And then he remembered the death of the only good part of him — and that pissed him the fuck off.
Suddenly realizing that he was dangerously close to becoming one of the pathetic lumps currently lining his cash register with their sorrows, he grabbed his basket of chips and hopped off the stool.
His fellow weres erupted into howls and cheers as someone, probably Woody, bagged a nasty shot. Rasmus normally liked the ruckus, but things grated at him a little worse this time of year. Feeling a headache building behind his left eye, he turned toward the poster-covered door to his office.
“Where’re you going?” Orren, a big redhaired bastard who’d joined their pack shortly after Rasmus, called out. Pointing his pool cue toward Rasmus, he challenged, “You owe me a rematch for last time, when youcheated.”
Lifting one tattooed hand in a mocking wave, Rasmus replied, “Some of us have actual work to do. And don’t blame me for your bad shot. It’s not my fault you play like you’ve never met basic fuckin’ physics before.”
Orren blew a raspberry his way and showed off one clawed middle finger. “Sounds like you’re running away to me!”
Scenting blood in the air, the rest of the weres joined in on the razzing. They stomped their feet, howled, and banged the ends of their pool cues on the table, all while demanding he face them for a game.
Normally he wouldn’t put up with that kind of shit. His wolfish pride wouldn’t let them think he’d been scared off from a challenge. Not to mention the fact that it was just some damn good fun. No one knew how to party like weres, because no one knew how important it was to take joy by the balls like they did.
But tonight he just couldn’t.
Rasmus turned his back on the rowdy crew of ex-criminals, forgotten soldiers, and men with cosmically bad luck. Waving his hand over his shoulder in a dismissive gesture that morphed into an obscene one, he slipped into his office.
It wasn’t nearly as nice as his office at home, but it was quiet. And quiet was what he needed.
Rasmus sank into the cheap rolling chair behind his cluttered desk with a heavy sigh. Dropping his basket of chips on top of a stack of papers that were probably important, he let his shoulders round.
He wanted to ignore the reason this year’s holiday was worse for him than it had been for decades. He thought he’d gotten awfully good at ignoring the memories of his captivity and the torture he’d been put through while the good doctor celebrated the holiday with his wife and assistant.
Not Josephine,he recalled, protectiveness for the submissive still fresh and mean after so many years.They treated her worse than a stray dog. Worse even than me.
He wanted to ignore the memories of that brutal winter when he lost his soul more than anything, and usually he was pretty good at it. But when he stared at the open letter on his desk, he knew it was hopeless.
It was good, heavy cardstock he’d had to slice open with a clawtip. The invitation within was one of those fancy vellum-covered things with gold foil over the ritzy scrollwork. It looked like a wedding invitation, maybe, though he couldn’t be too sure because he didn’t get invited to those.
But it wasn’t for a wedding. It wasn’t even for a funeral, which would’ve been preferable.
It was for a gala celebrating the opening of an exhibit at the Fairmont, sent by the director personally.
Rasmus’s throat constricted hard. His eyes smarted as he stared at the stupid thing.What a gift,he inwardly snarled.Can’t we all just fuckin’ move on?
A roar of laughter from the bar made him blink and look away. Scarred lips tightening, he carelessly swiped it into a haphazard pile of bills and junk mail, revealing an official-looking letter from the city he’d been ignoring.
Figuring he was already in a sour mood, Rasmus tore into it with far less care than he had the invitation.
Finding only a letter from the sovereign’s health board signed by Margot Goode herself notifying him and all relevant parties of new were-centered programs on the horizon, he rolled his eyes. They wanted his input and would he please, please contact the director of were outreach for a meeting? It was typical performative bullshit. The letter crumpled in his fist. Tossing it into the trash, he snatched another chip from the basket.
I may be a sad fuck, but I’m not a sucker. If they want to talk to me, they’ll have to do it in person.He snorted, chip crunching between his molars with a viscous bite.I’d like to see that director walk into this bar — but only if she’s brave enough.
The Amauri-Bowan Affair
For much of the world,the traditions of Burden’s Moon revolved, in some abstract form or another, around surviving the brutality of winter and the depths of darkness.
For vampires, it was a time of freedom.
When the days shortened and night ruled, vampires were untethered by the sun’s restrictions. Instead of bonfires and feasts — which they couldn’t enjoy anyway — they threw monthlong parties, took extravagant vacations, went snow camping, or simply enjoyed the perks of being able to stay up far past their usual limits.
Dahlia didn’t know what to make of it.
She understood that things would be different, and perhaps many of the traditions she’d grown up with wouldn’t translate to her new existence. She’d gotten used to the wild parties that always hit The Lush like a tidal wave around the holiday, and that was certainly different than what she was used to.
But it was one thing to know it and quite another to experience it.
