Last but not Leashed

  Last but not Leashed

  A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

  RJ Blain

  Last but not Leashed

  A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

  by RJ Blain

  Warning: This novella contains humor, romance, a temporary escape from life, a body, and puns. No plots were severely harmed during testing but were put in time out due to hysterics.

  Copyright © 2018 by RJ Blain

  Cover design by Covers by Combs.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Magical Romantic Comedies (with a body count)

  From Witch & Wolf World

  Other Stories by RJ Blain

  Witch & Wolf World Reading Order

  Chapter One

  There was nothing quite like starting my week with a serious case of petrification. What had I been thinking when I’d applied to be a contractor for the CDC? Ever since I’d become the Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s dog, I’d almost come to a premature end more times than I cared to count.

  Ah, right. They’d bribed me with fifty an hour, full benefits, hazard pay, paid training, and a boss I’d kill for if she asked it of me. It was a good thing Ethel Frankwell was as straight laced as they came, else I’d be putting my lycanthropy virus to use in all the wrong ways.

  If my virus had its way, I’d be taking her home with me and never letting her out of my bedroom ever again.

  I needed a new job before I went insane, and it wouldn’t be the job hazards that finally got to me. It’d be Ethel Frankwell, her mousy brown hair, her doe-sweet eyes, and her hypnotizing hips. Facing my boss tested my limits on a good day, but nothing made my day quite like watching her stomp off when someone stirred her ire.

  I could handle petrification; it happened at least once a month in my line of work. Facing my boss post-petrification while I clutched a gorgon’s throat with one hand and trapped a pixie with the other wasn’t a good start to my Monday.

  In the moments before I’d been petrified, the gorgon had been out for the pixie’s blood, not that I blamed her; on a good day, I considered thinning the pixie populations in the name of world peace. Coming between them kept someone from getting killed, but I’d taken a full dose of gorgon spittle to the face. Add in her gaze, and it hadn’t taken long for me to black out.

  The gorgon still hissed, but a black bag over her head kept her from petrifying me again.

  The pixie beat my hand with her glittery wings, her arms crossed over her chest, indulging in a pixie-typical sulk. Unfortunately for me, she didn’t produce any dust.

  A good hit of pixie dust would make facing my boss a lot easier.

  “Earth to Dale.” My boss waved her hand in front of my face. The motion wafted her perfume straight to my nose. While the other wolves in my pack found the floral scent disturbing at best, I wanted to inhale, savor the aroma, and shift to my wolf so I could rub against her legs. I didn’t dare take even a sniff, as I couldn’t afford her suspecting I wanted to follow her around like a puppy.

  My boss waited in expectant silence, one of her eyebrows arched. As always, my tongue fought me following petrification, the first to harden, the last to soften. At least I wasn’t prone to falling over while the neutralizer did its work; my sense of balance returned first, an oddity that made me an ideal employee for the CDC.

  They liked sending me in to deal with cranky gorgons, and they didn’t care how often I needed to gargle neutralizer to regain control over my tongue.

  I really needed a new job.

  As my tongue refused to obey my demands, I thrust the pixie towards my boss and hoped for the best.

  “Not fair,” the winged menace whined. “I only pulled one of her snakes. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  My boss didn’t look impressed, and I almost pitied the pixie. “You provoked a gorgon in a public place, resulting in the petrification of a CDC employee. It’s a big deal, especially if Mr. Jameson doesn’t fully recover without additional intervention.” Seizing the pixie around her waist, my boss pried her out of my still-stiff hand and lifted her up. “Why did you pull on her snake?”

  “She looked bored.”

  I’d gotten petrified because a pixie had thought a gorgon looked bored? Fifty and hour plus benefits wasn’t worth it, but I couldn’t force myself to quit. Unless I was willing to show off my hybrid form, a solid hell no as far as I was concerned, my prospects were few and far between.

  No one trusted a lycanthrope who refused to openly shift.

  My boss cleared her throat, her first warning I wasn’t paying enough attention to her. With wide eyes, I gave her my full attention. “Go ahead and say whatever it is you’re thinking, Dale. I’m woman enough to handle it.”

  I forced open my uncooperative fingers, releasing the gorgon. The stiffness in my joints would linger for hours, and I grimaced at the crack and pops in my knuckles. I swallowed and tested my tongue, pleased to discover it moved at my command. Straightening my shoulders and ignoring their creaking, I said, “Everything is fine, ma’am. I intervened when it seemed likely the ladies would engage physically. I didn’t witness the triggering incident.”

  “Your tongue recovered faster than usual. Good. There’s an ambulance out front. As soon as you can walk without falling on your face, go get checked. I’ll take care of these two. If they want to send you to the hospital, have someone notify me before they haul you off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Following petrification, my body wanted nothing to do with moving, and I staggered several steps before I caught my balance. Unless I shifted, I estimated it’d be several hours before the stiffness faded, but I refused.

  If anyone saw my fur, they’d die of laughter while I died from embarrassment.

  Every other lycanthrope I’d met had normal fur, with red and tawny counting as exotic among wolves. At my first shift, I’d been coal black, an uncommon but desirable color. A year later, everything had changed during the spring shed. My black fur had fallen out to be replaced with a wretched electric purple. Worse, not only was I electric purple, my paws, the tips of my ears, and tail were bright blue. No matter how often I checked my reflection in the mirror, I came to the same conclusion: I looked ridiculous.

  Once I added in my second secret, my life was a mess. No one knew I could shift into the prized hybrid form. If I could deal with my fur color, I’d be in a much better position. I could find a different job, and often enough, human women considered hybrid lycanthropes as prospective husband material.

  I had no idea what my boss was; her perfume confused my nose on a good day and made me want to drool over her, crippling my ability to distinguish much about her by scent.

  At a slow, pained walk, I headed outside to the waiting ambulance, hoping I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. If I did, I’d face another round of scrutiny regarding my elevated virus levels and rare shifts. My virus levels were consistently high enough I needed to disclose my status to employers, co-workers, and anyone who asked.

  Some days, I considered wearing dog tags to make it clear I was contagious; it’d save me a lot of time and trouble.

  I sighed, staggered to the ambulan
ce, 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?”

  “I didn’t bother reading it. I prefer to judge a man by his actions rather than look over what some paper shuffler sends me. She informed me you had security experience. That’s all I needed to know. Have you ever infected anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Interesting.”

  If I’d been in my hybrid form, I would’ve pinned my ears back and bared my teeth. Professionalism demanded I maintain a neutral expression. Why did he think my care and caution with the uninfected was interesting? At a loss of what to say, I waited.

  “Do you believe current prevention methods are effective?”

  While tempted to refer him to the CDC’s website for information on infection statistics, I resisted the urge. When trouble like his came calling, it was wisest to avoid adding to the problems, which would inevitably reach my boss. I made a show of th
inking about his question. “I haven’t infected anyone, sir. But the lycanthrope isn’t the only liable individual in the equation. Others do need to be aware and take care. If you were to pick a fight with me and bloody my nose, infection is possible, and according to the law, I wouldn’t be held liable. The lycanthrope is only liable if they started the fight, and such incidents are always verified by an angel.”

  “A good point. Be careful on your rounds, son. Give a holler if you run into trouble.” Mr. Coolridge flipped me a salute and strolled off, pulling out a cell phone and placing a call.

  According to my nose, the man was satisfied about something, and I wasn’t certain why. Did he want lycanthrope security guards? The members of local packs would appreciate extra job opportunities. The risk of infection would make most think twice about trying their luck and picking a fight. It would also encourage those who wanted to be infected to pick fights.

  Fortunately for most but unfortunately for me, those who wanted to become infected picked a fight with a lycanthrope with the hybrid form, hoping the virus would take hold and become strong enough. They’d be disappointed.

  It wasn’t the source of the infection that ensured access to the hybrid form. What it was, however, I wasn’t certain. My father couldn’t access the hybrid form. Had I been normal, I wouldn’t have access to it, either.

  I sighed, staring until my temporary boss turned the corner and headed deeper into the mall. If anyone learned I had the hybrid form, I’d rise to the top of the local eligible bachelor list, a status I didn’t want. At the rate my persnickety virus rejected women, I’d die old and alone. I wouldn’t die a virgin, at least, but I’d had my romp in the hay before I’d become contagious.