Unconventionally Wolf by Julie Steimle (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📕

“They should be that way,” Carl directed them, using the map.

As they tried to get around the crowds in the convention— first stopping off at the Canadian WeHowl booth, run by Wolf Awareness Inc. and signing what they needed to sign—they ran into a little snag. Rick smelled him first and pulled on Carl’s arm to stop. A hunter. It was not one of the other two hunters, but a guy in bulky, meaty proportions who had that Special Ops appearance about him—including green fatigue shorts, a shaved head, tee shirt, and sunglasses. His goatee was perfectly trimmed, and his face had a redness to it that was either caused by the sun or too many beers. He smelled of garlic and clove oil.

Rick sneezed, backing away.

“Maybe he is a dude who just likes Italian,” one of the bodyguards suggested.

Yet Carl and Tommy shook their heads. “I know him.”

They shared a look.

“You take Mr. Deacon around another way,” Carl said to Tommy. “We’ll hold him off.”

Tommy nodded. Hooking into Rick’s arm, he led him back the way they had come and through another aisle. Carl and the bodyguards stopped that other hunter from following.

“Who is that guy?” Rick looked back.

“Hunter,” Tommy muttered, urging them past a Greenpeace booth.

Barely rolling his eyes, Rick said, “I know that. Who?”

Sighing, Tommy kept his eyes on the area around them, rushing them along. “Real professionals. Have you ever heard of the McDillan family?”

Rick nodded. “I got hunted by one the day I met Eve McAllister.”

Tommy halted. “Eve? As in that demon?”

Nodding again, Rick said, “She saved my life. She knows another McDillan. Brian McDillan, I think. And I think he taught her History class.”

Tommy laughed. Shaking his head, he urged them past the NYU booths and into the next area. “Ok… Well, that one is their nephew or something. His name is Matthew Hague. None of the other McDillans got into the business, but their sister’s son is waaaaaay into it. Rumor has it he has killed his fair share of wolves.”

Rick cringed, wondering who and hoping it had been no one he knew.

“Excuse me!” someone called up toward Tommy and Rick. “Pardon me, Excuse me. You there. With the Indian feathers.”

Tommy lurched around at a halt, looking likely to give that person a piece of his mind. However, it was a pair of security officers for the convention. He and Rick watched them with surprise as they jogged up and went pointedly to Tommy.

“Sir, there has been a report that you brought an endangered animal to the convention,” the officer said.

Rick stared. “Who reported that?”

“It was seen flying across the hall, landed—according to the report—on his shoulder and then flew off the stage to you.” The guard stared at Tommy. “You do understand that bringing an endangered animal into a convention hall like this without a license is prohibited.”

Tommy laughed, astounded. “Do you see an eagle with me?”

They shook their heads.

“Trade in endangered animals is also illegal,” one of the security guards said.

“What?” Tommy stared.

“You have to come with us to the security office,” the guard said.

“You’re joking.” Tommy stared more, glancing back at Rick. “I did not bring an eagle to this convention.”

“One of the attendees claim they saw you handing a bald eagle over to someone else, and saw money exchange hands.”

“Well, they’re lying,” Tommy said.

“You need to come with us,” the security officer said. “Either by your own volition, or we will arrest you.”

Tommy stared at Rick who shrugged.

The guards led Tommy out.

Rick followed.

“Not you,” the guard said.

“But he’s my bodyguard,” Rick snapped.

Smirking the security guard replied, “I think you will be alright.”

Rick felt like biting him.

Unfortunately, he was now alone.

No guards. No protection. And though he had always lived more free, roaming as he pleased, for the first time he felt exposed.

What were his options? Only one. Go find Carl and his other guards. Hunters were after him, after all. And though it was a public place, he was not safe. In fact, as Rick hurried to get back to Carl, he realized that the entire thing with that McDillan connected hunter probably had been a set up to separate them. Divide and conquer.

And sure enough, he got his proof.

Across the huge convention hall he was in, he saw that nasty Van-Wolverine guy’s partner striding towards him. In his mouth was recognizable wooden whistle. His school used to use them to cheer on their basketball team at games as their mascot was the Timberwolf. Used to. But after the entire basketball team had been cursed to become their mascot for a few days (long story) the whistle had been banned as it drew the inner wolf out of them and made their hairs stand on end.

The hunter blew into it.

The whistle emitted a low convincing moaning sound not unlike a wolf howl. It sent the hairs up Rick’s arms on edge. Rick could feel they wanted to elongate. His entire body responded to that sound. It would force him into wolf shape, if it could.

But, sticking his fingers in his ears, Rick blocked it out. The wolf whistle, which used to be something funny to play with before he had his first transformation so many full moons ago, drew out the wolf in him now. It was an irresistible call. But becoming a wolf in the middle of a convention among normal folk would be the worst outcome for himself and Deacon Enterprises. After all, an SRA hunter could kill a wolf, but not a man. Those were SRA rules. And a wild wolf in a public 'save-nature' convention? Well, that was even better. They considered it poetic irony.

Rick ran from him, dodging around booths to get out of the hunter’s line of sight as soon as he could. Digging into his pockets, Rick tore out those earplugs, squishing them so he could block his ears as fast as possible.

The low howl changed pitches, reaching inside his ears, urging his ears to shift toward the top of his head. Rick hoped no one noticed as he forced them back into human position and got one plug in. Speed walking past a booth about global warming, and another from the Sierra Club, he got in the other one. It was enough to keep human in form. But the hunter, he saw from one peek behind, was still coming.

Rick dodged around another booth, accidentally bumping into a man.

“Watch it there,” the man said.

Recognizing his voice, Rick jumped back. It was James Peterson—just like in his nightmare.

Rick screamed. It just came out.

“Woah!” James held up his hands, surprised and dismayed at that response. “It’s only me.”

Grabbing his chest, realizing that of course stocky James Peterson, the living embodiment of Boy-Scouting was not hunting him, Rick breathed harder. Yet he looked back toward the hunter who was still after him. “Um…” Rick just pointed.

James looked over, blinked once at the approaching hunter who appeared hungry and snarling as he blew the wolf whistle again while realizing it was no longer having an effect. “Oh… I see. Hold on a minute.”

Only someone like James Peterson could just casually say to a werewolf being hunted, “Hold on a minute” as if he had all the time in the world to dispatch an enemy. Because, James was one of the Holy Seven.

Yet instead of taking out his green tinged sword as he would in most circumstances, or even the knife from Rick’s nightmare, James lifted a small red crystal out from under his shirt which was hanging on an improperly used bolo tie. Holding it in his hand, James’s eyes focused on the hunter—or rather the whistle in his mouth.

The whistle immediately combusted.

“Ahh!” The hunter dropped it. When the flaming thing hit the ground, he stamped it out on the carpet.

“Smoking,” James called out in a bored yet attentive voice. “That man was smoking a cigar on this floor.”

Several other cries and boos echoed around the hunter. And the people surrounded him, pointing at the damage while James led Rick out of the area while still able to watch the aftermath. Soon enough, security came and escorted the hunter out of the building despite his protest that he hadn’t been smoking. Unfortunately for him, the charred remains of the wood flute and the burned carpet was enough proof against him.

Once the hunter was gone, James turned and grinned at Rick.

“Why are you here?” Rick stared at him, amazed, relieved, and a bundle of other emotions swelling over him… the last one being concern as he still needed to meet with the Loup Garou and his time was running short. He had a panel he had to join in about a half an hour.

Shrugging off-handedly, James said, “I am writing an article representing our club for a school magazine. You know I’m still aiming to be a forest ranger.”

Rick nodded. He looked down the hall and began to think about his situation. James was definitely a bigger complication than Tommy Whitefeather. In fact, as he recalled, James was able to feel the presence of supernatural beings whenever they were nearby. It was part of being a member of the Seven. And thinking on that, a question rose in Rick's head.

Looking at James, he asked, “Did you know I was here?”

James handed him a conference program. He pointed at the list of participants in panels. It just said Howard Richard Deacon. No Second or Third listed. Rick frowned at it.

“We’re you following me?” Rick asked.

Chuckling, James’s friendly yet experienced eyes spoke volumes. It reminded Rick that James, in spirit, was somewhere in his sixties in age and an experienced knight who had lived in another world for a while. Rick didn’t quite understand the entire situation with the Seven, but next to them he felt so small and wet behind the ears.

Heaving a sigh, Rick reassessed what he had to do. He had to find the Loup Garou. But with hunters around, it was nearly impossible to get to them without causing them all trouble. And he didn’t want to lead the Seven to them either. So finally Rick decided to share a partial truth.

“James?” Rick said, “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” James replied. His gaze was honest and made Rick feel guilty. But he had to go through with it.

“Walk with me. I need a bodyguard for a minute,” Rick said.

James smiled. He then bowed like a knight. “Glad to be of service.”

Then Rick brought up the topic of conversation. “Um, the thing is… Dad sent me to make deals with certain people around the convention, and there is a group of… supernaturally connected beings I must meet with. Can you feel… you know, how many such kind of people are around here?”

Nodding knowingly to himself, James drew in a breath and replied, “There is a fair number of supernatural influences around this place. I sensed you with someone—”

“Tommy Whitefeather,” Rick said.

“Oh!” James brightened up. “Tommy is with you?

Rick nodded as they walked once more past the NYU booth where Audry was watching them. Her eyes raked over James with a degree of confusion, as Rick was not with his usual guards and James was dressed in khaki pants and a BSA tee shirt, looking about as All-American as any boy who had gotten his Eagle in scouting. Perhaps she thought Rick would have regarded James as below him. Rick got chills and steered James away so he could not see.

“Tommy got… I don’t know… finked on about an eagle being in the building,” Rick muttered.

“Tommy Whitefeather brought an eagle into the building?” James exclaimed with blinking stared.

Shaking his head, Rick snickered. “No. He was the eagle. He was…” Rick cringed. “…taking care of a mess for me—dang it…”

James stared. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that…” Rick sighed. “He got finked on by a hunter, who of course lied about Tommy owning an eagle so they could get him away from me.”

“Oh.” James shrugged.

Cringing, feeling again that it was