s all true, but also suspicious. In my experience, it’s the shifters who live in isolated communities who are the most eager to attend pack gatherings.
They arrive first and are the last to leave, even if they’ve traveled for hours—or, as was sometimes the case back before modern transportation, days.
From the sideways glance Alistair shoots me, he agrees, but he doesn’t press the subject.
We’re not ready yet to make Jun suspicious of his people in Beker County.
He may feel the need to defend or even warn them—they are his people, after all.
His to protect and nurture. It’s one thing to be presented with and accept evidence that people were involved in a physical assault, but another altogether to believe they’re involved in some kind of undefined conspiracy plot.
“It’s tough with kids,” Alistair agrees, then tilts his head. “Speaking of kids…”
Sure enough, there are sounds of people approaching—the local pack members must be starting to arrive. I smile and stand. I love meeting my shifters. It feeds the part of my soul that’s been taken over by the magic.
“The weather’s holding, so we’ll stay outdoors. It gives the kids more room,” Jun explains as he leads us outside. It’s not a warm day, but we shifters are hardy stock… mostly. We definitely prefer to be outside, so we’re willing to tolerate cooler weather if it means getting out of the house.
The dozen or so yelling, laughing kids racing across the lawn toward the trees clearly don’t care that it’s cold.
Their parents and some older teens are gathering near picnic tables set up near the house, content to let their children run free—until they notice us coming toward them.
Heads turn, faces light up, and then one of the adults says something to the teen standing beside her. The teen takes off after the kids.
The next few hours are a wonderful mess of names, happy faces, and idle chatter. More people arrive. Some can only stay long enough to meet me, while others settle in for a long visit. I leave the investigative work to Alistair—it’s his forte, after all—and I focus on connecting with my shifters.
What’s weird about being species leader is that there’s a connection between me and every single shifter alive.
It’s not obvious—I can’t concentrate on individuals or identify them in my head.
I don’t feel them being born or dying. But when I meet them, the energy that is them, the part of them that derives from the magic, pings inside me. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
And they feel it too. They might not know what to say to me, but I see how a part of them relaxes when they’re near me. When I talk to them, they light up. The magic goes out of its way to make sure they feel safe with me.
Which is why what we suspect the CCA is doing is so awful.
Late in the morning, I’m standing with a group of parents, talking to them about their concerns for their children and cradling an infant.
I’ve never been much of one for babies, but since becoming species leader, I’ve learned the myriad of ways to hold them.
People love to put their babies in my arms. The good thing is, shifter babies like to be held by me.
They’ll literally cut off midscream and settle down to sleep.
“…like to see more international exchange opportunities for older teens,” one of the dads is saying. “They just don’t exist for us on the same scale as what the humans have, and the irony of that is that we travel more as adults than humans do.”
I nod. “This isn’t the first time that’s been brought up. The tricky part is ensuring safety in transit. Even older teens still occasionally struggle with spontaneous shifting when they’re stressed, and planes are very stressful for shifters, especially on long flights. We—”
A sharp whistle rends the air, cutting me off, and heads turn in that direction.
It’s Alistair. Standing on a picnic table.
“Hi, Oregon hellhounds!”
There’s a chorus of shouted greetings in return. Most of them use his name—he’s been busy.
“It’s been great chatting with you this morning, and I’m going to get back to that in just a second, but these young people here”—he waves toward a group of preteens standing next to the table—“have just informed me that they don’t know how to limbo.”
A murmur runs through the crowd, and I hold back a sigh. I have a sneaking suspicion that things are about to get derailed the way hellhound events usually do.
“Worse… they don’t even know what the limbo is.”
The sound the crowd makes this time is shocked.
“Oh, no,” one of the mothers I’ve been talking to says, sounding stricken. “I’ve failed as a parent.”
I look at her closely, trying to see if she’s being sarcastic or making a joke, but there’s a glossy sheen to her eyes.
Only hellhounds, I swear.
“So I’m asking you all to step up and assist me in the vital task of educating them. Children are our future, and they cannot continue living without the tools they need to survive!”
Wow. That’s… a bold statement to make about the limbo.
But the crowd of hellhounds shouts in approval.
Two people come out of the house, waving brooms in a wild manner that worries me, and Alistair shouts, “Let there be music!”
From speakers mounted along the eaves, “Limbo Rock” begins to blare. Hellhounds flock toward Alistair as he jumps down from the table, and within seconds, he has them forming two lines, one in front of each broom.
“You’re okay to hold on to the baby, aren’t you, Aidan?” the baby’s father asks me, and this time I can’t hold back the sigh.
“Of course. Go. Save future generations from life without the limbo.” I’m so proud that I say that without sounding sarcastic, although as fast as they all leave, I don’t think they would have noticed if I did.
It takes less than a minute for almost every hellhound here to become a bopping, dancing limbo fanatic.
And less than two minutes after that, I’m called upon to act as adjudicator.
Hellhounds are super competitive, and I have to remind them several times that this tournament—because of course that’s what it’s become—is all in fun and that they’re supposed to be setting an example for the kids.
Incidentally, the kids went and found a mop somewhere and have begun their own limbo tournament.