I
glanced up at my lover, who looked about as happy as a cat in a room full of
rocking chairs. That wasn’t really the best analogy to use seeing as he was a
werewolf, but his expression was so uncomfortable I forced back laughter. In
his current state, Shane would probably misunderstand my affectionate laughter
and find an SUV to throw through a wall.
“I hate this,” he muttered.
One of the TV people approached
warily. I gave the guy credit for coming near Shane at all. Shane was six foot
seven, wide and muscular, with a face I found handsome but those who didn’t
know him found intimidating. His skin tone was Slavic, his eyes a beautiful
fawn color. His black hair was cut short, and when he smiled his fangs showed
behind his very kissable lips. He had a scar that cut down his face through his
eyebrow, across his cheek and down his neck. He thought the scar made him ugly,
but I liked a man who had some miles on him that showed. I hadn’t planned on my
man having a hundred and forty seven years of miles, but most of the time I
could pretend he didn’t predate electricity. The fantastic sex was a good
distraction.
“We need to get you to make-up,” the
TV guy said.
Shane didn’t say anything, only
narrowed his eyes. The poor human gulped and took a step back. Then another.
His mouth fell open and he looked like he would faint if Shane so much as
twitched.
“Stop scaring him,” I shoved my
mate.
Shane glanced down at me and
grinned.
“Anything for you, Kali.”
I stepped between Shane and the TV
guy. “Shane’s gonna pass on the make-up thing. We all are.”
“It’s just for the cameras,” the guy
stammered.
“Dude, do we look like we give a
shit what we look like?” Cain asked.
Cain was my adopted brother, so I
loved him unconditionally. Unfortunately, he was an acquired taste. He was the
child of an Irish prostitute who died of a heroin overdose when he was eleven.
He was an ex-marine Vietnam veteran with a penchant for body piercing and
tattoos, an awesome collection of vintage records from the 60’s, and a sense of
humor that needed medication. He was six foot three, with a wiry muscular
frame, dark green eyes and flaming red hair in need of a cut. He was currently
sporting three rings in his eyebrow, two in his lip, an oversized tongue stud,
and a metal spike that pierced his ear twice. I begged him not to go overboard
with the piercings for the TV interview. He kinda listened. He spoke with a
Brooklyn accent flavored with Ireland. A five year old once said he talked like
the gangsters on old movies. He took that as a compliment.
“I, ah,” the TV guy was visibly
shaking.
“Stop scaring the poor thing,” I
scolded.
“I’m on my best behavior,” Cain
objected.
“What about the stunt you pulled
with the security guy who tried to take your knife?”
Cain always wore a hunting knife
sheathed on his hip. Being a werewolf, he never used it, preferring his claws,
but it was a habit from when he was human. The security at the TV station had
politely explained that he wouldn’t be allowed inside armed. I intervened
before anyone lost any body parts. Cain still had his knife, and the security
guy wasn’t in the hospital in traction, so I figured the day was going
swimmingly.
The whole fiasco had the wolves
growling. We all knew it was a necessary evil, but none of us really wanted to
be in the public eye. Shane, Cain, myself, and four humans made up the first
Supernatural Task Force team to include supernatural creatures. STF had existed
since supernatural creatures announced their existence in 1975. At first, STF
had rounded up supernats and put them in government camps, but the resulting
war lead them to search for a new approach. Nearly thirty years after the war,
we were the new approach. The President was closing the first of the supernat
camps, placing the inhabitants back into general society. It was our job to
keep the peace. And our boss, Habner, thought it would be beneficial to get
some positive press. I was dubious that putting Cain and Shane on TV was a
positive thing.
“This is a bad idea anyway,” Shane
grunted.
“You’ve said that nine times
already,” Randy complained. He opted for make-up, which didn’t surprise me. He
was one of our human team members. A week ago we’d celebrated his twenty third
birthday, but his maturity didn’t always match the age. He was classically handsome,
brown eyes, blond hair, oozing charisma. He reminded me of a golden retriever;
eager to please, attractive to look at, with a high likelihood of knocking the
priceless vase off the table with his tail.
“I don’t like it either,” Bruce
admitted. “But it’s part of the job.”
Michael Bruce was human, but he had
the body of a gorilla. He was big and barrel-chested, and would have been scary
if he didn’t have deep dimples and warm brown eyes. He smiled a lot and his
easy-going personality was at odds with the STF uniform that struggled to fit
his broad shoulders.
Sing entered the small room, and it
looked like he’d jumped on the make-up bandwagon too. He was Asian-American,
five foot six, and slender. He looked comical with the giants that made up the
team. He was the member of the team I knew least well. He was friendly but
tended to keep his private life very separate.
Vale was the last to join us. I
still didn’t know his first name, but I was guessing Bubba. He was in his
fifties, with weathered skin from a life outdoors. He had long graying hair
stuffed under a baseball cap, and a cigarette behind each ear. His teeth
frightened me, and he spoke with a heavy southern drawl. He was an ex-marine,
and an excellent sniper. I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t let them pretty him up
with powder.
And that left me. I glanced in the
mirror. Being a shapeshifter, I could look like anyone, but at the moment I
looked like me. I was five foot nine with straight dark brown hair that fell to
the middle of my back. It was currently braided in a sophisticated style that I
never could have managed. Shane spent his childhood braiding his mother’s hair,
which nearly dragged on the floor. He would braid my hair every day if I let
him. I had a slightly paler version of my father’s Native American skin tone,
and my mother’s blue eyes. Shane called me beautiful every chance he got, but I
tried not to let it go to my head.
“I guess we should go get this
bullshit out of the way,” Shane said.
“It’s just an interview,” I rolled
my eyes. “It’ll be good PR.”
“Good PR would be using Zeus,” Shane
argued. “Cain and I are scary, and we’re assholes.”
“We want people to take STF
seriously,” I said. “And Brian has other plans for Zeus. Besides, I think
people will have a hard enough time accepting werewolves, nevermind a gay one
with blue hair.”
“We’re a team,” Bruce said. “We’ve
survived crazy vampires, fanatical terrorists, bombings, shootings, and that
time Cain convinced us all to drink that moonshine he makes in his basement. We
can handle this.”
I hoped he was right, but I had a
feeling the general public wasn’t ready for the reality of our team.
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