The Replacement Omega: Whispering Hills, #3

By Tabatha Austin

When the universe breaks your heart, can you ever love again?

When humanity's unconscious power erased Wyatt's Omega from the universe, he was shattered.

Years later, the unmated small-town sheriff, is forced to live his remaining days as an enforcer to keep the shifter world a secret.

Paranormal author Kyle Hamilton and latent Omega lives for research, but when he unknowingly stumbles too close to a long-held secret world, he's marked for removal. While he awaits his execution, his scent attracts the attention of the disgruntled and broken-hearted sheriff.

Kyle's biology exposes him to a supernatural world of shifters, vampires and magic – all things that make his heart sing, but his biggest discovery just might be the reluctant-to-love sheriff, and that's a challenge he's willing to accept.

Note: "The Replacement Omega" is a steamy Southern Urban Fantasy with no cheating and a HEA set in a paranormal Omegaverse. This male/male romance contains male pregnancy and is intended for adult readers.

While this is in a shared universe, each story is written to stand on its own four feet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tabatha Austin
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393965442

Book preview

THE REPLACEMENT OMEGA

by Tabatha Austin

THE REPLACEMENT OMEGA

Tabatha Austin

TabathaAustin.com

All Rights Reserved ©2019 Tabatha Austin. First Printing: 2019.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Author’s Note: All characters in this story are 19 years of age or older.

Reviews Appreciated!

If you notice any errors,

I’d appreciate a heads up. Thanks a bunch!

[e-mail]

Chapter One

KYLE

I made a fool of myself, my parents, and the university when I said werewolves existed, but I was right. Telling everyone was the mistake.

Dean Hicks, an older, short man of my height with real wrinkles and fake dark hair stared back under thick black glasses. "You will go on television, do the standard round of interviews and say it was a publicity stunt for your so-called books. In no way is the university sponsoring your claims. I’ll have our legal department draw up the contract."

He wouldn’t order around the other staff as he did with me. To him, someone of my younger years − mid-twenties − should be respectful to somebody over twice their age. I was the kid among professors with tenure. The ‘Surfer Teacher’ is a nickname I’ve heard when people think I’m far away, but my ears are excellent. My light brown hair wasn’t long, but I could see my lean body on a surfboard. Hawaii and away from here sounds nice.

Mister Hamilton? Kyle?

I blinked away the image of me on a tropical island. Another few seconds of imagination would have popped a few cute looking guys into my mind. Even the non-existent fantasy world was better than this.

Why the hassle Dean? I shrugged even as I knew it wouldn’t help my case. My writings and interviews never bothered you before.

He repeated my last four words as if he couldn’t believe I said it.

My writings have provided decent publicity to the university.

"Your books and association are too much. Our institution will tolerate a slight, how do you kids say? Oh yes, showboating. Your volumes of folklore have a minor, allow me to stress minor, respectability from a novelty and non-academic standpoint. Going on a talk show with a disturbed individual who claims to be a werewolf, damages the institution’s reputation."

"I didn’t know the host would have someone in a fur suit. The whole situation was set-up to make fun of my theories. The guy dressed like a costumed theme park character with a t-shirt that said ‘Fur Power.’ Having him − at least I think it was a him − nod to my arguments and jump as he agreed to my talking points didn’t help. Occupational hazard, I said. My classes are in folklore."

"You tell the stories as if they are true. You’ve always approached the line between respectability and ridicule. This public appearance was excessive and gives us attention we simply cannot have. We have donors from old money families who want to know their donation is spent well. His eyes narrowed. If we were outside my office, I would show you two photos on our wall of outstanding alumni. Perhaps it would convince you, but no, I think not."

Again? It was only a single word, but I got the meaning: you aren’t them and never will be.

"Yes, again Kyle, as it’s an excellent question. What will your parents say?"

I shrugged. Couldn’t tell you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them, and I can’t guess their replies. Ask them if you want. If they aren’t too busy, they’ll answer you.

They are going out into the world and doing real research. They don’t have time to attend to their son.

Ain’t that the truth?

He placed his wrinkled palms on the desk. You have one choice. Go on television and apologize for the harm you inflicted on the university or lose your position here. I trust a college staff member will have the intelligence to make the correct one.

***

Goodbye, I whispered to nobody and yet everyone unseen on campus. I carried a plastic bin full of research notes, pens, and a dozen other things that make up an office and life while I walked down the white marble steps. My gaze was ahead, but I felt the judging eyes on me.

The ninjas of old Japan would never stare at a target, for they felt people were aware if watched. They were right. A feeling and common sense told me it was true. What I wouldn’t give to be unseen.

Academia is sharing knowledge and it included my firing. There’s no way everyone didn’t know. I left the university grounds and started my walk to my apartment. A momentary thought on how I might be wrong entered my head, but I dismissed it. I am an assistant professor. The mental joke should have made me smile, but didn’t.

Several blocks away, my quick footsteps turned into slow shuffles, and the confident smile long left my face. Someone of my background should have come up with a solution by the time I arrived at my apartment. Well, there was the apology the Dean wanted, and I could have stayed but didn’t. No answers, but I’m not in college anymore, so it’s almost fitting.

I pushed the door and entered a two-room place with a mini kitchen. The bedroom has the bulk of my research notes, so the living room is where I sleep. My major possessions are a mattress on the floor and a dual monitor computer next to a stack of Blu-ray eighties movies.

Beige walls held maps with colored push pins corresponding to different locations around the world. It’s the same kind that nut jobs and conspiracy theorists have, but I have an excuse. They’re wrong, and I’m right.

Am I? The data I had was sound. Just because everyone else doesn’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not there. Before its discovery, some scientists refused to entertain Pluto’s existence, but it existed.

My gaze lingered on the wall world map. Red dots pasted along the American South, Central Mexico, and Asian countries. Red seemed a proper color for a werewolf. Grey for vampire sightings along Japan and the American East coast. Green for magic users and those were mostly in California, but dots peppered Mexico, Canada, Louisiana, and the Australian Outback. Some selections were mildly embarrassing. Yellow for dragons in China and Japan. I considered aqua for more fantastical creatures like mermaids, but I had to stop somewhere.

Yeah, werewolves make sense, but fish people are too much. This time I smiled at my joke and laid on the mattress. Not a bed. That would have a wooden frame. My academic side said it’s an influence from visiting villages out in the field. Something deep inside said all this was temporary, so why bother?

My gaze darted around the apartment that might as well belong to another person or nobody. Other people had knick-knacks, photos of loved ones... hell, even a bigger movie collection. It was an extension of my college office, and now I didn’t have that anymore.

My phone buzzed, and I read the text message. I heard what happened. Contact me now, Mother. No, not now, and for as long as I can delay it.

I’d call her and by proxy my father later. No communication was just more efficient. It was a game where I already knew the outcome, and nobody would win. Two groups always making the same moves and coming to the same ending: stalemate. My parents were two people but of one mind. The university was right, and I was wrong. The logical thing would be for me to renounce my findings and ‘get my life together and do real research.’

My phone buzzed again. Persistent or it’s Dad ahead of schedule. I felt my eyebrows rise at the text message from an unknown number. Sorry to hear about your dismissal. I need your skill set. Josef McCree.

I know that name. It vibrated in my hand but this time with an electronic ring. An older male voice with a hint of an Irish accent spoke, "There’s a driver outside your apartment to take you to my residence up in the mountains. A yearly salary for your time is on the table. It’s yours should you accept the offer I’ll make when we meet. I will not repeat this opportunity. You’re unemployed and require funds for your research. This will benefit us both." He disconnected, and I laid on my floor mattress wondering about what just happened.

This wasn’t my typical day, but then again, I got fired − technically. Someone called and offered a year’s wage and had the means to find my private number. I walked out on the balcony, looking for something that seemed like the car to find. Plenty of every day red and white Hondas, Toyotas and the business grey cars you see but don’t notice on the freeway. My gaze lingered on the camouflaged all-terrain vehicle not needed in a college town. Short but wide with massive tires and a black roof rack on top. It reminded me of the military vehicles I saw around archaeological sites.

Instinct told me Josef wasn’t a man who would wait. The man offered me a job. At least I should see him.

Walking down the stairs gave me enough time to access the net on my smartphone and pull up information. A photo of a smiling older ginger-haired man stared back. I would have guessed his age as early forties. Medium length hair combed back and to the side, with hints of white among his red goatee. By the time I got to the sidewalk, I knew he was in the import business with a specialty in antiquities. My area of expertise was folklore and so-called primitive people. Those who know how to live off the land while those in the city starve. Maybe he wants me to verify an item?

A flickering wonder about what this was about came, but I had to see it through. I didn’t sneak across the Hungarian border for that interview by waiting around.

Before I approached, the driver, a thick bald man − also with a goatee − and wraparound sunglasses got out. He wore a blue suit, and I suspect his hidden muscles weren’t defined but rather stocky or pudgy. The kind which doesn’t win bodybuilding contests but is good at smashing someone’s face against the wall. With a slow walk, he opened the passenger door, waited for me to get in and without a word drove off. I said nothing on the way, and it wasn’t out of fear. Men like him didn’t talk. He might be in the States, but his type was universal: serious and quiet. They communicated with their hands or fists. ‘Kill anyone lately?’ wasn’t a smart conversation opener, so I remained silent as we drove by brick and mortar stores, houses, sporadic gas stations, and then off into the mountains. Going off with a stranger isn’t the safest thing, but usually, I never had to worry. I’m on the short side, but I work out. Yeah, like that would help against this gorilla here. Hell, even a wild primate might not win if they fought.

A half hour with my simian-like chauffeur took me to a two-story country lodge surrounded by tall green forest. The first floor was different colored stones with a red-wood secondary level. The lights were on in daylight. I counted two thick men in the trees with the same dangerous aura as my driver, and more hidden. Common sense or mentally sensing them around I couldn’t say.

After a pat-down, another bouncer thug led me up to the stone steps and into the main room two-stories high with multiple wooden staircases leading up. At the top stood a ginger-haired older man, my caller − Josef McCree. I estimated his height to be about five eight, making him taller than me. He glanced to his bodyguard, who silently left.

On the surface dismissing your protection might seem unwise, but only a fool would think he was helpless. Outside were huge men willing to protect their employer with muscles I saw and guns I didn’t. Then there was him − alone and with no weapons, but not defenseless. I’ve visited indigenous cultures where the leader doesn’t have distinctive ceremonial garb, nor do they live in the best dwelling. Yet, there is something in their stance where you know they are in charge. They stand taller and walk as if their little part of the world is all theirs, and they’re right. I’ve seen it in the jungles, deserts, tundra and it was here in the cabin with me.

A glass of whiskey in his hand I didn’t notice until now rose. He swallowed and the crisp Irish accented voice I heard on the telephone drew out. Professor Hamilton. Thank you for entertaining my offer.

I tilted my head in acknowledgment. Thanks, but I’m not a professor, especially when jobless.

He waved his hand dismissively. Those ivy tower fools don’t know who they let go. Education is more than tenure and diplomas. He hurried down the steps before speaking again. Kyle Hamilton. Author of three books on now-vanished tribes and six on folklore. I suppose we know where your interests lie.

Yeah, I would have written more if I had extra time.

He grinned. Not the youngest assistant-professor your university has ever had, but close. He held a phone up. Also, the trending hashtag on social media. Your firing has gotten you extra attention.

Well, they say there is no such thing as bad publicity.

Tell it to my stockbrokers. He wasn’t tall, but he stood as if he were the tallest man in the room. He was, but his money and power gave him several mental inches over me. I’ll cut to the chase. You looked me up, if you don’t know me already and you know I deal in antiquities. You assumed I want you to verify the authenticity of an artifact.

It’s a good guess, isn’t it?

And wrong. He strolled away saying nothing, and I took it to mean I should follow. We walked to the back room with wood creaking under us with each step. A multi-monitor computer setup sat to the right with wall shelves full of books both new and old. My gaze lingered on the blue covered ones with a red band on the top and bottom of the spine. Just a geometric design I saw once on my travels and used myself. In a few seconds, I counted my writings around the room, along with a smattering of other books on the paranormal.

I have something to show you Kyle, he sat down in front of the computer. He grabbed a set of metal soldier dog tags, placed them in his pocket, then jiggled the mouse. A green-tinted video of two larger than ordinary wolves played.

Strange.

This was the closest we could get. Taken with a telescopic, night vision lens. I assumed they would come back the following night, but they didn’t.

They sensed your presence and didn’t return?

They shouldn’t unless their senses are better than normal, but that’s not the question on your mind.

Why are they so big? I asked. Yeah. The male and female are twice the size of average wolves. Bigger than the largest ones one on record.

Go on.

From its submissive posture and lack of aggression from the male, the smaller one is its mate but... wait a second. I leaned in closer and saw the same long face shape as opposed to the shorter rounder shaped face seen in females. It’s another male. It’s offspring?

Maybe, but I have my theories. He sipped more dark brandy. It’s not the only video footage I have. Take my copies, verify, and look for anything that says I’m lying or wrong. If you’re assured of the authenticity, post them as evidence but without my name attached.

Why?

I’ve lived my life collecting antiquities and the unusual. I need someone intelligent and willing to be a real scientist, no matter the cost. To be blunt, I want you to flush out a werewolf.

***

Chapter Two

WYATT

I’m a creature of the night. Most paranormals are. There’s power in the day, but it’s the wrong kind that would make my semi-regular vigil fail. I have to be away from humanity’s collective belief. Hence, the nighttime visit to a rusted tin-metal shack in the middle of a Louisiana swamp and the redhead and brunette both wearing blue on the other side of the wooden table. Tina, the tall redhead with bangs and long hair, picked a sparkly cocktail dress with a plunging neckline for our meeting. She’s always dressed like she’s ready for a night out on the town despite living in the bayou.

Her partner Dawn, is a ‘Country Pretty’ girl with hair in pigtails. My nature meant they did nothing for me, but both were pretty in their own way. One glamorous and the other more girl next door. Had I been born different, I would have fancied them despite the danger from loving a witch.

My hands rested flat against the worn oak table, and I made no overt gestures. I’m well over six feet tall and a few inches. I got muscles thicker than most farmhands and it’s enhanced by my position and shifter blood to the point I can smash through concrete. With a thought, I can turn into a black furred fanged creature from mankind’s darkest nightmares. Since I’m pack leader, I age slower, and I’ve got decades of experience. On the supernatural scale with power and knowledge, I’m up there.

"Thank you for allowing me to come, I said as politely as I could. I’m grateful. Can you bring Noah back, within reason?"

Both women smiled. We wouldn’t expect anything else from you Sheriff Holiday, but it’s refreshing to deal with someone who respects magic. Even among your own kind, there’s a tendency to believe it’ll solve everything.

But it would with this, ladies? It’s what took him away. It erased my mate.

Both women stared at each other in silence. I suspected it was telepathy, but whatever thoughts they had they kept to themselves and spoke as one with a Southern accent. Returning the dead is the most problematic and dangerous of all magic. The silent blackness comes for us all.

I’m sure my voice was just as accented as theirs and hopefully as civil. "But he’s not dead. He never existed and yet did. It’s been decades. I’m