Jack and Callum quickened their pace, but ran into a group of five adolescent rat people around the next corner. Young boys, nineteen-ish, smelling of cigarettes, looking for trouble. They looked like they had been waiting for them.

Callum nodded curtly and wanted to pass them by without causing an incident. But the adolescents had other ideas. When the two men walked by, the tallest of the boys, probably the leader of their little gang, made a clicking sound with his tongue.

Next to him, Jack felt Callum’s muscles tense. Not because five teenagers were a match for a wolf, but because they weren’t; he was trying to stay in control.

“Jeremy was right,” the gang leader hissed loud enough for all to hear. “The angel lies down with one of us.”

Another boy, bulky but small, spat in Callum’s direction. “Traitor!”

It wasn’t the first time they’d been verbally attacked, and Jack knew it wouldn’t be the last. An angel and a werewolf being friends was bad enough for some; but being lovers was an affront on a whole new level. There were boundaries that were not to be overstepped, boundaries that were held sacred since the beginning of creation -- the Light and the Dark were not to mix. Enemies had to stay enemies, the balance needed to stay even. Angels were not to show mercy with dark ones, werewolves were not to stray from their bloodthirsty paths.

Callum sighed. “Look. Yes, we’re a couple. You saw us. Now, shoo. Run along and tell all your friends, because apparently your lives are so pathetic and pointless that hanging around town to catch a glimpse of two dudes walking down the street arm in arm actually counts as a pastime for you.”

The bulky kid repeated his insult from earlier, but the ring leader shoved him. “Save your breath, Abe. He’s not even a real werewolf anymore. Calls himself clean. Dad told me. What a disgrace.”

“Hey!” Jack stepped up. “He might not kill you for that remark, but I might just arrest you and let you spend the night in detox -- oh! Do I smell liquor on your breath?”

“I distinctly do,” Callum backed him up, lips curling back in a grimace of lupine pleasure.

The teenagers, seriously considering this threat, made a collective step backwards; insecure for one moment. Until the wiriest of them whispered just loud enough, “Let’s go before the bitch cuffs us.”

The others agreed and withdrew quickly. But, unfortunately for the speaker, as the rest of them hurried to scramble away, Callum caught hold of the wiry kid’s collar. He pulled the boy towards him and lifted the kid up until the two of them were nose to nose. Small beads of sweat appeared on the boy’s forehead. His feet dangled about a foot in the air.

“Callum, let it go,” Jack said. They didn’t need to cause a scene; the teenager probably didn’t even know what he was talking about.

But Callum ignored him. He hissed, “What did you call him?”

The kid squirmed in the firm grip. “Let me go!”

“What -- did you call -- my partner?” Callum repeated, his voice, if possible, even more dangerous.

“Look, it’s true, right?!” squealed the boy. “He’s your mate, right? He’s knocked up, right? We didn’t invent the term -- you wolf folk did!”

“Apologize!”

The rest of the goings on -- Callum’s bellowed demands, the boy’s hysterical screeches, even, in fact, the kid’s mumbled apology -- Jack didn’t hear any of it. His mind kept playing that one sentence over and over again, like a DJ scratching the turntables.

He’s knocked up, right?

He’s knocked up, right?

He’s knocked up, right?

“Honey, talk to me!” That was Callum’s voice, penetrating the echo of the impossible words. Jack focused on his lover’s worried features. Using them as a guide, he was finally able to make it out of his head.

“I have never seen this expression you’re wearing,” Callum said, “and your smell is all over the place. Are you sad or mad?”

Jack felt like he didn’t even know how to blink anymore.

He’s knocked up, right?

“Is that even possible?” he whispered.