Page 2 of Blind Date with a Werewolf
After he sent the email to Kelly, he wrote back to the people who had begun this adventure for him.
Dearest Children,
Challenge accepted.
Asil
Postscript—You do know I am Muslim, yes? I do not care about Christmas, except that the music which the season subjects me to is mostly bad.
Two days later
Asil sipped his water and waited. He was good at waiting, as any hunter must be. He did not fuss or wiggle or fret. He just took another sip of water, held it in his mouth, and then swallowed and looked with outward peacefulness at the pair of Black Baccara roses in a small vase that were to identify him for his date. Yes, he was very good at waiting—that did not mean, however, that he was happy about it.
Asil’s date arrived eventually, an event marked by an explosion of chairs scraping and muttered—if sincere—apologies addressed to everyone and anyone that heralded a young person who plopped down into the seat opposite Asil in an untidy heap of wet boots and damp winter accessories. Or at leastsomeonearrived at Asil’s table.
“I’m so sorry,” said the young man who was supposed to be a woman. He perched awkwardly—like a puppy, all elbows andknees—as he burst into rapid speech. “You’re waiting for a girl named Kelly and she is me. She is I.” He made an impatient-with-himself sound and tried again. “I have this acquaintance and his girlfriend who aren’t too bright. They thought that setting some poor guy up on a blind date with a loser like me when he thought he would be getting a pretty girl would be funny. They didn’t give me your email address or any way to contact you—just the restaurant informa—”
He looked up. His mouth stayed where it was and noise quit coming out of it.
Yes, Asil thought, the other’s awe soothing the feathers that had been ruffled by the wait,I am beautiful.
“It was really you in the photo. What the hell areyoudoing on a dating site?” snapped the person who was evidently Asil’s date for the evening, when he could speak. He shoved his glasses up his nose rather savagely and scowled at Asil.
He was not, this young man, currently in possession of a great deal of attractiveness. Asil had lived long enough to see that five or six years of aging would be kind to acne blemishes and put some muscle on a frame that was too lanky for the hands and feet attached to it. With a good haircut, contacts, and a little confidence, he would be arresting—if not pretty.
Asil raised an eyebrow and summoned a waitress. “I will give you a moment to collect yourself and then we shall begin this again.”
Asil decided to take charge of the situation, because obviously someone needed to take charge of this young man, who had an acquaintance willing to put him into what might have been a very dangerous situation.
This was Montana, after all; even if Missoula was known tobe the hippie habitat of the Big Sky state, it was still not safe in this time and place to send a young man on a date with a man expecting a woman. Especially a young man who liked other men. Asil might be extraordinarily beautiful, but heterosexual men were seldom struck dumb in his presence.
Asil had eaten here often enough to recognize the waitstaff. The older woman who answered his signal spoke good-enough-for-restaurant English, but Thai was her native tongue. Asil did not speak Thai, and Spanish was his native tongue. However, he was moderately fluent in Lao, which she also spoke. They both enjoyed the chance to practice. He asked about her children and new grandchild; she asked him how it was he had roses in December, and he spoke about his greenhouse.
The young man watched him with narrowed eyes and a tense jaw, both of which softened into embarrassment after a short time.
When Asil and his server came to the point for Asil to order, he broke into English to address his date. “Are you allergic to any foods—especially peanuts? Do you have any cultural dietary restrictions?”
“No. You don’t need to—” His date—was his name still Kelly?—met his eyes for a second, looked away, and said, “Thank you for asking.”
Asil ordered pad Thai because it was safe and arranged the rest of the meal around that choice.
“So boring,” commented his waitress, still in Lao, when he had finished. “That is not like you.”
“It is a date,” he told her. “I am being careful.”
She smiled, and wrinkles spread over her cheeks in a friendlyburst. “Ooh. A date! How exciting. We shall make safe food for you, then, but we will make sure it is good, too.”
“I thought you were supposed to be from out of town,” his date said after the waitress left. The temper was gone from his voice, replaced by suspicion. “She knew you.”
Asil’s wolf stirred. It was a very old and very dangerous beast, and his hold on it was fraying. Had been fraying for a long time. It hadn’t minded the pup’s first little snarl, but accusing Asil of lying was not acceptable.
“I live in Aspen Creek,” Asil said softly, trying to rein in the menace while his wolf urged him to force this boy who dared challenge them down onto the floor where he would give his throat.
His beast was not tame enough for dating, but Asil could and would keep it under control for a few hours. If he could not, then the Marrok would regret not putting Asil in the ground any one of the many times Asil had requested it of him. Asil wasdangerous.
“Ishopin Missoula or Kalispell,” he continued, reminding the wolf that this pup had no idea who he was talking to. Someone had perpetuated an unkind and unsafe malicious joke, and rather than let an unknown person be stood up, the boy had chosen to come here and face the consequences of someone else’s actions…and Asil’s inner beast relented.
He forced the tension from his shoulders and voice. “There are no restaurants in Aspen Creek except for the gas station, which makes sandwiches, so when I am out, I eat where there is good food.”
