The Loup Garou Society, Julie Steimle [reading tree txt] 📗

to Rick, “You can go to one of the rooms and take a nap.” But then she sniffed him. “Or a shower.”

Rick massaged his forehead, which for some reason took Remy aback, watching it. Rick said, “I don’t have a change of clothes.”

“It would be in the car,” Remy said, thumbing back to the window.

“Should I fly out and get it?” Rick rolled his eyes, heading towards the window. He stuck his head out, inspecting the view as well as the outside roof and its angle.

“He can fly?” the woman hissed to Remy.

Remy shook his head, annoyed. He pulled on the back of Rick’s shirt. “You go bathe. I will get it.”

“I think you mean fetch,” Rick said to Remy, taking a step back from the window with a crooked grin. The view looked promising. Especially the placement of the windows and outside moldings… and rain gutters. There were probably fire escapes somewhere.

Remy bristled. He took a step towards Rick.

Rick lifted his chin, bracing for a fight. He could handle one wolf. For pity’s sake, he had taken on worse.

But the Frenchman huffed and marched away, going back out of the apartment. The woman eyed Rick, her expression cooling. Her blue eyes raked over Rick again, now categorizing him as a punk kid.

Good. That was useful. If he could repulse them, he could get out of a lot. Of course, that would be bad for future business. But, chuckling to himself, Rick still believed that business with the French was self-defeating and the real future was in China.

He went to the bedroom. He didn’t want to shower, but he did feel mucky, his head buzzing. So he just dropped onto the bed he had been pointed to and crashed almost immediately.

 

Remy woke him who-knows-how-many minutes later. The light shining from outside seemed a little less intense. It was possibly nearing five pm? He didn’t know.

“Wash up,” Remy said, dropping the ‘fetched’ clothes onto Rick’s face. “You need to meet the ladies.”

Rick sat up, huffing. With a groan, he stretched, cracking his back. He half-contemplated skipping the shower and looking as awful as he could. But after a few minutes of rubbing his eyes, he saw through the door youngish, possible teenage girls entering. They squealed when they saw him.

“So cute!!!!”

He ruffled his hair, scratching his scalp.

They giggled more.

“Like Zac Efron!”

 Remy repressed a groan. His eyes from across the room said to Rick there was no way he was going to get out of this situation if the ladies got excited even when he was mussed up. And for that matter, it wouldn’t make a difference either way.

Huffing again, Rick looked around himself. He was still jet-lagged. But he also felt gross and decided that he needed that shower. He would make it cold to wake him up.

He went into the bathroom.

The girls squealed, saying something in French.

He made sure the door could lock and remained locked while he showered.

Quickly stripping, he jumped into the bathtub and worked out how this shower functioned. And though he had intended to go cold, he decided to go hot instead, as he felt achy all over. Washing off all the travel sweat and dust, he lost track of time.

Remy came knocking on the door, almost pounding on it. “We do not own all the water in France! Cut your bathing short!”

Rick turned off the water. It had already gone cold, but his mind had drifted during the shower and he didn’t want to leave the solitude yet. Also, looking around, he realized he had left his change of clothes in the bedroom.

Groaning, Rick wrapped a towel around his waist. He’d have to make a quick jog from the one room to the other. Once he was sure that his towel was secure, he unlocked and opened the door, scowling. “Fine.”

Remy stepped back from the doorway, letting him pass. His eyes watched Rick as he walked from the bathroom to the bedroom, especially fixing on Rick’s shoulder and chest where a large claw mark scraped across his skin. The Frenchman also took in the other scars, including the bullet wounds in one leg, and the chicken scratches which had mostly faded but made his skin look a little funny. He automatically followed Rick into the bedroom. Rick was never especially self-conscious about his scars, especially since his friends were just as scarred as he was—for different reasons of course. But with Remy staring, he glanced down at them then up at Remy. “What?”

 “Nothing,” Remy stepped back from him. But in his eyes Rick could tell Remy was reassessing what he was seeing.

Rolling his eyes, Rick said, “Can I have some privacy while I change my clothes? Or are you some kind of pedophile?”

Scowling, Remy marched out of the room.

Rick went to the door and locked it. Then he looked to the windows, rushing to them to see if there was a good way out from there. This view was decent, just not amazing. Also, there weren’t any quick routes down that way. From the main room were better exits. It would take a trip over the gables and around the windows to get to a decent climb-down point without being seen. He went back to his clothes.

Hastily dressing, Rick pulled everything on. Then he quickly ran his fingers through his hair. His dirty things, he rolled and tucked them into his shirt, tying it up like a bundle.

Then his stomach gurgled.

Clenching it, Rick cringed. He hadn’t eaten in a while. There was party food out there, but would they just let him stuff his face? Or he could escape and then get food. The problem was, though he had money, he didn’t really know where anything was in Paris. And it was especially risky as a werewolf in Europe as Europeans were all about garlic in nearly everything. And fancy restaurants used silver utensils. That’s not to mention his allergy to honey. He’d have to be extra careful. Party food might be his only choice in the matter.

He came out of the room.

The French girls squealed, greeting him with degrees of spoken English. They asked him if he knew any French. Remy averted his eyes, annoyed. His lady friend, the hostess of the party, more critically eyed Rick as well—more like a babysitter. There were a few others there, men and women who were sycophantically trying to kiss up to their guest. They all knew he was there for a purpose.

Rick decided to play nice.

Smiling, he shook his head, “Ah. No. Sorry. I’ve been really lazy in my French class in school. I barely can say a few sentences. I hope all of you know English, or conversation is going to be very, very short.”

But the girls and ingratiating guests didn’t mind, and said so.

And more came to the party.

It was unsettling being at a party he knew was set up with the specific purpose of him getting laid as much as possible, but the way the partiers handled it was as if he were merely a guest to one of their usual raves. He couldn’t tell which part of what they said was a lie meant to mislead him, or was the absolute truth.

The partiers all seemed to know each other. They all looked like they were there just to have fun. People near him even paired off like couples. Not all, of course. There were those young ladies which lingered near him like a fan club, some of them asking about the scars they had briefly seen when he went from the bathroom to the bedroom. They even savored describing them.

He was embarrassed. “I don’t like talking about them.”

“But what happened?” one girl asked.

He had been trying to stuff his mouth with snacks, hoping he could get out of talking, but it wasn’t working. After swallowing, he said, “Have you ever met a demon?”

The girls gasped. The men stared. Remy rolled his eyes.

“He’s just trying to scare you.”

Rick looked up at him. “Am not. I used to room with a half-imp back at our private school in New York. And I know this girl in California who is a completely cursed demon born to hunt down seven holy people.”

But Remy scoffed, shaking his head at him. His eyes were saying ‘nice try’ little wolf, but you are not going to succeed at this.

Ignoring him, Rick said, “But the demon who clawed me there was coming after a Chinese friend of mine in New York. He was a shapeshifter.”

“Your friend or the demon?” one man asked wryly.

“Both, actually,” Rick replied, raising his eyebrows. He then grabbed another crab puff, cramming it into his mouth.

“Nonsense,” one of them muttered.

“He’s full of it,” another chimed in.

“I think he’s cute,” one of the girls said, smiling at him. “You should have seen him. He was ripped.”

“What about that wound on your leg,” one of the girls asked him.

Rick mentally wondered which wound, quickly registering she was talking about the one he got when he first met Eve McAllsiter. “Oh, that…” He ate another crab puff.

“What was it?” she pried again.

Swallowing, he said, “Bullet wound.”

The people around him hushed. It was one thing him talking about demons and shape shifters. But bullets were another matter. They were irrefutably real. But Rick had not been lying about the demons he knew, or the shape shifter friend. Eve McAllister herself was the demon from California, and he liked her very much. He also knew she’d kill him if he ever got involved in some kind of wolf orgy. It was a great motivator for him to get out of there soon. And he was almost full on snacks.

“How?” one of the girls asked.

Rick rose, glancing to the window. It was nearly dark now. If he could get out there no one would see him sneak away. He said, “Doesn’t matter. I get shot at almost monthly, so it makes no difference. I got another one over here.” He pointed to his thigh.

He had intended to walk to the window for some air, but as he headed in that direction more people came into the room and jovially demanded to meet the guest of honor. Remy steered him toward a college-aged curly haired wolf who had just come in with a group of friends and a six pack of beers.

The newcomer looked like a wolf. The SRA would have easily pegged him as one, though he was physically in human form. It was his manner and silhouette—almost like he was bragging about his lineage. His leather vest was open. His hair was shaggy, and he had mutton chops. And for some reason he pulled it all off like a rock star. The man's smile was wide and glowing with perfect teeth.

While the new guy added the beer to the counter where the selection of drinks were being distributed, he took Rick’s hand into both of his, towering like a giant. Over the loud music, he welcomed Rick to Paris. He then closely pulled Rick aside with a lot more strength than was comfortable, and gestured to all the young she-wolves like pastries to be eaten. “You have your pick tonight, boy.”

The thunder of the music and the giggles of the girls who had been kissing up to him the entire afternoon was almost hypnotic as this wolf said this. But Rick raised his eyebrows at this man-wolf, as he realized all pretense was over. They were going to push him into it. So he said, “What if I’m gay?”

The man pulled back. He stared at Rick for a full second. After all, the French as a people weren’t against people being gay. But wolves who wanted reproduction to happen didn’t like that kind of thought.

“He’s not gay,” Remy said, leaning near. He shot Rick a dark look. “Stop playing around.”

Rick stared back at him. “I told you in the car, I’m not going along with it.”

“But why not?” the wolf in the leather vest asked, genuinely perplexed. His eyes raked over