Dying Bites: Book 1 by D.D. Barant

Author:D.D. Barant [Barant, D.D.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Urban Fantasy
ISBN: 9780312942588
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2009-06-30T05:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

Dr. Pete picks me up at eleven in a white minivan. It occurs to me that I don’t even know if he’s married; thropes don’t wear rings, for obvious reasons. I take a quick look in the back as I’m getting in, and notice a definite absence of toys, fast-food wrappers, and car seats. Not definitive, but indicative.

“Morning,” Dr. Pete says. He’s dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, and loafers. I’m wearing an oversize blue sweatshirt, track pants, and sneakers; on my days off I like to go for comfort over style.

“Morning. Where are we headed?”

“The depths of suburbia,” he says with a grin. “Bellevue, to be exact.”

“Where I come from, that’s not only a suburb but the name of a famous mental hospital.”

“From what I understand of the term,” he says as he pulls into traffic, “that’s a pretty fair description of what you’re about to experience.”

He fills me in as we drive. I can’t really keep track of all the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews, but I try to remember the major players. The sheer size of his family answers the age-old question of what you get when you cross a Catholic with a werewolf: a small country.

He also gives me the rundown on the difference between a thrope’s family and his pack, which is not always the same thing. You’re born into your family, which is also your pack until you come of age. Then you can choose to join another pack—based on profession or lifestyle, usually—or can marry into one. If you don’t want to choose right away, you can be an independent until you make up your mind.

“Not too many lone wolves, though,” Dr. Pete says. “Most thropes choose a pack, sooner or later.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they don’t. There’s no penalty—not an official one, anyway.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Certain doors simply wouldn’t open to a loner; certain invitations wouldn’t be offered.

That’s how it is on any world.

Dr. Pete, it turns out, isn’t married—the only one of his seven brothers and six sisters who isn’t. He is, however, the favorite uncle of many of his nieces and nephews. “Which is a mixed blessing,” he admits. “I love all of them dearly—well, most of them—but sometimes when I visit it’s a little overwhelming.”

“I see. You’re just bringing me along as cannon fodder?”

He gives me a puzzled look.

“An expendable hostage. Human shield. Sacrificial decoy.”

“Oh. Yes.”

I laugh. “Well, this should be interesting. . . .”

His parents live in a big house in the south end of the city. There’s what appears to be a thrope riot going on in the front yard; when we pull up, it transforms into a furry tidal wave that surges against the minivan with a crash.

“Watch the paint!” Dr. Pete hollers. “No claws! No claws!”

The thropes surrounding us are in permutations from wolf cub to humanoid, sporting many different colors of fur: blond, brunette, redhead, pure white or glossy black and every shade between. Some are cute, some are terrifying—in other words, children.

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