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

“Someone claims that you were seen with a satanic cult involved in animal sacrifice. Care to respond?”

“Mr. Deacon! People are saying they saw you come out of rehab and you are currently shooting crack. Is this rumor true?”

“Rumor has it that the Deacon family are werewolves,” a near man called out, his voice in a leer. Carl forcibly put himself between them, making eye contact so Rick didn’t have to.

“Rumor has it your mother went insane and ran away from you and your father almost five years ago this week. And she had escaped from the asylum where your grandparents had institutionalized her. Is it true you still don’t know where she is?”

Halting, Rick stiffened.

“No, no, no…” Carl whispered, worry in his voice. “Keep going. Ignore him.”

But the man called out, “Can we get your input on that?”

“Just go, sir. Just go,” Carl whispered to him.

Yet Rick turned. His chin was up as he said, pointing, “All that other crap I can take, but that one was cold.”

He then turned and marched on.

“Ooooooo.” The crowd behind him ate it up. And they got their picture.

Chapter Three

Once they finally steered Rick beyond the questioners and taken to a place where he could rest without being surrounded, Carl heaved a sigh, shaking his head.

“You couldn’t resist,” Carl muttered.

Rick stared wordlessly at the ground. All the things they had shouted out had bothered him, but that last one had stabbed him straight to the heart.

“Honestly, I think he went up in everyone’s estimation,” one of the bodyguards said.

Carl shot him a look.

“It shows he’s not a cold monster,” the man explained.

Lifting his eyes, Rick looked to that guard who was smiling.

“I mean honestly, going at a guy like that,” the guard muttered. “You never attack a guy’s mother.”

“All the same,” Carl snapped while getting Rick a bottled water. “He has to learn that come-backs are not only unprofessional, but also counterproductive. He needs to earn respect. Not be the quickest person with a zinger.”

“I get it,” Rick moaned as he opened the water bottle and took a sip. “My lips are sealed unless I am in a space acting in the capacity to speak for the company.”

Carl nodded to him. “That’s right.”

But the two bodyguards exchanged looks. They seemed sad for Rick, whom they knew had an overwhelming amount of angst concerning his mother. After all, the divorce had happened due to his first transformation into a wolf. And though his father had lied to him and his mother, keeping his condition as a werewolf a secret, his mother had rejected them both. And she had loved Rick so much before his transformation. But he had unintentionally terrified her and that was the end.

“Alright,” Carl said after a while. “We need to start into the schedule. We are only here for the day. And though we are to be his escorts, we also need to give him space so he can get his work done around the convention center. Now, Mr. Deacon, we have a list of people we need to visit. They will have booths around the convention halls on this floor. Let’s look at the map and chart to see where you want to go first.”

Nodding, taking the map, Rick examined it. The floorplan showed the convention taking up the entire third level of the Javits Convention Center in New York City. That was four different exhibition halls of varying shapes and sizes. He then scanned his list of people and associations he needed to make contact with. Taking a pen and poring over the map, he searched for their names on the map, underlining them. Then he marked the map.

“Methodical,” Carl murmured. “Good. It will make things more predictable for us.”

“And for hunters,” another guard murmured.

Rick glance to him, realizing his guard was aware of his family secret. It made it a little easier. But then Rick also added another location not on his father’s list. “We need to go here first.”

The men stared at it then looked to Rick, confused.

“Why?” Carl asked.

Shrugging, Rick said, “On our drive to the hotel, I asked a gifted friend to come help out while I was at the convention, and he said he’d show up at this booth.”

They stared more at it, wondering why that particular booth, as it wasn’t even wolf related. It was the Diné CARE (Navajo environmentalist group) booth. Their major concerns were entirely reservation based. And though the Deacons had different relationships with the various indigenous tribes across the country, they never got involved in any internal reservation disputes. It was not their territory, Mr. Deacon said. And Rick usually agreed.

“Just trust me,” Rick said and smiled.

They weaved their way through the crowds toward the booth where the Navajos were most likely fundraising for their cause as well as passing out information about the four corners area of the west. It took a bit to get there. Mostly, they had to dodge people who saw Rick Deacon as a threat (as he was one of the 1%) rather than seeing him as a human being supporting good causes. Carl and his guards had to field off a number of people who even called him a Nazi simply for being rich and white.

And then came the hunters.

Hunters, real monster hunters, were rather identifiable. Most monster hunters dressed a little steampunkish, if not downright militaristically Goth if they were not connected to the FBI, CIA, or the like. There were a few who did not fall into this cliché, but most monster hunters usually liked leather, wore long coats that could hide their weaponry, and they smelled of things like clove oil, garlic, and that dreaded wolfsbane. Only two of those odors made Rick sneeze, but that was enough.

“Hu—choo!” Rick halted, rubbing his nose. He looked up and saw a man who reminded him of Hugh Jackman, only it was like the actor was mixing his character as the Wolverine and Van Helsing into one. “Aw man…”

Not only was it a hunter, but Rick knew the guy. And worse, his partner had been killed in Alabama that last summer. This hunter’s eyes were on Rick much more savagely than usual. Usually he was arrogant and mocking. But today he looked likely to kill Rick in a public place and not care. With him there was a burly, stocky hunter guy who actually was wearing steampunk goggles on his head.

“I think you are at the wrong convention,” Rick said as he tried to pass by.

But the Van-Wolverine guy stepped in his way, puffing up his chest and peering down his nose at Rick. His jaw was clenched. “I know it was you.”

Rick blinked up at him, then sneezed.

Carl pushed between them. “If you have a question or a complaint you can go online or voice it at our customer service center.

The Van-Wolverine guy shook his head. “They never take my complaints.” He then said over Carl’s head. “I know you did it. I know it was you.”

Ignoring him, Rick covered his nose and continued along. His guards kept themselves in between him and the hunters so the hunters could not touch Rick.

“He went after you that full moon,” the man’s voice rose, drawing attention. “And he never came back.”

Rick did not answer. He kept going.

The hunter didn’t exactly follow, but he did not leave them alone either. His voice rose to a shout. “You killed him! You ate him!”

Several people stared this time—mostly at the hunter, but also at Rick who appeared harangued. He also looked a little guilty.

“And I’m gonna prove it!” Spit flew from that hunter’s mouth. Manic sweat formed on his upper lip and forehead. Thankfully, his convention buddy pulled him away.

Once his group had completely passed, Rick shook his head.

Carl didn’t ask anything. It wasn’t his business. And the other guards didn’t even share looks. It was part and parcel to being bodyguards to werewolves. Rick had a feeling his father had been accused of worse. Thing was, that hunter’s friend would not have died in Alabama if he hadn’t followed Rick to Wolverton in the first place. And though that pack did not eat the man, they most certainly killed him.

It was self-defense. The hunter was firing into the crowd at the bonfire and had wounded several wolves, though he had been aiming at Rick. But Rick still blamed himself for the hunter’s death as well as leading the hunter to that pack on accident. Tragedy just followed him everywhere.

Eventually they reached the Diné CARE booth. Sure enough, they were selling a variety of Navajo trinkets along with CDs of music and other merchandise while also passing out pamphlets addressing their current environmental preservation projects. Standing with them was a formidable Navajo man in his thirties who was in jeans, with long hair, a bandana across his forehead, and a black crow’s feather hanging from his hair. His eyes were shining, and his smile spread as they came up their booth especially looking fondly on Rick.

“Rick Deacon,” the man said. “I see you made it through the gauntlet in one piece. The fans didn’t tear up your fancy suit.”

Laughing, Rick shook his head. “No. My men here would not let them get close enough, and apparently this suit is a work of art. I’m thinking Picasso.”

The Navajo man snickered.

Carl and the other two guards stared up at the Navajo with wide eyes, as he was tall and looked a great deal like one of those clichéd eagle-nosed men from movies, including his turquoise and bear claw necklace and bowie knife at his hip. The fact that security let him into the convention with it was startling.

“I have a license to carry,” the man explained, as if reading their minds. 

Carl stared more.

“I’m sorry,” Rick said, blushing. “This is Thomas Whitefeather—better known as Tommy Whitefeather. To sum up: he is good friend of my friend Michael Toms…” which drew in breaths, “…a member of the SRA…” which drew in more breaths. “…and a spirit warrior.” That part received confusion. Carl and the other two guards shared looks.

Leaning in, Tommy explained, “That means I am a shapeshifter.”

Carl’s eyes widened on him. Then he looked to Rick who nodded.

“He also is a Gulinger alumnus,” Rick added.

“Oh….” All three men nodded, relaxing.

Tommy grinned.

Apparently (one thing Rick had learned) people who were in the know about the supernatural world understood that most people who graduated from Gulinger Private Academy were decent folk and under the protection of Mr. Deacon, his father.

“So, how can you help?” Carl asked, just to make sure.

Grinning, Tommy nodded to him and said, “As a member of the SRA, I also know their rules. I can keep hunters in check.”

Rick nodded.

“But also,” Tommy added, “I can interfere if they go too far.”

One of the guards stepped up and said, “I’d hate to be rude, but why are you, an SRA hunter, helping a Deacon. You know their family is on the top of the SRA wanted dead list.”

Tommy heaved a sigh, nodding. “Yeah. I know. But, uh, I follow the Seven. And he has been cleared by the Seven and is under their protection. To me, that matters