Chapter Two: The Curse of the Werewolves
2056 Words
The knocking on the door to Carrie’s suite grew louder, but she continued what she was doing, humming softly to herself as she applied her eyeliner.
“Goddess damn you, Carrie! We were supposed to leave an hour ago!” Sebastian complained, loudly. “Don’t make me huff and puff and blow this door down. The town car's been waiting so long I’m afraid they will ditch us.”
Carrie turned her face this way and that, checking herself out from every angle before blowing herself a little kiss. Then, she jumped a little as Sebastian’s voice shouted in her mind, I will leave your ass behind if you don’t get moving, Carrie! I’m serious!
Carrie cringed, rubbing one of her knuckles against her temple a little as she stomped her way from the bathroom to the door that led to her personal suite. She threw the door open, and found Sebastian leaning moodily against the wall of the hallway across from her door.
“I’m ready, are you happy now? Sheesh. I might have been able to finish up faster without all the shouting, you know.” Carrie griped as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.
She’d styled it into glamorous waves, and when paired with the off the shoulder black velvet gown and bold red lip, she gave off serious old Hollywood vibes.
“You look nice.” Sebastian offered before pushing away from the wall. He looked ‘nice’ too in his burgundy and black tux.
“You know what really would have sped things up? If you just magicked up a look for me.” Carrie said, sighing softly. “Would have saved both of us a lot of trouble.”
Sebastian froze, his eyes wide as if he really hadn’t thought of that. He probably hadn’t. Sebastian was a lot of things, but The Misfit’s Beta wasn’t especially bright. Carrie patted his shoulder, giggling a little as she passed by him, her sky high heels clacking on the marble tile as she went.
She heard his loud groan of frustration as she made her way into the wide open space of the pack house’s grand foyer, and it only made her laugh more.
In the warm light of the late afternoon sun that was filtering in through the large leaded glass windows, the grand foyer looked as grand as its title indicated. While it was not as ostentatious as the grand foyer of the neighboring pack, Twilight Promenade, the Misfits had certainly given the space their stamp. Well, if we’re being real, Carrie had given it her personal stamp.
Over the bones of the stuffy, traditional red brick row home, Carrie had built a comfortable, functional and super trendy space that met the very modern needs of their ever growing pack. The Misfits, as she said, were not especially wealthy, but with Carrie’s eye for detail and some creative thrifting, their grand foyer now had a semi-circular reception desk faced with oxidized tin tiles that harkened back to the era the row home was built, a gorgeous apothecary cabinet lining the left wall that Carrie had turned into the pack’s mail cubbies, and lounge to the right with antique furniture that she’d reupholstered with bright, bold patterns.
She’d even taken an ancient cabinet that had been languishing in their basement, slapped some rusty old wheels on it, and called it a bar cart. Garage sales had been kind to her, especially in a city like this where people are constantly clearing out the old in order to make way for the new, and their bar soon had a live edge shelf with a rack of wine glasses, a tray with a decanter and matching scotch glasses, a set of whiskey stones, and even an ice bucket with accompanying tongs - all for less than twenty bucks. In fact, she’d gotten a lot of things to outfit the pack house for free. She was a bit of a curb alert fanatic, much to the annoyance of her packmates.
They only appreciated her genius after they saw the finished product - which was undeniably amazing. Plebians, the lot of them.
When she finally hung the hot pink neon sign over it reading “The Mixfits” - a pun that her Alpha, Penelope, had groaned aloud at when she finally saw it - Carrie felt that she had finally achieved what she’d intended for the space and moved on to the rest of the pack house. That was just in the first year they’d moved in; four years on, and almost every room in the house bore the signature Carrie style - modern meets vintage with a mix of bold patterns and bright colors that’s unexpected, but in that pleasant surprise kind of way.
Carrie thought of her style as a happy accident, much like the she-wolf herself. Her parents had let it slip some years ago that she hadn’t exactly been planned, but unplanned was not the same as unwanted. And, she’d grown up secure in the knowledge that not only did her parents love her, but they deeply loved each other as well. That’s why she was a true believer; she’d grown up knowing true love was real, trusting in the Moon Goddess’s grand plan.
There was a gasp from the reception desk as Francesca caught sight of Carrie.
“Oh. My. Goddess. You look like you just walked off a movie set!” the sweet faced young Gamma female gushed.
Like her cousin, Alpha Penelope, Francesca had violet eyes and blonde hair. In fact, the entire Twilight Promenade royal family bore those same features. Oh right, if you didn’t know, Alpha Penelope was also, sort of, a princess. And she had a super hunky mate. So yeah, Penelope Silvius was a super powerful Alpha werewolf princess heiress, and Carrie was...just Carrie. Some girls had all the luck, huh?
Carrie wasn’t jealous, though. There was no timeline in which you would find an Alpha Carrie - not because Carrie wasn’t capable, but because there was no universe in which Carrie would want to be an Alpha. It was way too much work. Being the Delta female was sometimes more than enough for her.
Unlike the ever serious, stone-faced Alpha female, Francesca wore her emotions openly on her round, good natured face. “Your hair is to die for. Will you show me how you did it when you get home?”
“I might be fall down drunk when I get home and burn your hair off by accident, but sure.” Carrie laughed as Sebastian finally caught up, looking flustered.
“Enough gabbing, Carebear. We are way more than fashionably late. We might even miss the dinner portion of the night at this rate.” Sebastian growled.
“Alright, alright.” Carrie sighed, waving to Chessa as she headed for the door. “Don’t wait up for me, Chessa. Who knows, I might even spend the whole night out.”
Francesca’s over enthusiastic whistling and catcalling was cut off when the door shut behind them.
Desmond tapped the too-tight toe of his shiny black patent dress shoes impatiently as he scanned the ballroom below. He was on a landing that overlooked the grandiose space, which had been bedecked with garlands of spring’s finest flowers and elaborate floral chandeliers that floated, bobbing ever so slightly above the heads of the merry makers. And boy, were people making merry. Or was that whoopee? There were people practically f*****g on the dance floor, in either case. Not just werewolves either, though the rest of Outworlder society would have you believe that they were the most ravenous beasts of the bunch.
All this would have been just fine if he wasn’t so damned allergic to pollen. He’d taken a healthy dose of antihistamine before leaving his apartment, but could now feel that tickle in the back of his throat that let him know he hadn’t taken enough. Add the supernatural humanoid equivalent of pollen - sweat and pheromones - to the mix, and it was a recipe for a stuffy nose and a pounding headache. Call it the curse of the werewolves; having heightened senses had to come with some kind of price.
Desmond sighed deeply, hoping that their target would arrive soon so that he wouldn’t end up bent over a steamer for the rest of the night, trying in vain to clear his sinuses.
The jaded edge of that thought jarred him a little.
Once the target arrived, they were going to kidnap her, spirit her away without leaving a trace - and he was worrying about his sinuses? Desmon groaned softly, shocked at how detached he’d become in such a short amount of time. His handlers had warned him that would happen, but it was not the relief he thought it would be. He almost preferred agonizing.
Making people disappear was his least favorite part of the job, but that’s what Des signed up for when he agreed to infiltrate the WIC Company. He was in it for the greater good. At least, that’s what his handlers told him, and what he muttered to himself over and over when he woke up in a cold sweat at four in the morning. They were trying to land the big fish, people with actual power, people who were abusing said power to the detriment of werewolf kind and the Otherworld as a whole.
Sometimes that meant helping to stage a kidnapping. Even though he knew the plan, knew that the agency wasn’t going to let these women suffer for long before swooping in to shut down the operation, it still rankled.
Also, was it sad that he still hadn’t figured out what the WIC in WIC company stood for, even after being vetted by the company and working with them on a handful of jobs? Maybe that was intentional though, one of those things where they picked an acronym that had no actual meaning just to throw people off.
Desmond’s attention was jerked away from his wandering thoughts when the target finally walked into the ballroom on the arm of a short, but well built male who had no business touching her. Des growled a little at the sight of them, then shook his head in an effort to shake off the discordant feeling that was clouding his mind. What in the Goddess’s golden wood was that? It had to be the haze talking. Male wolves always got a little snippy about unmated females when the haze came over them, and Des was no exception.
She’s here. Desmond reached up to touch the earring in his right ear, which flashed briefly with power as he sent the thought out to his WIC Company partners who wore similar earrings.
As a werewolf, he could mind-link with members of his own pack, and with his mate - or he could have if he had a pack, much less a mate. But, part of his cover for joining the WIC Company was that he was a rogue - no pack to whom his loyalty belonged - a story that was actually true. Just like it was true that his first name really was Desmond. Some things were hard to fake without long years of experience or powerful magic, and using a name that’s not your own or trying to cover up the wild scent of a rogue were things that were inadvisable to try faking.
Desmond kept his eyes locked on the effervescent she-wolf as she parted from her escort to greet a group of other she-wolves who looked to be about the same age. One of his colleagues, Tiffany, was with this group. Tiffany was actually the one who had recommended they take Carolyn Prim, their team’s target for the evening, for the WIC Company’s exclusive little game. They met at some kind of luncheon for ranked she-wolves, and hit it off, apparently.
She embraced the target briefly, giving her an air kiss on each cheek, before backing away so they could take in each other’s outfits for the evening. He wondered if the little red haired she-wolf had any clue that her supposed friend had sold her out in the hopes of making a healthy bonus.
Who needs enemies with friends like that?
- Writer
