the body’s going to sit up and yell boo, you big babies.” He turned to face our father with a contrived look of stoicism—his best shot at appearing serious. “Jace and I will do it.” No one bothered to ask if he wanted to consult hispartner before volunteering them both. Jace Hammond would follow Ethan into hell and back, if he thought there’d be a decent per diem and a cold bottle of beer in it for him.
“Where is Pretty Boy?” Marc asked, his hand going stiff in mine. A quick glance at his face revealed a mask of tension stretched across the familiar strong, dark features, and I exhaled in frustration. I’d spent all summer waiting for the delicate truce between Marc and Jace to fail, and so far they’d both surprised me, but that fact had the fragile feel of transience.
“Jace went to the liquor store,” Ethan said, searching my eyes quickly before running a hand through his thick black hair. “It’s his turn to restock the supplies.”
“Okay,” my father said in his Alpha voice, bringing us back on topic as all eyes turned his way. “Spread the word. Nine-forty-five in the barn. Anyone more than a minute late takes a dock in pay. That means you, Ethan.” He headed for the hall with my brother right behind him, trying to talk his way out of his latest tardy fine.
“But, Dad, if you’d seen that waitress, you’d totally understand….”
My father rolled his eyes. “Don’t embarrass yourself with excuses.” He stopped and turned to face Ethan, his expression even more stern than usual. “And while we’re discussing your social life…are you properly prepared for your date this evening?”
I nearly choked trying to hold back laughter, and both Vic and Marc shook with their own efforts.
“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Ethan slapped my father’s shoulder, as if he were talking to one of the other guys, rather than the Alpha. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”
“I’m serious, Ethan.” My father’s expression darkened. “The world isn’t ready for your offspring. And neither am I.”
“I know, I know. I’ve got it covered.” With that, Ethan headed down the hall toward his room. My father followed, shaking his head silently. As soon as they were gone, Vic fell on the couch in laughter, holding his stomach as if it hurt. Marc and I collapsed onto the love seat, laughing until tears formed in our eyes.
Birth control was not a topic werecats discussed very often. Most tabbies wanted children, and until recently, we’d thought toms couldn’t impregnate human women.
We’d been wrong. Toms could, in fact, produce children with human women. Rarely. The proof was…well…strays. All strays.
According to Dr. John Eames, a geneticist from one of the northern Prides, every single stray he’d tested over the course of a ten-year study turned out to have a half-human, half-werecat genome. Or something like that. The layman’s version was that strays, according to the good doctor, already had werecat genes before they were infected. Genes they’d inherited from an unknown werecat ancestor somewhere in the branches of their various family trees.
His conclusion was that normal humans—without these recessive werecat genes—cannot be “infected.” But that those with the genes can have their werecat halves “activated” by a simple scratch or bite.
I didn’t pretend to understand all the details, and neither did most of the toms I knew. Especially Ethan. All he cared about was that his social life had been disrupted by what he saw as a microscopic risk. The procreational equivalent of hitting a bull’s-eye with an arrow from a mile away. But myparents were taking no chances, and I found the irony as frustrating as Ethan did. From me, they wanted children. From my brothers, they wanted prevention.
Still grinning, Marc leaned back against the arm of the love seat. “We still have three hours until dinner,” he said, running one hand slowly up my
“Where is Pretty Boy?” Marc asked, his hand going stiff in mine. A quick glance at his face revealed a mask of tension stretched across the familiar strong, dark features, and I exhaled in frustration. I’d spent all summer waiting for the delicate truce between Marc and Jace to fail, and so far they’d both surprised me, but that fact had the fragile feel of transience.
“Jace went to the liquor store,” Ethan said, searching my eyes quickly before running a hand through his thick black hair. “It’s his turn to restock the supplies.”
“Okay,” my father said in his Alpha voice, bringing us back on topic as all eyes turned his way. “Spread the word. Nine-forty-five in the barn. Anyone more than a minute late takes a dock in pay. That means you, Ethan.” He headed for the hall with my brother right behind him, trying to talk his way out of his latest tardy fine.
“But, Dad, if you’d seen that waitress, you’d totally understand….”
My father rolled his eyes. “Don’t embarrass yourself with excuses.” He stopped and turned to face Ethan, his expression even more stern than usual. “And while we’re discussing your social life…are you properly prepared for your date this evening?”
I nearly choked trying to hold back laughter, and both Vic and Marc shook with their own efforts.
“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Ethan slapped my father’s shoulder, as if he were talking to one of the other guys, rather than the Alpha. “I’m glad we could have this little talk.”
“I’m serious, Ethan.” My father’s expression darkened. “The world isn’t ready for your offspring. And neither am I.”
“I know, I know. I’ve got it covered.” With that, Ethan headed down the hall toward his room. My father followed, shaking his head silently. As soon as they were gone, Vic fell on the couch in laughter, holding his stomach as if it hurt. Marc and I collapsed onto the love seat, laughing until tears formed in our eyes.
Birth control was not a topic werecats discussed very often. Most tabbies wanted children, and until recently, we’d thought toms couldn’t impregnate human women.
We’d been wrong. Toms could, in fact, produce children with human women. Rarely. The proof was…well…strays. All strays.
According to Dr. John Eames, a geneticist from one of the northern Prides, every single stray he’d tested over the course of a ten-year study turned out to have a half-human, half-werecat genome. Or something like that. The layman’s version was that strays, according to the good doctor, already had werecat genes before they were infected. Genes they’d inherited from an unknown werecat ancestor somewhere in the branches of their various family trees.
His conclusion was that normal humans—without these recessive werecat genes—cannot be “infected.” But that those with the genes can have their werecat halves “activated” by a simple scratch or bite.
I didn’t pretend to understand all the details, and neither did most of the toms I knew. Especially Ethan. All he cared about was that his social life had been disrupted by what he saw as a microscopic risk. The procreational equivalent of hitting a bull’s-eye with an arrow from a mile away. But myparents were taking no chances, and I found the irony as frustrating as Ethan did. From me, they wanted children. From my brothers, they wanted prevention.
Still grinning, Marc leaned back against the arm of the love seat. “We still have three hours until dinner,” he said, running one hand slowly up my
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