“Bonnie is due to go into heat in a few days. She’s aptly named, don’t you think? A right fine hen she is. Are you listening, Arran?” Gerard asked as he scrolled through his smart phone.
“So, what? It’s no business of mine, Gerard,” Arran replied.
If only smart phones had smart users, he thought to himself. As it were, Gerard could not have demonstrated his stupidity more brilliantly than bringing up that foul female in Arran’s presence.
It was the same dang argument they’d been having for weeks now. Arran was bored to tears with it, and yet, he could not order the Alpha out of his cottage.
Gritting his teeth, Arran waited for him to finish, hands clapped behind his back. The Alpha growled and turned his brutish head in his direction. Great. That was all he needed.
“Not your business! Are you mad, Arran? It is yer duty to breed this season. How will you secure yer place in the Herd if you dinnae do yer job!” Gerard bellowed, his brogue thickening with every syllable.
“I know my duties, Gerard,” Arran replied in an even tone. He might be a Bull by nature, but he refused to act the part of rutting male for his Alpha.
“Arran—”
“No. Look, Gerard, this whole thing is bloody medieval. Isn’t it time for the Herd to move into the 21st century?” Arran asked, exasperated by the whole conversation.
It was an affront to everything he believed in about individualism and the right to choose his own path. Not to mention the fact, his cousin was a right bawbag bringing up Bonnie to him!
Gerard knew how Arran felt about the female. There was a time when news of her impending heat would have driven him wild. Now all he felt was indifferent.
“I know you two have a past.”
“Oh, do you ken?” Arran replied, crossing his arms at his chest.
Yes, they had a past. He’d courted Bonnie through university when he was young and still foolish enough to think true love existed. She was everything he thought he had ever wanted in a mate.
Bonnie was a local Cow, from a good family, too.
“She has the right lineage, Arran. You two will make right strong calves for the Herd—”
“Och, feck off, Gerard,” he replied without heat.
Yeah, she was a good genealogical match. But that was not enough. He’d wasted years dating the woman, trying everything he could to convince her to be his. But it was not enough. In the end, Bonnie had refused his claim.
“How could you ask me to overlook the past? The way she ended our relationship?” he asked, aghast.
The memory still stung after all these years. Bonnie had not just left him, she’d called him weak in public. The female had told him in no uncertain terms he was not good enough for a prime Cow like herself.
“You’re a fine bloke for a bit of play, but you toil all day with books. This is a farming Herd. We need strong-armed young. What kind of calves will you breed then? I’m sorry, but I need a dominant male for mating, Arran. It’s just not you.”
Her words ran through his brain like bold black ink on white paper. The fact he was a writer, earning his living by publishing fiction under the name A. Balloch, had been unattractive to her when he’d started. Of course, that was before the money started rolling in.
Now, the traitorous woman had chosen him to breed her for the Herd’s sake. As if he would stoop so low. He growled deep in his throat and adjusted his tie.
“The answer is no, Gerard.”
“Arran, don’t make me order you—”
“You can try, cousin.”
Arran had no desire to challenge the male for Alpha, but he’d be damned if the male ordered him to perform like some hired stud. He might be cousin to the Alpha male of the Highland Herd, but he preferred his solitude. Arran would nae be forced to fornicate with a female just because his cousin said.
Absolutely naw.
His Bull pawed at the ground, huffing, and snorting inside the metaphysical plane where his creature waited to be let out. Herd politics aside, Arran always felt at home in his hide.
He’d not had the problems with adjusting to his animal side the way some did. Having more than a few Bulls in a Herd was no easy feat. With their animal sides always vying for dominance, it was a damn strong male who could adhere to society’s rules instead of simply fighting and rutting all damn day.
Not that he’d get any credit for it from the rest of them. Luck had nothing to do with it. Arran was not lucky, he’d simply been blessed with his monster’s intellect and a hefty side of his father’s brawn.
Bull, that’s what he called his animal, was a beast. There was no denying that. But like his human half, his animal preferred to temper his instincts with logic.
“Maybe you're off pussy pie. Lost yer taste for it, eh? Cravin’ a bit of the ol' sausage? Is that it then?” Gerard countered, and fuck if his bigotry wasn’t showing again. Arran huffed out a bored sigh.
“Cousin, I can’t imagine how unbelievably ignorant and intolerant a person would have to be to spout misogynistic, homophobic shite like that in this day and age, but shame on you,” Arran replied, adding some growl to his voice.
In his opinion, everyone had the choice to love and to be loved. If a person was lucky enough to find a connection, nothing else mattered. Not race, sex, creed, Clan, Pack, Herd, or supernatural subspecies.
Love was love.
But he was not about to waste his breath getting into that debate with his nutter of a cousin. He wondered if somewhere along the evolutionary process nature had not messed up by deciding Alphas by brawn rather than brain.
Quite likely, actually.
“Arran, dammit, Bonnie has made a choice—”
“Aye, and I have made mine. The answer is no. What will it take to get you to understand I won't be forced to mount her, or any Cow, just because you say so?”
“I command you—”
“Och, feck off, Gerard. And for the record, if I were homosexual, I’d proudly make the announcement. Sadly, I am not.”
“Arran, you are being unreasonable!”
“You think I am being unreasonable? Ha! What you’re demanding amounts to no less than prostitution, and I'll not do it. Herd traditions be damned.”
“Feck, Arran, yer still a wee shite! Er, so, just for the record, you still like pussy pie then? Right?” Gerard asked, his face wearing that same confused frown he always wore when they were calves.
Stupid oaf.
“Off with ya now,” he muttered.
“I can force you, Arran. Ya ken?”
“You might try, cousin, but I’ll leave the Herd before I turn stud for the likes of you,” Arran replied coolly.
The Alpha snorted, grabbing his hat, and crushing it in his ham-sized fist. Gerard’s displeasure echoed in the hallway as he took his leave. Arran was not happy either. What man would be?
He’d long since given up on the dream of finding a mate, settling down to an easy life like his parents had. Arran would be damned if he would father a calf just because Gerard, his idiot Alpha, said so. He still remembered a time when his cousin would eat marbles on a dare.
Och, for feck’s sake!
Still, he knew his cousin would press the matter, and Arran needed something firm to hit back with. Herd law had to have some sort of addendum backing his refusal to take part in what amounted to forced prostitution in his eyes, and bugger all, he’d find it or go blind trying.
He checked his pockets, making sure he had his nifty readers and mobile. He grabbed a notebook and a pen, and his car keys from the hook on the wall. Arran had work to do, and he knew just the place to do it.
Wulver & Dracos Booksellers was housed in one of the oldest buildings in all of Edinburgh. Well known in both human and supernatural circles, they were positively famous for their unparalleled collection of occult works. Normals sure loved a good folk tale!
The Draco Clan had died out in the 16th Century, but the Wulvers were still about now. They owned the place, keeping their long since deceased partner’s name on the shingle.
A Wulver had stayed in Edinburgh to run the business since as far back as Arran knew, but he admittedly had little to do with the current proprietor, Faola Wulver. She was an elderly woman, er, Wolf Shifter, truth be told. But then the Wulver lot were not like other Wolves.
They did not run with a Pack, but rather, they kept to themselves. A close-knit, albeit strange, family of Wolves. Faola had to be ninety if she were a day, with a halo of white hair about her smooth face. Shifters aged much slower than normals.
Arran dinnae think she ken who Arran was, a writer he meant, of course. Her Wolfish senses would have picked up on his dual nature. Bulls were prey to Wolves in the wild, but Bull Shifters were another matter.
Besides, they dinnae eat one another anymore. Unless it was mutually consensual, of course, but Arran was not thinking about that kind of eating. Gah! What was wrong with him? A visit from his moronic cousin and he could not get his mind out of the gutter.
Yes, Wulver & Dracos would be just the place to research Herd law. Only thing was he had to watch out for the normals that always seemed out and about. To them, it was an eclectic old shop full of stuff and nonsense.
To folk like him, the store was a veritable treasure trove, housing some of the rarest and most unique bits of the supernatural world’s legacy and past. Gerard had surprised him today, and he knew his cousin and Alpha would press the matter further.
It was tradition, after all, and while he did not like scoffing at their ways, Arran could not partake in this, this travesty. He needed to arm himself with knowledge, then he would be ready for their next encounter.
Pay attention to the clerk when you get there, he reminded himself.
It was against the laws of their kind to tell humans about the supernatural world. Some knew, of course, but it was nae up to Arran to reveal such things. For all the normal cashier at Wulver & Dracos knew, Arran was merely a fiction author on the hunt for some fodder for his next book.
Why in the world Faola Wulver hired humans, of all people, to run her shop was beyond Arran. But who was he to tell the female how to do things?
Dinnae matter. Hours roaming through the vast selection of books available at the world famous store were just what he needed. A day among the stacks, so Arran could feel more like himself.
It was the perfect chance to get away from the Herd and his cousin’s bellyaching about the upcoming breeding season. Just what Arran needed.
He had his own problems to contend with, after all. His publisher was on him to get a jump on his next book. The woman was constantly wanting more, even though he was always ahead of schedule. But he could handle that part of his life. Writing was not the issue.
Gerard’s words echoed in his brain, and Arran frowned. Numbers were down for supernaturals in this part of the world. But why that should mean Arran had to give up the freedom to choose his own mate, he dinnae ken. And he wouldn’t.
It was really that simple.