+. sorry, we're dead.

[i_sing_anyway]

A little something werewolfy whipped up for Connor in honor of her arrival on this earth -- hope you enjoy, bebekins! Take this as a trio of vignettes loosely centered around the Sorry, We're Dead universe.





Humans made a crucial mistake when it came to weres: they thought of them as humans who just got hairier once a month. They assumed they were violent and savage, because wouldn't any human with fangs and claws use them as often as possible?

But weres weren't humans, for all that they wore their clothes and spoke their tongues. And they weren't animals, either. They were a wholly separate species that was an impossible chimera of the two. They moved through both worlds and yet were also apart from them, never fully accepted in either.

When Virgil thought too hard on this, he gave himself a headache.

Taking firm hold of the ornate brass knocker, he rapped it sharply against the lacquered wood. After a short pause the heavy door swung open, revealing a slim man with dark hair combed back from a smooth forehead. His beard and mustache were exactingly trimmed. He had the athletic build of a dancer and moved with a similar grace, his fitted clothing exquisitely tailored and distinctly Russian. "Yes? How may I help you?" he asked, accent confirming his nationality.

Virgil's nose confirmed the rest; he had no doubt the man knew just as much from his. "My name is Virgil Meriweather," he said, offering a business card and mentally smoothing his internal hackles, raised by an unconscious reaction to the man's scent. "I was hoping to speak to Nadia Petrova."

"May I ask what this is about?" the man said calmly.

"Nothing that will affect your pack," Virgil assured. "This is about Mother Mason and her coven."

"Very well. Please follow me."

He was led into a library that would've been right at home in the Kremlin, full of illuminated leather-bound books and delicate hand-painted figurines in glass cases. A vast tapestry covered one wall: the bottom half appeared to detail a century of history, the movement of the pack across Siberia and into Imperial Russia before finally ending in America, while the top was a sprawling family tree. There was plenty of room on both halves for expansion.

"Wait here please," the unnamed doorman said, gesturing regally at a sofa upholstered in crushed red velvet.

Listening to the footsteps recede, Virgil drew shapes over the velvet with a fingertip and, not for the first time, wondered if crime really didn't pay after all. The entire city said that the Petrova Pack had its claws in smuggling and all of the pleasurable sins. With such a palatial townhouse, those rumors didn't seem unfounded.

But then, perhaps he was being uncharitable. Perhaps it was his natural prejudice against wolves. As a lone cat, he'd always distrusted the pack mentality, had always resented how the wolves had investments in land that paid them dividends over the generations. Who was to say that he wouldn't be living in a similar situation if panthers had the same social structure as wolves? If he'd had an army of aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings looking out for him, maybe he wouldn't have had to work 9-to-5 for a living.

Virgil's nostrils flared, catching an unusual scent. He turned sharply and locked gazes with a striking young woman standing in the doorway. The dark brown of her right eye was only a shade or two lighter than her waist-length hair; the pale blue of her left eye was a vivid contrast with the spray of freckles across her alabaster cheeks and nose. She wore a white, almost shapeless dress that masked her figure, though she was as lithe and slim as the man had been -- and there was definitely a familial resemblance in the planes of her face and curve of her full lips.

Sitting at her side, body pressed to her leg and thigh, was a canine with identical mismatched eyes and a fawn coat darkening to black at the ears and snout. It looked like a mix between a husky and a German Shepherd, too sleek to be a wolf and yet too large to be a dog.

They were a beautiful pair, frozen in a peculiar attitude of curiosity poised on the verge of flight, a picture an artist would be thrilled to capture in oils. And they were not what they appeared to be.

It happened sometimes, he knew. In one in a thousand litters -- one in ten thousand? -- a pup or cub or kitten would be born without the proverbial switch, locked into a 'static' form and unable to shift regardless of the moon cycles.

What were the odds of it happening twice in the same litter?

"Hello," he said, tamping down the impulse to stand or flash his fangs. His inner cat wanted to hiss defiance, supremely discomfited by the presence of so many watchful canines. But he'd had decades of practice; he could handle some social niceties like a respectable adult. "I'm Virgil Meriweather. I'm a private detective."

"You're here to see Mother?" the girl said, voice lilting and musical.

"I am."

"Is it pack business?"

"No."

The wolf at her side shifted his front paws, ears flicking. I've never heard of a were detective before, he said, in that inaudible way only other animals could hear, 'voice' a rough but mellow growl. The baritone to her soprano. The normals don't attack you?

"Not if they don't want trouble."

You don't worry, then? Living in their world?

"It's our world just as much as it's theirs. If we have to share it, so do they."

"You're smarter than most cats," the young woman said, relaxing her posture. It wasn't meant to be rude -- she was merely stating what was, to her, a fact. Virgil took no offense in it; the blunt straightforwardness of were nature was a relief after dealing with the layered complexities of humans for so long. She was essentially saying that she did not find him a threat. That they could share a space without any need for posturing or threats. "My name is Oksana. He is Valentin. Will you be staying for supper?"

"Probably not."

Too bad. We're having deer. Papa and I brought it down ourselves.

Virgil cast a quick glance through the wall of windows that looked out over a substantial park. Yes, there were definitely benefits to owning so much land... "Perhaps I could visit another time," he said. "It's been a very long time since I've enjoyed a hunt."

"That could be arranged, Mr. Meriweather. So long as this interview ends amicably."

Nadia Petrova was her daughter with sharper lines, a few inches taller and dazzling in a red and gold evening gown, a rabbit-fur stole draped over her shoulders. As she stepped into the room, bare feet sliding over the polished floorboards, she hesitated to nuzzle Oksana's jaw and comb a fond hand over Valentin's ears. "Please give us a few minutes of privacy, darlings."

"Beautiful pups," Virgil said after the door had clicked shut.

Nadia heard the sincerity in the compliment and flashed a toothy smile, pride obvious in the tilt of her head. "Yes, they are. And they are probably my last -- it seems She saved them as a grand finale. Twins, if you hadn't guessed."

"I've only heard stories of stalls. I thought they were only stories."

"Ah, you should know better, Mr. Meriweather. There is always truth in a story, no matter how unbelievable it may sound. Now, I would adore to spend the evening talking of my children, but I believe you've come about another matter entirely. What can I tell you about Mother Mason that you do not already know?"

Almost a decade ago, when the twins were still pups in the eyes of the pack, their mother retained a human tutor for them. His job was to teach them human ways -- what the normals meant when they smiled, when they held their bodies a certain way, when they said one thing with their mouths and another with their eyes. It was important, their mother said, that they learn how to act in the presence of humans. That they know how to read them as easily as any of the books in the library. Life in the city required that they interact with them frequently, and the day would come when Oksana would lead the Pack and be expected to pick up where her mother had left off.

Oksana thought very little of mankind. They struck her as pale and lackluster, washed out creatures that were practically blind, deaf, and dumb. How terrible it must be, she told herself, to be human. To never know what it was like to burn with moonfever every month. To never hear the subtle, secret sounds of growing plants and the high fluting songs of moths and bats in the dark. To grow old so quickly and yet never become half so wise; to constantly fear time and yet never understand the ebb and flow of it.

Her opinion did not change when the tutor, a passionate young man, professed love for her. She was bewitching, he said, with her regal, aloof bearing and piercing eyes. As beautiful and serene as winter snowfall, for all that she sparked a fire in his blood.

"Marry me," he'd begged, kneeling by her chair, clasping her hands. His were shaking; the breath that caught in his throat was labored; the hot gaze he fixed upon her was desperate and hungry.

"Why?" she'd asked, confused.

"Because I love you," he'd repeated, as if this explained all. "Because I want to be with you."

"But I am not human," she'd said, as if speaking to a child. "I am a werewolf."

"A werewolf that can never be a wolf," he'd persisted. "A girl born to a family utterly unlike her."

"No. They are werewolves, and I am a werewolf. We are the same."

She couldn't make him see the truth in her words. It didn't matter that she could not shift, that her brother was her inverse mirror. She may look like a human girl, as he seemed to be a wolf, but they were still weres. When she took a mate she would deliver litters of her own, pups who would undoubtedly be able to shift. She aged as any other were did; her senses were as heightened; her spirit was that of both woman and wolf. Her static form did not make her any less in the eyes of the pack, and in their matriarchal society everyone acknowledged and accepted that she would one day lead them.

Finally, when the tutor had exhausted his pleas and begun to pine, Oksana asked her mother to send him away. "I am sorry," she had told him in parting, trying to be kind but as unmoved as ever. "We would not have been a good match -- your scent is not right."

Besides: she could not imagine mating with a human. It would be so dull and boring, and she would have to be so careful with him. They were, after all, so fragile beneath their conceit.

Weres weren't bloodthirsty monsters eager to rip out throats. They didn't prowl the streets in search of unwary prey, stalking the innocent like a rabid vampire, all slavering foam and bright eyes.

But that didn't mean they would hesitate to use their teeth.

"Hurry it up, Harry," his partner urged, clutching the handles of his bag.

"Kinda hard to crack a safe when you keep hissing at me, Frank," Harry shot back in a hoarse undertone, ear pressed to the wall. "Shut up and keep an eye on the door."

"Fat lot of good lookin' at the door will do if one of 'em walks in--"

"The whole pack's at the hunt, you said so yourself. Just a sick auntie stuck in bed, and I don't see her coming down three flights in her state. Keep your head screwed on and we'll walk outta here with that ledger, and No-Nose will give us that nice fat sack of cash for less than an hour's work."

Frank McGill felt like his feet had been clamped to a live wire; he couldn't stop the muscles in his legs from jumping at every creak and shift of light. Was that just a cloud scudding over the moon, or was someone slinking past the windows? Was that just the huge house settling, or perhaps the tread of footsteps in the hall?

The click of the last tumbler falling into place was practically a shotgun firing -- Frank almost threw himself to the ground.

"Jackpot," Harry murmured, pulling open the green door and reaching inside for the thick leather book resting on the first shelf.

"You shouldn't be here."

The soft voice made them both leap like startled rabbits; the bag of tools slipped from Frank's nerveless grasp and thumped against the floor. A young woman stood in the doorway, a wraith in her shapeless white nightgown. Pitch black hair hung down past the swell of her hips and -- it had to be a trick of the moonlight -- her eyes seemed to glow in the gloom. "If you go now, I won't stop you."

Harry recovered first and lived up to his reputation as the brawn in the partnership. "Is that so? And what if we don't want to?"

"Harry," Frank whispered urgently, inching back. "She's a fucking were."

"Nah, man. I've heard about her. The girl with the mismatched eyes. She's broken or something. Born wrong. Can't turn into a wolf. She's just a girl. They must've left her here to take care of the old biddy because she can't hunt like the rest of 'em. Ain't that right, sister?" Harry pulled a matte black pistol from his waistband, leveling it on her.

"I'd rather not hurt you," Oksana said calmly, dismissing the gun without pause. "I hate cleaning up messes. But this is my home, and you are touching pack property. I cannot allow you to steal from us."

"And I don't think you've got a say in the matter, sweetheart. Frank, pick up the shit."

Oksana started forward.

The hammer of the gun clicked back. "I'm not a man to make empty threats," Harry said. "Don't think I won't shoot you just 'cause you're a girl. Now stop right there or I'll put you down."

"You won't be able to," Oksana said, taking another step.

The bang of the gun was deafening for the thieves, the ricochet of the bullet as it sped though her and struck the opposite wall only a muted echo. The flash of the powder blinded them in a way that destroyed their night vision. Which meant neither of them saw Oksana leap, right shoulder red and wet, and dig her fingers into Harry's throat. She lifted him easily, until his feet pinwheeled above the floor. He clutched at the delicate hand strangling him, spluttering and pop-eyed, bloodshot whites rolling in terror.

"I warned you," she said quietly, pressing him against the wall. Her nightgown was splattered with blood, but it wasn't right: she should be standing in a veritable pool of it, there should be streams of it running down her arm, she should be collapsing from the great loss of it. It was as if the bullet wound had already closed... "If it's any consolation," she added. "I get no joy out of this."

And with a snarl she bit into his carotid. The man spasmed, arms and legs jerking wildly, before going suddenly limp. She released him and he dropped to the floor just as the bag had: with a muffled and anticlimactic thump. Then she turned to regard the frozen, horrified Frank, mouth and chin smeared with blood. Her lips drew back from incisors that were just a little bit longer than a human's would be, canines that were pink in the moonlight, and a low growl rumbled in the back of her throat.

He'd seen some bad things over the years, down at the docks and in back alleys after midnight. But nothing was quite as terrible as this beautiful woman covered in blood, staring at him with eerie mismatched eyes, growling like a vicious guard dog.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pants suddenly damp and legs turned to jelly. "I'll go, I'll go, please let me go."

The growling cut off abruptly and she closed her mouth. "Think twice in the future," she suggested serenely. "Before you threaten a werewolf."