All Hallow's Howl

All Hallows’ Howl © Cait Forester 2015.

Amazon Kindle Edition.

Edited by Stonebound Books.

Cover design by Resplendent Media.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.

This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.

First
LoveLight Press
electronic publication: September 2015.

http://lovelightpress.com

All Hallows’ Howl is set in the United States of America, and as such uses American English throughout.

1 - One

Dylan is in the kitchen. He's barefoot and smiling, tapping one foot on the floor in beat to the music coming from the stereo. He made a deal with his father, Nash, long ago - that he'd do the cooking as long as his dad did the cleaning - and he tries to knock most of it out on one day so that he doesn't have to slave over a stove every night. Not that he minds it; there's something relaxing about chopping and stirring and creating something amazing with his hands, but some weeks he gets a little more caught up in his work than others. When that happens, cooking just seems like such a waste of time.

He's just lifting a spoon so that he can taste the stew he's had simmering when the music changes over to some bluesy jazz that his father bought a long time ago, well before the plague hit. Dylan likes to give him crap about it, but secretly he loves it, and when the singer belts out the first verse he's got the spoon held up like a microphone, singing, "My daddy, he gets hi-i-igh, but he takes care of bizz-ness!"

The sound of the backdoor opening startles him. He drops the spoon, the wood hitting the floor with a dull clunk, and he reaches down casually to retrieve it and toss it in the sink. "Hey dad!" he calls out. "You want the stew or the casserole tonight?"

There's a pause, but Dylan doesn't think much of it. When his father comes back with, "Casserole!" he just nods to himself and pulls out plates.

"Five minutes!" he says, and takes the spoonful of stew that he'd been angling for before. A quick sprinkle of thyme and he takes it off the burner to sit and cool while they eat.

The music cuts off abruptly, and he creases his forehead. "Dad?"

"I'm - I'm fine, son," comes the muffled reply from the living room, and Dylan peeks around the corner to see his father sitting slumped forward on the couch, his head in his hands.

"What's wrong?" Dylan asks, and when his father looks up, his eyes are defeated and sad.

"Come sit down," Nash says, and Dylan sits down obligingly in the oversized blue recliner that sits across from the sofa.

"Dad?"

"It's a Decree, son," Nash says, and Dylan's blood runs cold.

"The one that..." He takes in a breath. "Well, we knew it was coming," he says bravely, and tries to hide his reaction.

Six years ago, the humans tried to kill them.

Not just them - all the weres.  The humans had only found out about the shifter community around the end of the second world war, and it went about as well as could be expected. There was a lot of prejudice against shifters, and it ended up with a couple of scientists who ought to have been in the loony bin releasing a plague that was supposed to rid the world of weres once and for all.

That was the intention, anyway. In reality, they released a pathogen that decimated their own human population. Not that it
didn't
hurt weres - those with recent human ancestry were particularly affected, and his mother would still be alive if it wasn't for the ‘good’ doctors Keyes and Ulrich, may their souls
not
find peace - but they were okay.

They recovered, and they were okay.

Until they realized that the birth rates were falling off a cliff.

"How bad is it?" Dylan asks.

"Mating run," his father says quietly, and Dylan takes in a sharp breath. “At Samhain.”

"Those motherfuckers," he whispers quietly.

Shifter communities across the world are taking up the task of finding solutions for their declining fertility. Unfortunately, instead of relying on science, many of them are reinstating the old ways - turning rituals that have long since been ceremonial into reality.

For Dylan, this means that instead of finding a mate on his own terms, he's going to have to put up with some archaic bullshit from a time when omegas were considered less-than - not that they're really held all that equal even today - and quite literally run until some alpha chases him down and force mates him. If he makes it to the other side of the grounds the Run is held on, he buys himself a reprieve.

Until the next bit of bullshit comes along, anyway. And with the current pack Alpha of the Carolinas a dictatorial imbecile, he's certain that the next bit of bullshit won't be long in coming.

"I - I need to go. The oven. Casserole," Dylan babbles, and his father looks like he wants to make him stay and talk about it, or hug it out, or something - but Dylan just can't. He's been ducking creeper Alphas for years now, and he knows what a mating run means for him. Just the thought of one of those lechers getting their knots inside him makes him want to vomit, and he retreats to the kitchen on shaking legs.

Get it together
, he thinks to himself.
There's still time to get out of this.
But his knuckles are white where he's holding on to the countertops, and his teeth are gritting together so hard they hurt.

*

The dog days of summer are upon them. It's already early September; the mornings are beginning to get cooler while the heat and humidity still stretches out into the evenings, sort of. It won't be long until the crisp air of fall takes over entirely, but until that happens, Dylan and his friends are taking advantage of the remainder of the summer heat in order to buy out the frozen yogurt shop.

The conversation swirls on around him as they sit in the lime-green plastic chairs. The group is large enough to push two of the tiny round tables next to each other - Dylan sits facing Hannah and Eric, an alpha and omega bonded couple. Jewel, a beta, sits at the second table along with Ivan, an alpha, and his beta mate Rusty.

Hannah reaches across to him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm sorry, Dylan," she says. "I know how scared you've got to be."

He squeezes back, but he can't look at her yet. He looks at the huge pile of yogurt in front of him instead - it's drenched in hot fudge sauce and marshmallow crème and sprinkles and graham cracker crumbs. Focusing on the way the sprinkles don't make any sort of a pattern at all helps him to retain control over the surge of anger he feels when she speaks.

He gets it, he does. She just wants to help. But she doesn’t understand. "No, you don't,” he says, and looks up at her. His words aren't harsh or accusing; he's merely stating the facts. His eyes slide over to Eric. "You can't know, Hannah," he says. "You've got Eric, and he's good to you. You're happy. You love each other. You might have been a little apprehensive before you mated about who you would choose, but this is something so…" he sighs. "This is something
so
fucking different. I could be stuck with someone for life.”

Sometimes he forgets that Hannah didn't grow up in the Carolinas. Her old pack was a lot more progressive. His friends are, too - but there are some old ideas at play about what a pack ought to be, and unfortunately what some people think omegas ought to be is just a step up from a slave.

"Aren't there any loopholes?" Jewel asks. She's smart enough to know that the only reason Betas aren't being targeted yet is because they've historically always had lower fertility rates than Omegas. Depending on how the next few years go, she could be subject to a similar Decree, and she doesn't like it one bit.

Dylan shakes his head. "I've read the thing backwards and forwards," he says. "I'm not disabled or mentally deficient. I could choose exile, but how far would that get me without any of you or Dad? I don't have a preexisting fertility problem, and I'm not younger than eighteen or older than forty. The only possible way out would be a prior claim, and we all know that's not going to happen."

"Hey," Ivan says, and lays a hand on his shoulder. "There's still time. We can try to find you someone before the run. It might not be ideal, but better than - " He breaks off abruptly and scowls at the doorway.

Dylan turns to look and suppresses a groan. He doesn't want to give the man coming into the shop the satisfaction of hearing him complain about him, so he stares moodily at his cup of yogurt and shoves a spoonful in his mouth.

"Now, now," Warren says as he comes up behind him. "That isn’t very good table manners, is it?"

"Piss off," Dylan says.

"You should learn to respect your betters," Warren snaps at him, but Dylan refuses to turn to look at him.

Please let him just get something and go.

Ivan squeezes his shoulder comfortingly and reaches back to Rusty, his mate. Dylan hates that he has to take the focus here; he knows that Rusty doesn't deserve his mate having to step in to protect someone else, but he can't help but be glad for the warmth of Ivan's hand where it lies reassuringly against his shoulder.

As Warren walks off to the dispensing machines, Dylan exhales a quiet breath.

That man is a menace. He's also the pack Alpha's uncle. Dylan's not sure when he started noticing the considering glances the man gave him, but he knows it was before his first heat, and the thought of
that
makes his skin crawl. The man has already tried to purchase him from his father once, in accordance to the old traditions, and Dylan's more than a little skeeved out any time he gets within a football field's length of him.

And Warren isn't the only one.

The conversation moves slowly while Warren is in the shop; werewolf ears pick up far more than the common human, and even though it is only polite to tune out others’ conversations, it's not something you can count on when you're dealing with someone who, if they were under human law, might already have been to jail for stalking.

Jewel provides a distraction, the forced cheer in her voice abnormally high-pitched as she starts to gush about the Halloween costume her sister was planning to make for her daughter. "It's to be period-correct," she says. "Maya wants a corset with boning and hoops and petticoats and I'm not even sure I know of all the words. We weren't like this when we were twelve, were we? She's our little history nerd," she finishes, and the fondness in her voice isn't faked.

Warren is checking out.
Good
.

Except he still has to walk right past them on the way out (
please let him just walk out,
Dylan thinks) and they should have known he wouldn't just leave without some sort of parting shot.

Dylan can feel it when Warren stops just behind him, his scent suffocating when he's this close. "You've heard about our little Carolina Mating Run, then?" Warren asks, cheerful, and Dylan doesn't turn around. "Just a month and a half and you'll be mine, pretty," the older man says, and out of the corner of his eye Dylan sees Ivan reaching toward him.

"You shouldn't touch what doesn't belong to you," Ivan growls out, and Dylan twists enough to see Ivan's fingers closed around Warren's wrist, stopping him before he got his greasy hand on Dylan's hair.

Warren yanks his arm back. "And you should be careful where you put your hand, pup," he snarls, and offers a pointed look to Rusty. "Especially for an Omega who doesn't belong to
you
."

Ivan doesn't bother looking away, keeping his glare focused on Warren's face, but Dylan peeks at Rusty from the corner of his eye. His friend looks murderous, but it's all directed at Warren, and Dylan feels a surge of affection overriding the hunted feeling brought on by Warren's presence.

"Leave me alone," he speaks up, and scoots out his chair forcefully. It causes Warren to step backward, and Dylan hides a smile when the older man turns to leave.

His rank really doesn't matter all that much in the middle of an ice cream shop.

*

Dylan steps out of the shower and wipes himself down with the towel. Once he has it secured around his waist, he wipes the condensation from the mirror with his fist and braces his two hands against the countertop of the bathroom vanity.

His image is hazy, but clearing, and he winces at it.

He's not stupid. He knows rowdy alphas make jokes about his cock-sucking lips and big green eyes. He knows he's attractive because no one will let him forget it, and damn if he doesn't wish he was just mediocre.

Maybe then he wouldn't have to deal with creepy old lechers who wanted to keep him barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. It's not just Warren, even though he's probably the loudest. Being related to the pack Alpha gives him some sort of sense of superiority.

But, realistically, he won't be able to catch Dylan on the run. He's more afraid of the Atchison brothers, Grady and Seth. They're just as entitled as Warren is, walking around thinking they're big and tough just because they were born with a knot on their dicks. But the truth is that they
are
big and tough. Not to mention predatory, cool under pressure, and fast.

And they like to share.

He turns away from the mirror with a huff.

Okay, maybe his looks aren't the only thing that make him an attractive mate. He's pretty sure that the Atchisons are motivated just as equally by political power. The current Alpha – Warren’s nephew Lysander - may hold the rank and title, but he doesn't carry the bloodline, and Dylan does. He's a good pawn.

He slips into his room and rummages through his drawers for something to wear. He can't afford to spend time woolgathering.

There's a way out of this mess, and he's going to find it.