“Nothing. Only shifters can see it.”
“Cool.”
“Ready to go in?”
“I’m so ready for this, best mate ever.”
Chuckling, Slate opened the pub door and Dakota stepped inside. They were greeted by a cat shifter—so Dakota surmised—though he couldn’t determine just what kind of cat it was. Checking out the interior, he loved the relaxed vibes he felt; intimate, leather-cushioned booths lined the walls and well-worn, polished oaken tables and chairs were scattered throughout the rest of the pub. A fireplace blazed at one end; at the other a well-stocked bar beckoned. The low buzz of conversation stopped for a moment as everyone glanced their way, but soon resumed.
“Table or booth?” the cat shifter asked.
“A booth, please,” Slate answered.
With two menus in hand, the cat shifter led them over to a booth on the back wall, moving aside so Dakota and Slate could slide into it. Handing a menu to each, the cat shifter said, “Enjoy your meal. Your waiter will be here shortly to take your order.”
Dakota looked at the retreating cat shifter, then turned to Slate. “He’s a cat shifter, right?”
“Yeah, a cheetah. Not too many of them left because of their refusal to mate with any other kind of shifter.”
“Even a leopard?”
“Even them. Cat shifters by their nature are solitary individuals, shunning areas that are heavily populated, so it makes finding their Fated Mates very difficult. I attended a seminar a while back where a specialist from the High Council talked about the problems cat shifters had mating because of their need to be alone.”
“What was the conclusion?”
Slate grinned. “The conclusion was cheetah cat shifters had to fuck more if they were going to increase their numbers.”
Dakota rolled his eyes and said, “Jeez, even I know that and I didn’t spend years studying them. What good are specialists if they can’t come up with an answer better than that?”
“Maybe you should get a job with the High Council,” joked Slate, “I swear that was the only conclusion the so-called expert had to offer after boring us a whole fucking day. A total waste of my time.”
“I had classes like that,” recalled Dakota. “In one of them…history of the diet of shifters…the only thing I learned was how to staple my reports. This instructor wouldn’t allow us to submit them by email. So, on the first day of class, he held up a paper, I guess from the previous semester, and made a big deal of showing us exactly where the staple should go, you know, like up in the top left corner at a 45-degree angle. No shit!”
Before Dakota could continue, a voice said, “Hi there, I’m your waiter this evening. May I get you something to drink?”
Slate asked, “Babe, what would you like?”
“Whatever you’re having,” answered Dakota.
“What do you have on tap tonight?” Slate asked their waiter.
“Howler Dark Ale.”
“Bring us two glasses and a pitcher of it,” Slate said.
“Wait a minute,” said Dakota. “Considering my condition, I better not. Do you have Lavender Lemonade?” he asked.
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll have a glass of that.”
“Very good. Are you ready to order or do you need some more time?”
“Not yet, just bring the drinks,” Slate said.
“Sure, take your time. I’ll be right back with them.”
Dakota opened his menu. “I guess I should take a look at what they have. Any recommendations?”
