Unconventionally Wolf, Julie Steimle [red scrolls of magic .TXT] 📗

a bit for aiding any kind of ecological warrior. It was against their philosophy of life as hunters. And as for Mr. Lowell, the man looked conflicted—like he was embarrassed, confused, and vindictive all in the same moment. It was strange, as he seemed to hesitate… not so much in his retort but in what he intended to do as his conversation with Rick was basically a wash.

"So, are you going to go?" Rick asked. "Apologize to Mr. Whitefeather?"

Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Lowell almost snorted. "Mr. Whitefeather? And you think I'm being—"

"It's his name," Rick bit out. "Do you have something against his name?"

Bristling, Mr. Lowell reached into his pocket. After a brief hesitation, he took out something tube shaped and put one end into his mouth before Rick recognized the thing. The man blew into it.

A wolf whistle.

Rick jumped to grab it as the whistle howled low and pierced the innermost part of Rick's ears. Mr. Lowell pulled back, defending himself. A shudder ran through Rick's body, and for a brief moment he sprouted hair, his teeth elongating, his eyes dilating, and ears shifting. It took everything for Rick to force himself back into human shape.

Eyes wide, Mr. Lowell dropped the whistle and staggered back. "No way…"

Shaking off the hair, Rick whipped his eyes onto the man.

"Oh, crap…." Mr. Lowell stumbled back to the door.

Carl rushed after him, grabbing him while whipping out something from his pocket. He dumped it barely on Mr. Lowell's shirt front, tucking something else into the man's shorts pocket.

"Get away from me!" Mr. Lowell shoved Carl off him.

Stepping back, Carl watched as the man yanked open the door and staggered out into the hallway.

"I'm in so much trouble…" Rick muttered, looking around at all his shed hair and his covered suit.

But Carl shook his head, swiftly turning around to his suitcase where he got out a mini broom and dustpan. He dutifully swept up the hair with a glance to Rick, "Just take them out and shake out your clothes. It will be fine."

Rick obeyed. Surprisingly, most of Rick's wolf hair did not stick to the fabric. He didn't know what it was that made it so, but it was incredibly helpful. He then went back to the sink to finish getting washed up while Carl ran the suit over with a lint roller.

Minutes later James came back in and swiped up the wolf whistle, burning it to ash in his palm. His other bodyguards also arrived, each one apologizing for not being there earlier. They had been kept up by that McDillan relative.

"We had a witness," Carl said them.

They cringed, but nodded.

Rick lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Hey…" James came to him. "Not your fault."

But Rick shook his head. "If I had more self-control it would not have happened."

Yet as he said this, Carl reproached him, "I doubt you could have resisted as well as you did. Your father was no better at it." He then dug into his kit and held out a fresh package of pale earplugs. They appeared to be the same color as Rick's skin. "You will need these, I think, for the rest of the day."

Cringing, Rick nodded. He just didn't like the idea of having to say, “Eh? Can you say that louder?” to people, but it was better than turning into a wolf in front of them.

"Must he?" James asked, annoyed for the same reason.

Carl nodded. "One year they sold wolf whistles at a booth, pretending to be wolf enthusiasts. The entire conference center was howling and your father had to leave early."

Rick stared, almost laughing despite how awful that must have been for his father. And yet he could imagine how impossible it must have been to maintain human shape for long. And it could happen to him.

"Ok." Rick took the earplugs and squished them down to insert them in his ear canal. He honestly didn't like using earplugs. It made his head feel strange. Pressurized. And an almost electric ringing buzzed in his ears every time he put earplugs in. It was uncomfortable.

Once everything was back in order, all cleaned up in the restroom and packed with no proof anyone had gone wolf in there, the entire group walked out together.

"Ok, where to next," Rick said, turning to Carl.

Taking out their itinerary, Carl peered at the list. "There is a luncheon in the far corner of 3A, I do believe. Panelists have been invited, and from what I understand they have a catered buffet, and they should have an allergen-free meal set aside for you."

"We should test it first," James murmured with a glance to Tommy, who nodded. "Just in case it was sabotaged."

Carl chuckled, gazing on them. "You can have a bite, if you wish. But the conference creators would take greater care with guarding Mr. Deacon's food than they would most other things."

Nodding, Rick said, "He's right. Deacon food allergies are infamous. They would be outright sued for not safeguarding my food, as it would be in the signed contract and stipulated in detail."

James raised his eyebrows at Rick. For a second, Rick sounded like a CEO.

"After the luncheon, Mr. Deacon is not scheduled to meet with anyone until the next panel—which is at two o'clock." Carl went down the itinerary. "The topic is: With the bad PR concerning wolves killing cattle, how can you justify preserving dangerous predators?"

Rick chuckled. He had studied up on that one. And he knew he was going to be questioned about the Colorado incident. It was inevitable.

"You will be with representatives from Wolf Awareness Inc., Ranchers for Wildlife, Project Coyote, and Predator Defense."

Rick nodded.

"So…" James looked around at the conference center. "What should we do in the meantime? Lock ourselves in a room to avoid trouble? Or wander the conference center?"

Chuckling, Rick lifted his eyes to his friend from home. James already knew the answer to that one. There was no way Rick was allowed to just lock himself in a room to keep safe. He was there to represent his father and their company. He had to wander the convention center.

"Let’s get lunch first," Rick said.

They wandered toward the right side of the convention venue. Some eyes followed him. Whispers rose as they went further along. Their journey past various booths took them into an almost cascade of whispers which, despite his earplugs, Rick picked up.

What had he done to Mr. Lowell in the bathroom? Was his back truly covered in scars? Was Mr. Lowell drunk? Why had Mr. Deacon's son changed his suit? Why was his hair wet? Who were those people harassing Mr. Deacon? Did he really have a breakdown and have to be carried out of the last panel? Were the Deacons that fragile? …Among many others.

Rick hated gossip. Beyond annoying, it made him feel like a bug in a jar.

When they got to the edge of the luncheon, heads and bodies turned. Several people stared, though Rick noticed Mr. Lowell standing in a cluster with both men from the panel two of the hunters and three other people Rick did not know. He was emphatic in his expressions, and when he set eyes on Rick he backed away as if he would flee the premises.

"Don't worry," said that McDillan related hunter—what's-his-name— Matthew Hague. "He can't hurt you while I am here."

Rick stared wanly at him as he approached the catering table. Those running craft services quickly searched for his meal from the catering locker, bringing it out.

"Uh, uh, uh," James said before Rick laid his hands on it. "Let me check it."

His shoulders hanging, Rick stared at the ceiling. "Fine."

James opened up the catering box and inspected the meal. It was labeled no honey mustard, no garlic, stainless steel cutlery used only. He lifted out the six inch sub sandwich and inspected the contents before taking a bite. Then he went at the other things on the tray, all of which were in sealed containers.

Prof. Pederson stepped from the group and asked, "Does the little prince need a food taster?"

Rick shot him a wan smile. "Only when people are trying to kill me." His eyes tracked to the two hunters.

They smirked back. But their eyes settled inquisitively on James who had tried most of the food. They clearly did not know him.

"Aren't you paranoid," Prof. Pederson replied with a snort. "Who would try to kill you?"

Rick's entire group stared at the hunters. And then the eyes of all went to those two men.

"Them?" Prof. Pederson peered at the two men. "You can't be serious."

"Did they tell you their profession?" Carl asked, taking the boxed meal from James who had bitten into nearly everything and was now smirking as he had taken a second bite of the sandwich 'just in case'. Carl handed the meal to Rick who was rolling his eyes at James.

Some of the people there seemed uncomfortable, though Mr. Lowell and Mr. Fulcroft were looking more at Rick, watching him sniff his sandwich before eating it.

"It’s not chicken," James said with a chuckle.

Rick sighed, disappointed as he ate into it. He had hoped for chicken. It was his favorite food all around and his first choice whenever he was stressed out. The sandwich didn't taste bad, though.

"Their profession?" Prof. Pederson gazed wanly back at Carl. "You mean, working for a security company and an eco-hobbyist?"

"Is that what they said?" Rick choked on a laugh, almost choking on his food. "And what did they say about me?"

Mr. Lowell pulled back more, though the two hunters kept him from escaping altogether. The man still stared at Rick as if he would eat him alive.

This time he got more uncomfortable looks from the group. Even Prof. Pederson cringed.

Chuckling, Rick shook his head and went back to devouring his sandwich.

"And what are your friend's careers?" asked Mr. Fulcroft, his eyes tracing to James and Tommy.

With a shrug, Rick waved to James. "Oh, he's a friend from home. We bumped into each other at the conference. He's studying… uh, what did you say? Wildlife conservation? You want to be a park ranger, right?"

James nodded. "Yep."

"And he's here to write an article for some school newspaper," Rick said.

Nodding again, James grinned. They took in his home-grown boy scout look with skepticism.

Rick then looked at Tommy and chuckled. "You know, I am not sure what your profession is, Tommy. I never asked."

Tommy grinned. "Exterminator."

James busted up, laughing almost too loud. Both hunters stared, also smothering chuckles. They nodded, their eyes drifting to Rick.

"In fact," said the McDillan relative—Matthew Hague, "We know one another."

Mr. Lowell's eyes widened. So did Mr. Fulcroft's.

Nodding grimly, Tommy approached them. "Indeed."

The air around them was immediately back in that awkward state.

"So what are you doing here?" Matthew Hague asked.

Tommy gazed plainly back at him. "Oh, I'm a friend of a friend. You know Michael Toms, right? The young man I have been, uh, mentoring?"

Several of those listening in piqued with interest. The name Michael Toms was familiar.

"The heir to Tristain Enterprises?" Tommy egged on for clarity.

That hunter leaned back. Then looked to Rick who was finishing off his lunch. Rick noticed that some of the bites James had made were not tasting-bites but full-on chomps. Of course James was now helping himself to the buffet table, as he had always been a foodie and never wasted an opportunity to eat well. It was why he had always been pudgy growing up.

"Tristain Enterprises, did you say?" Mr. Fulcroft asked.

Tommy nodded.

"And through a Tristain Enterprises/Deacon Enterprises business interaction, you became acquainted with—"

"No," Rick interjected, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He handed his empty box lunch to Carl who had been standing by. "Michael Tom's mother comes from my hometown—Middleton Village, Massachusetts. Michael would visit his grandmother every summer after his mother died. He just hung around with me and my friends when he got bored at his grandmother's place."

James nodded, eating into a small finger sandwich.

"You know him too?" Mr. Fulcroft looked to him.

"Sure," James said with a shrug, a pickle in one