Page 35 of All Saints Day
“Bonding—so we can all be connected, to get on with the breakout rescue mission plusvite—yeah?” Seb, finally out of patience, is up and out of his seat and pacing back and forth—hands waving through the air.
Everyone is poised, charged—anticipating.
“I—” Dennis stammers, tears welling in his eyes. “I want to do everything I can.” His eyes find mine, pleading. “But I don’t even know where to start, how to be ready for this,” he sniffles, wiping hastily at his eyes before regaining his composure. “I confess, I used to fantasize about a world where Louise and I worked, where we bonded one another but…” He trails off, his eyes falling to the ring of silvery scarred teeth marks on my thumb. “That’s the closest I’ve been.” He turns to Seb, palms up.
“I can help with that.” My own voice is quieter, more bashful than I want—but I let the words sink in.
Everyone’s eyes snap to me.
“What do you mean?” Dennis eyes me, perplexed.
“As a theta, in the right conditions, I can secrete psychotropic compounds that can act as a powerful mood enhancer, even altering the consciousness of my packmates,” I begin, Seb already shaking his head ruefully. “With members of a fated mate bond, we can explore and expand upon one another’s sensory memories,” I continue, Dennis’ eyes widening to the size of dinnerplates. “With a little inspiration—.” I spread my hands wide, the unsaid filling the space.
“And you think that we can reproduce the right conditions in our current state?” Dennis eyes me skeptically.
“I have drugs that I can take to help me get there, regardless of the current mood,” I laugh nervously as Seb shoots me a worried glance.
“Caz isn’t the only one who can contribute to the cause.” Quentin knits his long, willowy fingers under his chin thoughtfully before going on. “We still have some suppressant melters, if you dose me—I’ll not only be gagging for it, but I’ll start perfuming like I’m in heat in addition to pumping my aura.”
Seb lets out a long, low whistle. There’s a beat of silence before I pick up the baton again.
“If Q and I are both pumping this tiny chalet of chemicals, it’s going to get a lot easier to get into the zone, but the bond won’t take unless we’re all fully committed.”
All of us look to Dennis—who straightens under our collective scrutiny—his face set with stony determination.
“Well, I hadn’t planned on it happening this visit.” Dennis lifts his chin, turning slowly to retrieve a tall brown paper bag from the things he’d brought into the chalet. After a momentary dry crumpling, he turns back to face us with a bottle of scotch clutched in his hand.
“I may not have any top-secret pharmaceuticals, and I can’t produce any psychedelics or anything—but I did bring this single malt that’s old enough to vote, and my alpha equipment,” he laughs grimly, adjusting his belt.
“But I’m in.” He nods, stepping up to the coffee table to place the bottle of bourbon on its surface—his hand stretched over the top of the bottle as if he were the quarterback placing his hand in the middle of a huddle, calling us in before we set out to get down to business.
“Me too,” I second Dennis, leaning forward on the couch—out from beneath Seb’s protective wing, to place my open hand over Dennis’.
“As am I,” Quentin concurs, laying his perfectly manicured hand over mine.
Seb clicks his tongue once, sucking air through his teeth painfully as he shakes his head.
“Fuck it,” he sighs with resignation, laying one of his beefy hands atop the stack—the other reaching for the neck of the bottle of bourbon below. “If we’re going to do this, might as well get good and drunk before we start,” he wheezes a grim laugh.
All of us sheepishly take our hands back as Seb rises from the couch—bottle in hand, en route to the kitchen for glasses and ice.
Q and I go about our business gathering supplies from our belongings as Dennis shifts his weight from one foot to the other in nervous patterns—the sounds of ice cubes dropping into glasses the only noise in the chalet.
We all reconvene at the sofa, Seb with four generously poured tumblers of bourbon, Q with his atomizer attached to a small plastic mask, and me with my handful of pills and the blunt I rolled earlier.
“THC triggers the production of psychotropic scenting in thetas?” Dennis asks as his eyes sweep my modest spread.
“No, that’s just to help me relax,” I laugh, gathering the pills off the coffee table, preparing to wash them down with the bourbon.
“I see.” He squirms uneasily, his eyes following closely as I lift the rolled tube of tobacco and weed from the coffee table.
“Poor little boy-scout.” Seb grins, a cruel little laugh escaping him. “You’re actually kind of cute when you squirm.” He winks at Dennis, who flushes hot pink.
“Well, here goes nothing.” I toss the handful of pills into my mouth and tip my head back—washing everything down with a swig of bourbon.
“Cheers.” Dennis knocks back as much of the dark liquor ashe can in a single pull, wincing as he swallows the fiery spirit down.
“Chin-chin.” Seb gulps down the contents of his glass before pouring himself another double.
