Don't step on White Fang's cape...

  
Tuesday howls and yowls, shapeshifter lovers.

I've been putting together a cast list of all my Talbot's Peak characters. No easy feat I discovered. I did have a names' list of my heroines and heroes to start with, one that I began awhile back for the sake of not duplicating names, but it was nowhere complete. Yep, there were big ole gaps.

So, as I described at my blog, Kougar Kisses, the project turned into a sort-of Medusa like operation as I began searching through all of my prior flash-scene posts. Oh, I had my main characters, and last year's heroines and heroes all lined up... but, dang, three days of intense work, and I'm still not completely finished. Close, but no cigar... as they say.

One dilemma I've come face to face with is this whole BIG BULLY MEDIA copyright/trademark thing going on, whereupon one innocent infraction could get you unmercifully pounced on, and devoured by the legal system. I won't expound any further on that now.

Suffice it say, I'm faced with changing my super wolf's name from White Fang Kent to White Fang [something else]... because, hey, it too closely resembles Super Man's alter ego, Clark Kent. But, damn, if I can come up with suitable alternative.

Thus, today's flash scene...
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Don't step on White Fang's cape...

White Fang snuck a peek inside Nick's office before entering, instinctive since the smell of Ziva and Nick's recent mating romp still hung heavy in the air. That, and the odor of heated wood.

Grinning to himself, White Fang pushed open the door. "Boss, what's on your mind?"

"Have a seat, ace reporter."

The werewolf alpha editor of the Guts and Butts Gazette snarled the words, his tone absent of any snideness however. He waved an impatient hand toward the chair, then swiped his hair as if he carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. Certainly, he carried the weight and well-being of Talbot's Peak on his shoulders.

White Fang perched on the sturdy wooden chair, a relic of a forties newsroom, and leaned forward. "I'm seated," he prompted. "Looks like you got a case of fleas, boss. Couldn't be you're about to get on my case. I just turned in my latest story."

"Yeah-yeah, has nothing to do with your job performance. Outstanding as normal. Got quite a devoted following, Kent." Nick folded his hands behind his head, and square-eyed him. "But, I'll save us a dance around each other, and get down to brass tacks."

"You're not my type as a dance partner," White Fang drily quipped, and kept his smile to himself.

"Why would I be?" Nick snapped. "That cat shifter femme fatale of yours has more curves than Route 66." Nick scowled, and lifted his lip.

"Problem?"

"Take off those damn glasses, will ya? And don't raise your eyebrows at me like I got a story you can pry outta me, Kent... another life, another time. Enough said."

"Got it, boss." White Fang slipped his horn-rimmed glasses off, pocketing them. "May I assume you didn't call me in here to hand out a plum assignment?"

"Nope." Nick rocked forward, his gaze serious as if prey crossed his path. "We all know around here, you're some sort of super wolf."

White Fang hesitated only a moment. "Right, then, it's on the table. No use trying to keep my true identity a secret in this 'where the shapeshifter world turns' town. Except from the humans, of course."

"Yeah, the humans. And those who keep their noses buried in their butt holes. Besides," Nick continued in a surly voice, "using the name, Kent, is a dead giveaway...doncha think?"

"A tip of the reporter's fedora to Clark Kent, and admittedly, a private amusement on my part. Didn't hurt as a byline either, with my past newspaper gigs."

White Fang flashed a toothy grin just to dig into Nick's hide a bit. The name had garnered him much needed attention as a virgin reporter on the scene. Then, his investigative journalism into crime had done the rest, elevating his readership faster than a speeding bullet.

"Yeah-yeah, dug into your past. You got the best credentials I ever seen, uh... Kent. Gotta quit calling you that. Scat." Nick twisted, and leaped from his chair, not disguising his werewolf strength and speed.

"Look," he growled, pacing behind his desk. "It's a copyright or trademark thing. Hate those scat-bloated corporate... never mind. The point is I can't afford trouble..." Nick let his words hang, even as he whirled around, his gaze pinning White Fang.

Ignoring the alpha glint in the werewolf's eyes, White Fang eased himself from the chair, and stood asserting his own dominant nature. After a moment, he delivered his words in a calm measured tone. "You want me to change my byline. Right?"

"It's not your real handle... why not?" Nick's eyes yellowed to feral, his frustration driving him.

White Fang didn't bother with what would be an obvious answer. He let his steely silence do the talking.

Nick growled, an abrupt harsh sound. He spun around, stalking to his office window. "I got that pea-parrot assistant of mine poking my ass... reminding me every friggin' day we could get sued. Worse, Talbot's Peak doesn't need this kind of national spotlight."

White Fang absorbed Nick's words, while weighing his options. Circumstances demanded he remain in Talbot's Peak. Not only for the sake of his wolfkind, but to continue protecting those he'd come to care for in this haven for shifters and other supernaturals.

He certainly wasn't leaving without Pasha by his side, and he'd allied himself with Dante. That was not a promise he took lightly, despite the understanding between them that the future could alter their arrangement.

White Fang growled silently. "Right, boss. We don't need a barking army of legal beagles."

The tenseness of Nick's stance lessened, and he glanced over his shoulder. "Got an idea what name you want to use instead?"

His usual quickness of thought deserted him, and White Fang possessed not a clue what byline would keep his global readership. Of course, he could explain a change to his Peak readers easy enough.

"No, nothing comes to mind," he rumbled, even as he realized he'd become quite fond of the earth name, White Fang Kent -- especially the way Pasha sultry-purred it during their intimate times together.

"Any suggestions, boss?" White Fang arched his brows in the way he knew put a burr under Nick's tail.

"Go to the library," Nick groused. "Look in on one of those baby names books. Or, hell, go surfing on the world wide web."

"I'll grab a telephone book on the way out. More private. No nano spy cameras inside those yet."

After a growly harumph and sharp intake of breath, Nick faced White Fang. "Sorry, ex-Kent. You know how the bitten ball bounces."

"Your balls are going to bounce, lover, after I fang them," Ziva shouted through the door. "You forgot our appointment."

"Leaving." White Fang smirked, then pivoted toward the door.

"I need that name by tomorrow," Nick threw after him.

"Don't step on White Fang's cape... boss."

After a polite nod to Ziva, White Fang strode for the outside door. He couldn't miss the large phone book Penelope, the pea-parrot dominatrix, held out to him. Nor could he miss her all-knowing smile.

"I wouldn't mind stepping on your cape... no, not at all," she throatily crooned as he took hold of the phone book.  

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~ Have a Magickal Shapeshifting Week ~ 

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~