Conference Call

Brandon Fledermaus stared at his waiting computer screen and sucked in a long, labored breath. He wasn’t looking forward to this, but it needed to be done. “You want a drink first?” Jerboa offered drily.

“Not yet. I need all my wits about me. Afterwards, leave the bottle.” He glanced at the clock in the screen’s corner. This call had been arranged earlier. The one he could count on to respond. The other? Still up in the air. He prayed both would listen. Lives, perhaps more than their own, might be at stake.

At precisely 7 pm he activated Skype. The screen split as he connected with the two incoming calls. One hurdle cleared: both horses had been successfully led to the water. Now to get them to drink. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

“You haven’t said anything yet,” Damien Hancock growled. The image from his end was slightly out of focus. Brand studied it as best he could. The Alpha wolf didn’t look good. He appeared somehow bloated, and hairier than usual, as if he hadn’t shaved or even combed his hair in days. By contrast, Zhere Ghan’s image practically crackled with clarity. He looked the same as always: handsome, dignified, polished, urbane. Dangerous. That burned in his narrowed eyes and was picked up by the camera. Hancock’s eyes were harder to read from his blurry image. They looked bloodshot.

“I’ll get right to the point,” Brand said. “By now you both probably know I was attacked in my home the other night. I know the two of you were also attacked the same night. Supposedly each of us ordered the attacks on the others. For example, the pair that came after me made a point of telling me they were Hancock agents, under orders from—”

“Like I’d bother,” Hancock snarled. “Stinking little flying rat. Scrape you off the bottom of my shoe.”

“While my attacker,” Ghan said smoothly, “dropped your name rather casually into the conversation, Mr. Fledermaus. Care to explain?”

“That’s why I arranged this meeting,” Brand said. “After asking around and weighing the evidence, I’ve concluded—”

“What evidence?” Hancock broke in. “Who’ve you been talking to? My wolves wouldn’t talk to you. They’d chew you up and spit out the wings. You’re just trying to—”

“Damien,” Ghan said, “be still. I wish to hear what our neighbor has to say.”

“Stuff it up your tail, you striped bastard. He’s not your neighbor. You don’t have a damned rat gnawing at your borders. You just hide in your den and send others out to skulk around. What’sa matter? Too good to get your paws dirty? You want a piece of me, you come at me yourself! See what it gets you!”

“Damien—”

“Cram it, stripey. I will not ‘be still.’ You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Still as in dead, right?”

“I will admit,” Ghan said, “your demise would give me a measure of satisfaction. One less annoyance to concern myself with. But I didn’t order an attack on you or on anyone else. Not this time.”

“The hell you didn’t. Hump you. Hump the both of you.” Hancock’s blurry image vanished from the screen.

After a moment Ghan said, “Well. That could have gone better.”

Brandon didn’t answer right away. Hancock had a reputation for aggression—he was an alpha wolf, after all—but that outburst had been over the top even for him. “Something’s off,” he murmured.

“With Hancock?” Ghan sniffed. “You needn’t have disturbed me to tell me something both of us already know.”

“And I didn’t. I called to tell you both my findings. I’m convinced none of us ordered any attacks on the others. But somebody wants us to think that. Someone’s trying to pit us against each other. Someone from outside.”

“A common enemy?” For the first time, Ghan showed a modicum of interest. “Who would benefit from our mutual demise?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to ferret out. Either somebody wants the three of us to destroy each other so they can move into the power vacuum, or one of us was the real target and the other two are a smokescreen.” He half-smiled grimly. “I’m sure you have a number of enemies with a personal axe to grind.”

“Too many to count,” Ghan confirmed. “Including Hancock. You?”

“Hancock wants my land. He’s never made any secret of it. But that attack on me seemed awfully impersonal. They weren’t assassins, or fighters, for that matter. They weren’t even there to kill me. They said as much. I don’t know the details of Hancock’s encounter, only that someone got in, and also left him alive. What about your attack? Anything hit close to home?”

On the screen, Ghan stiffened. Ah, Brand thought. Struck a nerve, did I?

“My attacker did try to kill me. And mentioned your name,” the tiger reminded him.

“Then your life could be in serious danger. Hancock’s too, from his reactions. I suspect I was thrown in to muddy the waters.”

“And now you’ve called to inspect your handiwork?”

“I called to report my findings to you both,” Brand said patiently, “and to propose an alliance. I was hoping the three of us together—”

“Ah. The plot reveals itself.” Ghan turned brisk. “Remove us both and secure your own position, all the while playing the innocent. A tiger does not have allies, Fledermaus. A tiger has servants and enemies. I will deal with Hancock, as I should have long ago. And then I will deal with you.” He cut the connection.

Brand was still staring at the empty screen when Jerboa approached with the brandy. He set the bottle on the desk. “Well,” he said, “you tried.”

“I had to. Even though I think we both knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Yep. That’s a predator for you. So what happens now?”

Brand sat back and reached for the bottle. “We keep digging,” he said, “and try to contain the collateral damage before all Talbot’s Peak gets caught in the blast.”

The Ripple Effect

Actions have consequences. Throw a stone into the center of a pond and the ripples spread out to the shoreline. The nameless person behind the scenes has just thrown huge stones into a number of lives. Now the ripples are starting to spread …

# # #

Brandon Fledermaus is looking for answers. The attack on him made little sense, and his instincts tell him Damien Hancock wasn’t really behind it. That opinion strengthens when he learns Hancock and Zhere Ghan both experienced similar attacks on the same night. Oh, the two kingpins themselves aren’t talking, but they have staff, and their staff tends to gossip, and speculate.

Hancock and Ghan are predators, and so are their employees. Most of the population of Talbot’s Peak is prey—herbivores, rodents. When predators talk, prey is always listening, in the form of a diner waitress, a clerk in a grocery store, a bartender in a local pub, a janitor mopping the floor in the offices of Hancock Real Estate or the tigers’ nightclub, Nirvana. Listening for the movements of predators is how the prey survives.

Brandon Fledermaus is a bat, and bats have excellent hearing. He flits through the night from one contact to another, and listens as the stories grow.

# # #

The doctor holds up a hypodermic. “This is what we have. It still hasn’t been fully tested—”

Damien Hancock thrusts out his arm. “Start testing.”

The scientist grimaces, but Hancock’s money keeps his pups in private school, away from human and herbivorous taints, so he swabs the prominent vein in the crook of the old wolf’s arm, slides the needle in, and prays he hasn’t just poisoned his financial well.

Nothing happens, at first. Hancock growls, down low in his throat. The sound has an edge of panic to it. The Asian cat who ambushed him hit too close to home. An Alpha who can’t shift might as well be dead. If his pack learns the truth, his life won’t be worth scat.

And then …

It starts in his gut, a twist like his innards are reshaping themselves. He doubles over, dry-retching. His heart slams against his ribs like a caged wolf against iron bars.

Then the power hits. Raw, crackling energy blasts through his veins, building and building with no end in sight. All of a sudden he’s twenty again, fierce and hungry and ready to hunt the world and crack its spine in his powerful jaws. His muscles thicken, his neck bulges. A howl starts up in the pit of his lungs and bursts free in a lusty bellow that almost seems to rattle the windows.

Still got it! he thinks exultantly. He’s still the king of Talbot’s Peak. Still the Alpha wolf.

When his body’s shudders stop he rises up. He’s suddenly a foot taller than he was before. He jabs a taloned finger at the empty hypodermic. “Make more.”

The doctor nods bleakly. Secretly, he wonders if it might be best to yank his pups out of school, pack up the wife and the SUV and move to that nice town in Oregon.

# # #

Zhere Ghan stands silently by while housekeeping removes the remains of his wrecked office jungle. One hand grips the edge of his desk. The other clenches and relaxes, clenches and relaxes. Each clench drives his nails more deeply into his palm. His men have searched the manor grounds, and beyond. They have yet to catch the assassin.

A sheep. Someone sent a sheep to kill him. A bloody herbivore. The blatant insult curdles in his gut.

Allegedly it was Fledermaus, but Zhere Ghan has his doubts. He’s studied the bat. Fledermaus certainly has funds enough to afford the Seven’s services, but would he be so crass? This attack reeks of contempt. It’s something Hancock would think of, had he the wit or the subtlety.

Worse still, it nearly succeeded. That rankles even more.

And now he’s lost his favorite and most powerful chess piece. Sergei’s in the wind, no longer at Ghan’s beck and call. Sergei, who knows every inch of this compound, who can ghost past its alarms, defenses and warriors any time he wants to. Who trained Stefanya, leader of the Seven.

The phone atop his desk goes off. The housekeepers jump. Ghan does not. He answers calmly. “Yes?”

“Father?” Tasman, from the club. “Are you well? I’ve been getting jumbled reports—”

“It’s nothing. A glitch in the security system. Stay where you are. No need for you to come home.”

Tasman pauses, reading between the lines. “I could send Leila.”

“No. Keep her with you. Better than a battalion, that one.” He might not have been the only target tonight. At least now he knows his son and heir is safe and, with his lethal assistant to guard him, likely to stay so.

Enough standing about. Time to take action.

“Father?”

“I have matters covered on my end, but there’s something you can do. That dancer, the red wolf, Genevieve Bordeaux. Is she still there at the club?”

“Not any more. She quit the other night. Went over to that new place, with the freaks and the perverts.”

“Did she now?” First her, then Sergei. Interesting timing. “Can you spare an agent? I want her watched. I want to know who comes and goes at her house, and where she goes, and why.”

Tasman makes a small noise, like he’s about to ask a question, but instead responds, “Yes, Father.”

“Good lad. We’ll discuss matters when you get home.” He’ll need to find out if Sergei at least killed Warner Hancock’s bitch and spawn. The House of Ghan is under attack. He can’t afford to take anything for granted any more.

After ending the call with his firstborn, he summons the head of his personal security team. “I want all your current intelligence on Fledermaus, the Hancock pack, Sergei, and that new upstart nightclub in town.” He sighs. It’s a happy sound, full of anticipation. “Looks like we’re going to war.”

# # #

Genevieve awakens from a restless sleep to the sound of a light tapping at her bedroom window. She squints through the gloom and spots a hulking silhouette that can only be Sergei. She springs from her bed and hurries to the kitchen door to let him in.

He does not waste words. “I have left Zhere Ghan,” he tells her somberly. “My life may be worth nothing now. Yours also, I’m afraid.” He bends to kiss her forehead. “I am so sorry, my firewolf. I should have killed him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She isn’t upset. She’s been getting hints of this through her dreams for a while now. She’s known something along these lines was coming. “We’ll need a place to hide, at least for a bit.” A smile curves her lips. “And I know where.”

# # #

Working the late shift on the desk at the Rocky Top Motel, Hoover suddenly straightens when a poignant, musky scent assails his sensitive nose. His phenomenal sense of smell is how he got this job. Hancock’s corporation owns this motel, and Damien Hancock owns Hoover. His job is to assess the travelers who pass through the strip by the interstate exit. Most are humans, nonthreatening and oblivious, on their hurried way from here to there. Some are shifters. Some could pose a threat to the Hancocks and their hold on Talbot’s Peak. Any time Hoover sniffs someone iffy, he’s to contact the Alpha immediately.

One whiff of the man approaching the desk and Hoover figures he’s earned his pay for the week, and then some.

The man walks with a slow, effortless stride, like he’s stalking prey. Hoover doesn’t even need the walk. He knows a tiger when he smells one. He’s got smooth skin, paler than most Indian tigers, and straight black hair that falls to his shoulders. He smiles at Hoover. His eyes chill the wolf to his bones. The tiger’s eyes are blue. Hoover knows only one other blue-eyed tiger: Sergei, Zhere Ghan’s freak albino pet.

He swallows hard and offers up a wide, friendly smile. “Welcome to Talbot’s Peak, sir. Would you like a room?”

“That’s usually why one comes to a motel,” the tiger says dryly. His voice holds the hint of an accent, and it isn’t Indian. “I’ll need lodging for a week at least, possibly longer. Have you any available?”

“This time of year? Not a problem. You’ve got your pick of the second floor. How about one near the ice machine?”

“That will do nicely,” the tiger agrees. He nods toward the motel entrance, and the garishly-lit street beyond. “That road out there. Where does it lead?”

“Up into the mountains.” No point in holding back. He has a sinking feeling the tiger already knows and is toying with him. “There’s a town up there about the size of a pinhead. Nothing of interest, really.”

“Talbot’s Peak, yes?”

Scat. “Yeah, that’s it. They’re kind of insular up there, though. Survivalists. Home-grown Montana militia. You don’t want to go up there.”

“Perhaps not.” The man signs in and produces a credit card. Hoover makes close note of his name. Mikhail Dvorak. That answers some questions and raises a ton of others. Mr. Dvorak gives him a cold, thin smile and climbs the stairs. He’s brought no luggage with him.

The second he hears the upstairs door clap shut, Hoover dives for the phone and speed-dials the Hancock stronghold.

Greener

Mayor Gil sat at his desk in his darkened office at City Hall, with a glass of scotch and tired thoughts playing through his head. It was past time to head home, but he didn’t want to subject Chloe and the kids to his sour mood. Better to sit here and work through his issues before he packed it in for the night.

Pack it in, yeah. Am I doing any good here? Has me being Mayor made a difference? Maybe I should just retire before the next election. Let some other poor bastard put up with the crazy. He sipped his scotch. I could use a sign.

A bat flew in the open window.

Gil leaped up and grabbed a broom, but stopped himself before he started swinging. For all he knew, this could be one of his constituents. Sure enough, the bat reformed itself into Brandon Fledermaus. Gil set the broom aside. “Jesus. Call first, willya?”

“Sorry. I wanted to keep this meeting quiet.” He eyed the broom. “You keep a broom in the Mayor’s office?”

“In case of messy accidents. You’d be amazed how often those happen.” Or maybe he wouldn’t. This was, after all, Talbot’s Peak. Gil returned the broom to the closet and pulled out a robe, which he offered to Brand. “I get a lot of unexpected visitors, too. It pays to be prepared. Drink?”

“Thanks.” Brand pulled on the robe while Gil poured a second glass of scotch. They both took chairs before the desk.

Gil thought, Now here’s a guy who’s got it all. Handsome, powerful, rich. A rodent shifter, yeah, but one who commanded respect. People were afraid of bats. Nobody was afraid of a squirrel. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m mostly here for information. Giving and receiving. I was attacked last night, by people who claimed they were sent by Damien Hancock.”

Gil didn’t miss the phraseology. “Claimed?”

“They weren’t pure wolf shifters. I’ve never heard of Damien using anyone who wasn’t pure wolf. He doesn’t believe in mixing species. The incident as a whole didn’t have his stamp on it, so I’m poking around.”

“This happened last night?” Gil paused thoughtfully. “You may not have been the only one. Something got Hancock all stirred up last night. And apparently there was some kind of power outage at the Ghan compound. Hamsters,” he explained. “They run the electric company.”

“All three of us?” Brand studied his drink. “That’s not coincidence. Sounds like somebody wants to stir up trouble between the Peak’s movers and shakers.”

“Shit,” Gil said. “Not again. I do not need this.” He polished off his scotch. “How’d you like to be Mayor?”

Brand frowned. “You’re not resigning, are you?”

“Been thinking about it. I mean, it’s not the best job in the world, especially in a town like this. The pay sucks—I still work at Rattigan’s to make ends meet. The people elected me to lead them and then bitch about how I do it. I get chased by wolf cubs and cats on a regular basis. And nobody, I mean nobody, respects a squirrel. You want the job, it’s yours. You’re a local. People know you. They’ll listen to you. You’ve got the looks, the money and the brains to make it in politics, and the guts to lead this zoo. Nobody’s gonna chase you to the top of the Christmas tree, that's for damn sure.”

“Sounds exciting,” Brand said dryly. “Did I mention the attempt on my life?”

“Only one? Welcome to my world.” Gil sighed. “I’ll talk to the bunnies. They’re everywhere, they hear everything. I can drop by the diner when Louie’s not looking. Anything the bunnies didn’t hear, I’ll bet Elly did. Anything you find out, you keep me informed. This whole town is a freakin’ circus, but I guess it’s still my circus. Besides, us rodents gotta stick together.”

“Thanks.” Brand finished his drink and got up. “You’ve got more support than you realize. You wouldn’t have won two elections if this town didn’t want you as their Mayor. You’ll either hear from me directly or through my man Jerboa.” He smiled. “Next time I’ll use the phone.”

“Appreciate it.”

Brand shrugged out of the robe and prepared to shift. Then he paused. Gil glanced around. Brand was studying the photo on his desk, the one of him with Chloe and the munchkins. Gil only sort of liked the photo. He’d been up half the night dealing with feedings. Photo-Gil looked ready to nod off.

“Your family?” Brand asked. Gil nodded. Brand sighed. “You have no idea how lucky you are.” He shifted and flapped out the window.

Gil sat with his empty glass a little longer. He looked at the photo for a while. Then he got up, shut the window, locked up the office and went home.

# # #

“I was just about to call you,” Chloe said as he walked in the front door. “You weren’t home and nobody’d seen you. I was getting worried—” She broke off on an oomph when Gil caught her up and hugged her tight. “Well!” she gasped when he let her get her breath back. “What was that about?”

“You know that old saying, about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence?” Gil said. “Well, I just realized I’ve got the greenest damn lawn in Talbot’s Peak.So what's for dinner? Whatever it is, I guarantee it'll be my favorite."

Strike One

Brandon Fledermaus leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. All day long he belonged to the ranch, a never-ending litany of chores, decisions and the responsibilities of running a cattle and business empire. Dusk belonged to him. This was his time to kick back and relax and let the day’s tensions drain out of him.

For his personal time he came here, to his personal space. These underground quarters predated the ranch house above. Dieter Fledermaus had built these rooms first, before he even started on the above-ground cabin. Call it a den, lair, burrow, rec room, basement, or bunker, all rodent shifters had an inborn need for a private place underground. Even those who normally took to the sky.

Brand had added his own touches—flat screen TV, Internet, softer lighting, sound system, library, more comfortable furniture. The rough-hewn rafters had been left bare and untouched since Grandpa’s day. Sometimes a fellow just needed to roost.

No one ever called it the Batcave. Not to his face, at any rate.

He’d poured himself a drink and had the glass at his lips when someone rapped briskly on the door. He sighed and set the glass back on the desk. “Come in.”

The door swung inward and Jerboa stuck his graying head in. “Just checking in.”

“I’m fine, Jer, thanks.” He waited. Jerboa remained stubbornly in the doorway. “I don’t need anything. Including a babysitter.”

“Beg to differ, boss. There’s been rumblings in town. Hancock’s in one of his moods again. Better safe than sorry.”

“Hancock isn’t fool enough to make a direct attack. I’ll check with my attorney and find out if he’s been up to anything. That will be all, Jer,” he added pointedly.

Jerboa had gone silent, intent. Brand swung his feet off the desk. “You hear something?” Jerboa said, his voice hushed.

His keen ears had already caught the noises in the house above, whispery scratches that didn’t belong. Like claws on the hardwood flooring. Jerboa gestured at him to stay put. “Shut the door. I’ll look—”

He disappeared from the doorway. Brand shot to his feet even before he heard the loud crash in the hallway. He lunged for the door.

Before he even reached it a wolf leaped inside. Or maybe not a wolf. Its body was too narrow and stringy, its muzzle long and pointed, its ears large. Coywolf, Brand thought. The men had mentioned a coyote nosing around the trash heap. Going so far as to rear up and peer through the windows. He revised his initial assessment. Shifter.

The beast cocked its head to regard him shrewdly. Deducing the jig was up, the coywolf shifted. A lanky, narrow-chested man with brownish-blond hair and a cocky grin stood before him. Brand waited for the coywolf to make his move.

“I’ll bet you’re wondering what’s up,” the shifter said. “We could have just emailed, I suppose, but this is so much more fun. Damien Hancock says hi.” He charged Brand.

If he was expecting a shift from his target, he was doomed to disappointment. Brand preferred the unexpected. When the shifter came at him he simply sidestepped, grabbed the man’s arm and flipped him into the desk. The crash was spectacular. Similar noises from the hall, and a decidedly feminine yelp of dismay, told him Jerboa was holding his own. But against how many?

The coywolf rolled off the desk and landed on four feet. He whirled toward his target—and found only a pile of clothing. Automatically he looked to the rafters, scanning for a small, flitting shape.

Exactly as Brand had predicted. The biggest advantage to having a shape with wings was everyone expected an aerial attack. With the coywolf focused on the ceiling, Brand crept from beneath the pile of his clothing and scuttled across the floor. In seconds he reached the wolf. His fur provided all the holds a bat could want.

Just because Brand wasn’t a vampire bat didn’t mean a lack of sharp, dangerous teeth. He battened onto the coywolf’s throat and burrowed through the fur.

# # #

Even as he turned toward the sound behind him, Jerboa was grabbed and yanked off his feet by—well, goddamn. By a woman. A petite bit of muscle with hair like a desert sunset and a sharp, vixeny face. She crouched over him in an attack pose. “Stay down,” she ordered. “It’s your boss Hancock’s after.”

“Can’t do that, little lady,” he drawled, and kicked her in the stomach. She went down, hard. Clearly she wasn’t expecting resistance from the old guy. He got to his feet before she did, and aimed a kick at her head. She dodged it, but just barely.

The little lady sure had pretty eyes. Right now they were huge as the Panhandle, with recognition growing in them, quickly followed by panic. His ego flared up briefly. Dammit, it felt good to be remembered.

# # #

“Now then,” Brand said. He had the coywolf pinned to the floor. The fur around his throat was tinged with blood. Brand had bitten just deeply enough to prove his point. Unlike his distant vampiric relations, blood gave him stomach cramps. No need for the coywolf to know that, however. “How about you tell me what’s going on here.” He tightened his grip on the coywolf’s ruff. “It will be easier if you shift.”

His captive did so. He wasn’t smirking any more. “You’re dead,” he gasped out. “Hancock wants you dead. You don’t stand a—”

A woman came flying through the open door. She hit the wall, slid to the floor and didn’t get up. Jerboa strolled in and hauled her upright by her hair. “Looks like it’s just the two of ‘em, boss. You’re lucky you didn’t get this one. Filly’s got a punch.”

“So much for your backup,” Brand said. “Now tell me what Hancock thinks to gain by sending two clearly untrained fighters to attack me in my own home.”

But the woman picked that moment to shift. Her wolf form had reddish fur, a sharp snout, dark legs and a thick brush of a tail that was tipped with white. She snapped at Jerboa, who dropped her. At the same instant the coywolf-man suddenly bucked and shifted and shot out from underneath Brand. Both raced out the door at top speed. Jerboa followed, yelling for the hands.

He returned some minutes later. “Got out through the kitchen,” he reported. “The boys’ll run ‘em down. Loco. But then, it’s ol’ Damien we’re talking about.” He brushed reddish hairs off his sleeve. “Looks like we’re at war with the Hancocks.”

Brand rubbed his own set of hairs between his fingers. Tawny hairs, that hadn’t come off a full-blood wolf. “I wonder.”

# # #

“Never,” Castor panted. He kept his eyes on the sky, alert for swooping, sharp-fanged forms. “Never again. Let the killers do the fighting. Nothing but spying for me from now on.”

“Relax,” Pollux said. “We lost them.” But she also stared at the sky. A leaf fluttered between her and the stars, and she flinched. “I hate bats. And kangaroo rats. And rodents in general. I’m with you. Intel-gathering all the way.”

“Kangaroo rats?”

“You didn’t recognize Fleddy’s pal? That was Jerboa Calhoun. Retired MMA fighter, world-class kickboxer. I’m lucky he didn’t take my head off. What the hell’s he doing working for Fledermaus?”

“Health benefits?” Cas fingered his throat. Thank Lupa the bleeding had stopped. “I better not need a rabies shot. You watch MMA?”

“Hey. Sweaty men in tights beating up on each other. What’s not to like?”

“Dunno. I’ve always been into roller derby. Let’s get back and report. As of now, I’m out of the assassination biz.”

Maybe Baby

“So, Doctor,” Brandon Fledermaus said, “what’s the good word?”

Lin Hu bit her lower lip. Normally no-nonsense and direct, she found it difficult to face the owner of the Flying F ranch in this instance. Brand was quite wealthy, and generous with that wealth. Currently he was funding her special research project. True, he stood to benefit from it, but so would many others. Financial aid aside, she liked the man. He was polite and pleasant, for a bat. And never once had he made any jokes regarding her name and that silly TV show.

How could she look this man in the eye and tell him she had failed him yet again?

“Doctor?”

“Not so good,” she said at last. “The word, I mean.”

Curse it all, it was as she feared. The eagerness, the hope, slowly seeped out of his face. “That’s not to say it’s totally out of the question,” she hastened to add. “I’ve put out a call for volunteers. Those of mixed ancestry, human and shifter. For some reason humans have no trouble interbreeding with shifters. The offspring nearly always have some shifter ability. If I can isolate the genetic factor—”

“No.” He was already reaching for his Stetson. “It’s not that important, not at this time. Leona and I haven’t even discussed marriage yet, let alone … ” That part trailed away. “I’ll continue to contribute to the clinic, of course. You do vital work here. You’re needed.”

Vital to the varied denizens of Talbot’s Peak, perhaps. And to him, though he wouldn’t admit it. Lin touched his arm. “It’s not as if one of you were a bird or a reptile shifter. You’re both mammals. And your bat is at least partly carnivorous, which helps. The odds—”

“The odds of a bat and a jaguar conceiving, let alone birthing a healthy child, fall somewhere between slim to none,” he said, with a wry, humorless smile. “It’s fine, Doctor. I have the ranch, and Leona’s involved with her career. It will be a long time before either of us is ready to have a child. I suppose we can always adopt.”

“But it isn’t the same,” she said. “I know. I feel it too, more often than you know. The beast in us cries out to reproduce. I’ve as much chance of finding a compatible male panda as you do of breeding with a cat. Even if I were still in China. But although the odds are microscopic, they are not nonexistent. And so I keep looking. As I will keep looking, on your behalf.” She tilted her head to peer at him. “You’ve discussed this with Leona, of course?”

“We’ve touched on it. She says she has no interest in becoming a mother right now. Jaguars do tend to be solitary. But sometimes I catch a look in her eyes … I know she’s been thinking about it. I have too. My father and grandfather worked hard, and built an empire. I’ve worked just as hard to keep it successful. I don’t want it all to fall apart when my time comes. I’ve got something I’d be proud to pass on to a son. Or a daughter.” He winked at Lin. “A little girl with Leona’s courage and drive would be a world-beater.”

“There’s still your brother,” Lin reminded him. “Unless that’s out of the question?”

Brand snorted. “Jack hasn’t shown any sign of settling down. I don’t even know where he is right now. But if it came to that … hell, I’d take in a child of his in a second. Even a bastard child. Jack’s borderline psychotic, but he’s still family. If he ever has children, I’ll welcome them. Even leave the ranch to them.” He shrugged and offered up that crooked grin again. “Bats aren’t even that territorial. It must be an alpha male thing.”

“Must this child be a bat? Or part bat?”

“It would be nice. Helpful, even. But beggars can’t be choosers. If we adopt, we’ll have to take whatever breed is available. And hope they want to run a ranch when they grow up. That’s a risk Leona and I will face even if we do conceive together. Children do tend to grow up being who they’ll be.”

Liar, she thought. He spoke so glibly of adoption. The truth, his real desire, his need, still lurked within his eyes. The bone-deep, ancient need to create life and pass on one’s genes to a new generation.

If pandas were lacking she, at least, could fulfill her drives with a raccoon or a human. Brandon and Leona had fallen in love. Two breeds whose genetics would deny them the one thing their most powerful instincts wanted above all.

She’d seen a lot of this in Talbot’s Peak. Shifters, humans, joining, mating, playing mix and match. Sooner or later they all wanted that one basic thing. Some had a fighting chance. Those her gynecological training could help. Others were reproductively doomed from the start. Those she saw as a challenge.

Even if she never had a child of her own, she could see that others weren’t denied.

“I will keep looking,” she promised. “As I said, you’re both mammal shifters. You have a running start. We need only find a way to blend your genes. You may need to find a human surrogate. I can’t guarantee Leona could carry a hybrid to term. Humans seem capable of birthing anything. Genetically they’re quite resilient.”

“You don’t need to do that,” he said, too quickly. His eyes continued to lie. To plead.

She smiled. “Let me continue anyway, for my own amusement. The research is sure to help someone.”

“Yes, that’s true. Especially here. Thank you, Doctor. If you need anything—”

“I will call you. And I will be sure to keep you apprised of my progress.” She lowered her voice. “At some point, I will have to speak to Leona. And run tests.”

Brand grimaced. “Good luck. She’s tough to pin down, and she hates doctors. Better let me talk to her first.” He sighed. “We’ll work something out.”

“I’m sure the three of us will. Good day to you, Mr. Fledermaus.”

A girl entered her office as Brand went out. “You the doctor looking for medical volunteers?” she asked. “I heard you pay.”

“Let’s discuss the details first. You may change your mind. You’re a human-shifter hybrid?”

Her head bobbed. While she spoke, she hopped from foot to foot. “I’m supposed to be. Mom said Dad was human. I don’t know, I never met him. Mom’s a hare. When I shift, my ears are too short and my ass is too big, so who knows? Dad wasn’t a bunny, that’s for damn sure.”

This was good. This was excellent. Rabbits and humans were the most fertile of the breeds. Their genes mixed with practically everything. If she could isolate the common factor— “A simple test will determine your ancestry. Yes, I will pay you. Anything beyond that we’ll have to discuss.”

“Kewl.” The girl was staring at her medical credentials, framed on the wall. “Your name’s really Dr. Who?”

Lin swallowed an ancient Chinese curse. “If you’d please come this way?”

Win-Win

Now this was just not right. Cordelia had honed her vampire’s nose over the centuries. She knew living from dead, human from otherwise. Some blood really did taste better than others. And some beings should not be here in her club. Shapeshifters, for instance.

She’d expected the leaders of Talbot’s Peak would want to meet with her. A new player in the game always warrants attention. However, she’d also expected the courtesy of an invitation. A covert infiltration? That was simply rude.

Or it could be a rival business owner, scoping out her operation. Cordelia saw no conflict in her opening a nightclub/restaurant here beside the interstate exit. The Caverns complex was miles away from Talbot’s Peak, and geared for the exit’s transient human market, not shifters. Humans rarely ventured as far as the Peak anyway, and there were certainly enough of them to go around. There should be no attrition in the Peak’s customer base.

Truth be told, Cordelia preferred no shifters patronize her businesses. She couldn’t stand the taste of animal blood.

“All right, dahling,” she murmured to herself, “let’s see who you are.”

She followed her nose across the packed floor of the club. The multitude of people dancing, laughing and drinking warmed what used to be her heart. The Caverns’ opening week had been a definite success. If she could keep this up, she’d be reaping huge profits, and fresh human blood, for many years to come.

First, however, she’d best deal with the pesky shapeshifter.

She found him at the bar, a lean-bodied cowboy with a narrow face and big ears. The ears sparked a sense of familiarity. His odor, more defined now that she was closer, hinted at a similar kinship.

Cordelia frowned. That wasn’t possible. He was a shifter. And alive.

Just then he turned, as if he’d sensed her presence. He flashed a smile at her, full of gleaming white teeth. Her eyes instinctively focused on his teeth. You could tell a lot about a person by their teeth. His canines were long, more slender than a wolf’s, and very pointy.

The kinship in his scent finally registered, as did the clue provided by his ears. Well now, Cordelia thought. This could prove most interesting indeed.

She joined him at the bar. “Good evening.” Oh dear God. “Good evening” in a Hungarian accent. What could be more clichéd?

“Howdy,” he responded. His own voice also held the trace of an accent, from a lot farther south of the border than Montana. “You the owner of this fine establishment?”

“You have me at a disadvantage, dahling.”

“Perdon. I am Sandoval.” He executed a minor bow. How Old-Worldlian. Cordelia was touched. “I work on the Flying F, for Brandon Fledermaus. It’s a cattle ranch near Talbot’s Peak.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Cordelia said. “I did my homework before I moved in. Owned and run by bat shifters, correct?” She let her gaze rest significantly on his prominent ears.

He laughed with good humor. “Intelligent and beautiful. You’re going to succeed in the Peak.”

“I’m not looking to succeed in the Peak. Just here, in human territory.” She gauged the man’s eyes, his tone, his scent and body language, with the advantage of three hundred years’ worth of experience. “If this conversation is headed where I think it is, we should find somewhere more private.”

Every seat in the bar was filled, so she took Sandoval to her office. “Now,” she said, with the door closed and at her back, “you tell me what a shapeshifter is doing in a human establishment, seeking out a vampire.”

“A female vampire,” he specified, with a twinkle in his dark, inviting eyes. “You already know I’m a bat. Have you determined the kind yet?”

Cordelia tasted his scent. Aha, so that was the kinship. “A vampire is not a vampire bat, and vice versa.”

“How well I know it,” he said on a sigh. “But I’d hoped … The Flying F is mostly fruit bats, from Fledermaus on down. There are only a few of my kind at the ranch, and all are male. We have some true vampires in Talbot’s Peak, but the only female has been claimed by a rat with a cleaver. My brothers and I, we have difficulty finding women who share our … tastes.” Cordelia nodded in complete understanding. “So, when rumors of a female vampire arise, we investigate. Where there’s one, there may be others. You run in flocks as we do, yes?”

“Others, maybe, or so I’ve heard. I prefer to be queen of my kingdom. A solitary queen.” She showed her fangs.

Sandoval bowed again. “I didn’t come to threaten you, or to compete for food. We only require a few sips every few days, and we prefer to feed from beasts. Senor Fledermaus has been generous with his cattle. I came to offer something else. You see … ” He showed off his own fangs in a disarming smile. “I know the true curse of the vampire. Specifically, the male vampire.”

Cordelia grimaced. “Yes, there is that. For a man, being undead means the parts don’t always work. So what can you offer me, Sandoval?”

His smile widened. “A night of enjoyment and no strings. With all working parts.”

The vampiress considered. She hadn’t had a break since she bought the property. Building the Caverns had taken all her time. This offer certainly came housed in a pretty package. And solitude grew tiresome after many decades, as did celibacy.

Cordelia smiled fully. Sandoval gazed at her fangs as a human man would at her bustline. Yes, this could prove most beneficial all around. What better way to establish friendly relations with the local shifter population?

“I’ll need one thing more. Not that, dahling,” she amended when he tugged down the collar of his shirt. “Introductions. Your Mr. Fledermaus will do for a start. I’m sure he can set me up with the Mayor, and your business council, if you have one here, and anyone else I need to meet with.” Enough with the waiting already. Sometimes the woman had to make the first move. Such as now. She extended her hand to Sandoval. “But that’s for later. Come with me.”

# # # Employees tending to cleanup in the early morning hours paused in their sweeping and wiping to listen. From the depths of the complex, in the still-closed-off sections, came what sounded like high-pitched squeaks, and cries of, “It’s alive! It’s alive!” However, these workers were locals, and had known all their lives that the Talbot’s Peak area was a strange place. The monster elephant that burst out of the earth months ago had pretty much underscored that. They shrugged and went back to their cleaning.