Page 2 of Last But Not Leashed

I sighed, staggered to the ambulance, and waited for the paramedics to decide how they wanted to handle me without running the risk of becoming lycanthropes, too. Despite the fact I wasn’t bleeding or even drooling, their first step was to spray me down with pink, shimmering neutralizer to eliminate any chance of them contracting my virus.

With them already nervous, I hoped they wouldn’t ask about my first shift; for someone exposed before birth, I’d been abnormally old when I’d had my first shift. As far as I was concerned, my status as a late-bloomer was the closest thing to normal about me.

Resigned to a hell-filled Monday, I endured their poking and prodding, hoping to dodge an unwanted trip to a medical interrogation overseen by doctors who wanted to study me more than they cared about my health.

I dodged a medical interrogation, but when my boss offered a paid day off work to recover from petrification, my pride demanded I refuse. A double dose of neutralizer added a pink sheen and shine to my clothes, and it’d take at least five washes to get it out of my hair. In the overhead lights, my mall security jacket gleamed.

Most would recognize the signs of recent neutralizer exposure, so I didn’t fret too much over my battered professionalism. For a few hours, I’d even enjoy having pale hair; as a rebellious teen, I’d tried to bleach it blond, but the incubating virus refused to cooperate. The neutralizer’s nefarious tingling would drive me to the brink of insanity by the end of my shift, but I’d survive. Most lycanthropes loved the sensation, which was a little like a good scratch behind the ears and a lot like how I reacted whenever my boss got too close for my comfort.

Nervous. Wired. Interested—too interested.

At least my virus didn’t act up when any woman crossed my path. A few members of the pack had that problem, and it caused nothing but trouble. Half the time, our pack’s alphas, Jerome and Allison, dealt with it. The other half of the time, the problems were dumped on my lap, as I was the pack’s only unmated, post-shift wolf who didn’t trigger territory disputes and could, when necessary, hit hard enough to knock sense back into most of the males. Jerome thought I’d be just as good at my job within the pack if I ever got around to mating.

It wasn’t my strength that kept the other wolves in line. It was me. As such, I held the dubious rank of pack beta, one of three. Among the betas, I came in dead last, as I preferred to avoid conflict rather than wade in and break up the fights before they became fights.

My father would be proud if he found out. My mother would be annoyed. She still hadn’t had her first shift, and unlike me, she wouldn’t have the hybrid form. My father didn’t have it. My grandparents weren’t lycanthropes. No one was really sure how my father had been infected.

If I hadn’t been a chip off my father’s block, I might’ve worried my mother had dallied with another lycanthrope before infection, another reason I didn’t want anyone to know I had the prized hybrid form.

I should have been just like my father, with gray fur and only the wolf form. I envied my father and his perfectly normal coat. He still thought I had black fur, which was why I hadn’t gone home in five years.

When my parents found out the truth, they’d laugh for a year.

The rest of my shift went by without incident—well, as without incident as a mall visited by the weirder and weirder got on a Monday. The second fight of the day broke up after a single growl from me. To cap my already shitty day, a centaur high on pixie dust just wanted a friend, and I’d been recruited as the one most likely to survive without permanent disfigurement.

The lioness scratched me four times and only tried to get into my pants once, a victory in my book, especially since she didn’t mind having neutralizer foam rubbed into her fur so she wouldn’t spread my virus around. Even better, she let me herd her into a cab, allowing me to get away without having to contact the CDC.

The incident would be filed in my report, I’d face a scolding from my boss for daring to shed a drop of my blood in a public place, and since nothing made sense when it came to the CDC, she’d be writing a hazard pay check while she did it.

It was only Monday, and I’d be heading home with a week’s worth of extra pay for putting up with a mall security shift.

Twenty minutes before closing, the mall’s head of security tracked me down and flashed a gap-toothed grin at me. “Mr. Jameson, thank you for coming in today. Were you told about the circumstances bringing you here today?”

Before shipping me to the mall, my boss had given me an earful about the situation. A lycanthrope with a death wish had attacked one of the security guards during his last round, a round I was about to take. “Your employee was attacked after closing last night,” I dutifully replied.

“Yes. It happened during the tail end of his exterior check of the building. Miss Frankwell told me you can handle a lycanthrope attack without risk of infection?”

However much I obsessed over my boss, I suspected she lived to vex me. One of the first things she did was notify my contact of my status as a lycanthrope. Why had she neglected to tell Mr. Coolridge I was beyond being infected? “I’m a lycanthrope, so yes.” I tensed, waiting for his reaction.

Some didn’t care about the contagion risk. Others recoiled a few feet and reeked of terror.

“Good. I was worried they’d send someone else to be infected. I’ll be honest, you’re the first lycanthrope I’ve worked with, but I like what I see so far. Are all lycanthropes able to hold up so well on long shifts?”

Then there were men like Mr. Coolridge, who realized the virus had advantages and wanted to profit from it, although more job choices for others with the virus was a good thing. “That depends on the lycanthrope, sir. If a lycanthrope has a well-developed virus, yes. Preliminary infections don’t offer many benefits.”

Mr. Coolridge circled me, looking me over from head to toe. “And how long have you been infected, son?”

“I was born exposed, sir. My father’s a lycanthrope. I wasn’t confirmed infected until I was ten. In cases like mine, the first shift can happen as early as fifteen, but it can take longer, too. I was projected to have my first shift in my forties. It typically takes several decades for the virus to develop enough to allow for shifting.”

I wouldn’t tell the man I’d endured a virus spike shortly after meeting my boss, something that’d resulted in me shifting fifteen years ahead of schedule. It was listed in my file that I’d had my first shift, and my fur color was still listed as pure black. Depending on if the rep with the CDC was having a bad day, I might end up with a fine for not notifying the organization my coat had changed colors. I had no idea what they’d do when they learned I had access to the hybrid form.

I suspected I’d be slapped with another fine and put to work on even more dangerous cases under a new boss.

No matter how many times I bitched and moaned about my job sucking, I didn’t want a new boss. I liked the one I had, and I enjoyed not having to follow her around like a love-sick puppy to be near her.

Mr. Coolridge circled me again before he came to a halt and nodded. “Interesting. And you’re contagious?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Frankwell didn’t provide you with my statistics sheet?”