Communication Breakdown

The long, hopeful howls of a hunting pack rose above the forest surrounding Talbot’s Peak. Augustus Hancock nudged his brother Drew. “Go ahead. Call her. I dare you.”

“No.”

“Why not? You like her, right?”

“Dog, she’s with her family.”

“All the better,” Augie said. “If you call her now, it shows you’re Alpha. You know what you want and you go for it. You’re not afraid of her dad.”

“Aug, I am afraid of her dad.”

“You keep thinking like that and you’ll never get a date for the dance. Or you’ll end up going with … ” Augie shuddered theatrically. “Some herbivore.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Drew said. “Their dads won’t rip your throat out.”

“No, they’ll just gore you or stomp you or kick you or chew off your—”

“Okay, okay. Point taken.” Drew hauled in a mighty breath and let it go again. “I’m calling her.”

Minutes passed. Augie huffed. “Chicken.”

“I am. I really am.”

“Bwawk buck buck buck.”

“Knock it off.” Drew ditched his clothes, shifted to his wolf form, and let out an echoing howl. Other than the crack at the end—both his voices were still adjusting to puberty—it sounded rather impressive.

The howls in the distance broke off. The air grew dangerously still.

Then they got an answer. Robust, eager, and alto enough to indicate it was a she-wolf.

“Holy scat!” Augie said, impressed. “Is that her?”

Drew shifted back, his wrinkled muzzle transforming into a human frown. “Heck no. That’s her sister, Mimi. Betsy’s voice has more of a rumble to it.”

“Betsy, Mimi, what’s the difference? A date’s a date.”

“No way. Mimi’s gamma. She’s in heat, like, 24/7. She’s the only she-wolf I know who humps legs. Betsy is … I dunno, she’s got this confidence about her. And her fur’s all golden, with these four white paws, and her tail is like a—”

“I get the picture,” Augie said. “Tell me more about the horny one.”

Just then another howl rolled out of the forest, this one a rich soprano. “That’s her! That’s her!” Drew wriggled like a puppy. “Did she say yes? Does she sound like she’s saying yes?”

“Ask her again. Find out.” Drew shifted and howled back. Then he waited.

The reply took a moment to reach them. This howl was not soprano. This howl was bass, sharp enough to rip air, and had a growl at the end of it. And it was headed their way.

Drew switched back to human so fast he lost his balance and landed ass-first on the frozen ground. “Ohmydogohmydogohmydog that’s her dad! He’s gonna kill us! Augie, what’re we gonna dooooooooo?” His last word rose up in a panicked howl as he switched back to four legs—the better to run with—and took off for Talbot’s Peak.

Augie shrugged and gathered up his brother’s clothes. Then he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small vial of elk urine (always be prepared for the worst, their coyote aunt had taught them) and sprinkled it on the ground to camouflage their scent. Then he found himself a hiding place behind a deadfall and waited.

Not long afterwards the pack arrived. The big slate-gray Alpha looked ready—and able—to rip alligators apart. Drew had been right to be nervous. Two lighter gray females and a golden she stood by with impatient looks on their snouts while the male scoured the ground for a trail. The elk piss finally defeated him and he stalked off, followed by the eye-rolls and heavy sighs of his womenfolk, who exchanged long-suffering looks before they finally trotted after him.

The smaller gray she-wolf lingered, just for a moment. She sniffed with evident interest where Drew’s clothes had lain.

Augie stood up. They stared at each other. He winked at her. She winked back.

# # #

Augie eventually found his brother in Java Joe’s, huddled at a table and working on his third cup of coffee. The proprietor, who was used to shifter customers, had provided him with a robe. Augie dumped his clothes on the table. “I hope that’s decaf,” he said, pulling up a chair.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Getting a date. I don’t know why you’re so down on Mimi. She seems friendly enough to me. Oh, and you’re too late about Betsy. She’s already going to the dance with some other wolf. I did try to put in a good word for you.”

“Thanks a helluva lot.”

“You’re welcome. Remember what Aunt Lucia always told us. You gotta be sure and you gotta be smart, but above all you gotta be quick.” He slapped his brother on the shoulder. “See you at the dance.”

The Only Thing That Matters

Quiet nights like this were supposed to be restful. Instead, clear nights with a bright moon and plenty of stars tended to make Damien Hancock stalk the halls of his mountaintop stronghold and snap at whatever wolf had the misfortune to cross his path. Soft breezes only prickled the hairs on his neck, and moonlight made it harder for his aging eyes to see his enemies coming. An alpha wolf in his position had foes at every turn.

Tonight, though, the next turn in the corridor simply brought him to the servants’ wing. Here the Hancock low-ranks who saw to the household had their meager rooms. Damien rarely bothered to patrol here. He must not have been paying attention.

A group of maids were clustered around a flat-screen TV, watching a movie. Those too low on the ladder to rate a seat lolled on the floor in wolf form. On the screen, Gerald O’Hara tongue-lashed a sullen Scarlett on the importance of land. It’s the only thing that matters, he insisted.

Damien’s lips curled. Territory. Holding one’s turf. Sometimes the monkeys got it right.

Wolves also knew the importance of territory. Land meant power. Land meant wealth. Dealing in real estate had made Damien a wealthy alpha and the Hancocks a powerful pack. He’d had the foresight to buy property before the interstate went in, back when land was cheap. Now he had a hotel on Boardwalk and restaurants on Park Place, so to speak. He wondered sometimes what the apes would think if they knew those pizzas and Chinese dinners they shoved into their gaping monkey mouths were being provided by werewolves. He doubted they would even slow in their chewing.

The Talbots hadn’t had such foresight. Look where they were now.

Damien’s smile twisted into a half-snarl. He shouldn’t have thought of the Talbots. They’d claimed the land and founded the town and built their own secluded mini-empire. Now they only served as a reminder of how fragile it all could be. How quickly power could be lost, and territory stolen.

He whirled and charged from the low-rankers’ enclave, back to his seat of power. The she-wolves caught up in Gone With the Wind hadn’t even noticed his presence.

# # #

The Hancock mansion’s alpha suite had belonged to Damien for almost thirty years. From his chair behind his huge mahogany desk he could gaze out the wall-length window at the surrounding peaks, or step out onto the balcony and peer down at the town snuggled at the mountain’s foot. Of late neither view could cheer him, so he welcomed the dark. Night turned the outside to shadowy dreams, and shrouded day’s stark reality.

For the first time in his three-decade reign, Damien faced competition.

Not from within the pack, of course. He was still strong. Still undisputed. His sole legitimate offspring, Devon, showed no inclination to challenge him. Frankly, Devon showed little inclination for anything other than fast cars, strong drink, and lovely tail. He wouldn’t last ten seconds as the Hancock alpha, which suited his sire just fine.

The threats that ate away at him came from outside sources.

His glare stayed fixed on the view straight ahead, but his thoughts turned to the west, and the Fledermaus spread. Those damn bats had been a thorn in the Hancock flank since his own sire’s time. The Flying F should be Hancock land. He’d made his move to grab it after old Johann’s unfortunate “accident.” But Johann’s son Brandon had proved tougher than expected, canny in the ways of power and with the money to back it up. After a number of futile sorties Damien had been forced to back off.

No matter. Brandon had no sons and, given his choice to date outside his species, was unlikely to sire any. Ditto for his psychotic brother, Jack. With no heirs as backup, Brand’s hold on the spread remained tenuous. Damien had only to sit back and wait for the inevitable crack in his defenses.

That left the tiger, Zhere Ghan.

A growl ripped out of him unbidden. Ghan posed a bigger threat than any flighty bat. He was a cat, for starters. Cats were patient, and given to stalking. Cats never played by the rules. You couldn’t meet them in a straight-on confrontation. They were always leaping on you from behind.

Worst yet, Ghan had sons. Four legitimate, and Lupa only knew how many bastards. The younger two were bigger idiots than Devon, and his agents reported the second-born, Ravi, had returned to India. But the oldest, Tasman … there lay the problem. He had a cat’s sly brain and Ghan’s aptitude for business without the elder tiger’s vicious streak. His ability to keep a cool head and not give in to instinct made him a deadlier foe than all the other tigers combined. Only the knowledge Tasman would take command had kept Damien from going after Zhere. Why the cub hadn’t deposed the old rug already, Damien had no idea.

Perhaps he actually honored his sire. Perhaps that was a weakness Damien could use.

He’d better move fast. The damned stripies had opened a nightclub on what should have been Hancock turf, and prelim reports said it was already doing a healthy business. The downstairs sex rooms catered to anyone with sufficient funds. Including, his spies told him, low-rank wolves. He trusted his betas and the sub-alphas of the many Hancock satellite packs, but low-ranks, all too often, could be bribed or bought. It was one of the many reasons they were low-ranks.

Something had to be done about the stripies. And the bats. And all those flat-toothed herbies walking the streets of his town like they owned the scatted place. For Lupa’s sake, that feeble-brained McMahon mutt had gone and married one. What the hell was up with that?

He’d put an end to that, by Lupa, and to everyone else who threatened him. He’d put the Hancocks back on top again, and this time keep them there.

Power. The only thing that mattered. The hardest thing to hold.

Take This Job And ...

"So tell me," Tyson said. He did his best to keep the boredom out of his voice. "Why do you want to work for Beaver Brothers Construction?"

"Well." The young woman fluttered her hands like feathers, caught herself, and folded her hands in her lap. "I have three years experience in an office setting, I've worked with Microsoft Office, and my typing speed is—"

"Excuse me, Miss Blandon. You've already told me your qualifications. I'd like to know why you want to work for Beaver Brothers Construction." In his head, he was thinking, Why me? Why do I always get interview duty?

Because, he thought morosely, beavers were a patient breed—you cut down trees with your teeth, you'd better have patience—but not necessarily with other beings. Except for Tyson. He got along with everybody. By default, he'd become the family business's HR department.

"Oh! Well, everybody's heard of Beaver Brothers, you're a stable company, a great place to work, and … and … "

She was becoming flustered. Tyson couldn't help himself. He looked at the seat of her chair.

Miss Blandon flushed a furious red, as befit a cardinal shifter. "I saw that!"

"Excuse me?"

"I know what you're thinking. 'She's a bird, the first time she gets upset she's going to shift and poop all over everything.' We don't all do that, Mr. Beaver. I have never—"

"That's not what turned up in your background check. You might want to revise your Facebook page."

"Well!" She shot to her feet and glowered at him, all five feet of her. "This is species discrimination. You'll be hearing from my lawyer." She stormed out.

Tyson looked at the chair. It was still clean. He'd have to remember to check the rug for spots before he left today. "Next," he called wearily into the intercom.

A young man came in and sat down. Tyson sat up. The young man wasn't nervous at all. Tyson couldn't say the same. He snatched the copy of the resume the young man held out, and tried not to be obvious about checking the state of his fingers. "Mr. Kelso?" he said.

"Randy." The young man smiled. "Let's cut to the chase. I'm a guy and I'm a secretary. I promise I'm fully qualified."

Tyson tried not to wince at the word chase. "You're gender's not the issue, Mr. Kelso. We've hired carnivores before. They usually don't last long. Most carnivores don't like taking orders from herbivores."

The young man shrugged. "Bet you've been hiring alphas and betas. Even deltas get bristly. I'm an epsilon. Practically an omega. Everybody bosses us around. We just take it. It's our nature. My last job, I worked for humans." He sat back to let that sink in.

Tyson consulted his resume. "Why did you leave your last job?"

"I didn't. They left me. They shut the branch office and moved back to Billings. That's what I get for not working local."

Tyson couldn't argue with that. "You seem to have the required office experience."

"I started out working for the Hancocks. That's the nature of a wolf pack. Orders come from the alphas or betas. Everybody else is support."

"Why do you want to work for Beaver Brothers Construction?"

Randy snorted. "I need a paycheck, man. Nobody else is hiring. It's wolf-eat-wolf out there."

"Speaking of that … you know we're herbivorous here? This might not be the best company for you."

"On the contrary. Most of your contracts come from herbies, right? I mean herbivores. No offense. Anyway, think how impressed they'll be when they see you've got a wolf working for you. They'll be thinking, 'Damn. Nobody messes with these people.' If you get any carnie or human customers, I can handle them. When you're low-rank, you learn fast how to handle folks. Nothing ranks lower than a secretary."

You got that right, Tyson thought. "You might get flak from the workers. They're not going to trust you, you know."

"Why not? We don't hunt beavers even in the wild. Your teeth are bigger than ours. It's easier to just buy a steak. Look, I'm used to sitting by myself in the lunchroom. If I brown-bag it, I can bring hummus or something. One meatless meal a day won't kill me. Might even do me some good."

He certainly had the right attitude. And an impressive background. Worked for the Hancocks and humans. That might come in handy. The company was looking to expand. "Mr. Kelso, I'd like to give you a two-week tryout period. If you live up to this"—he waved the resume—"and you don't make the rest of us too uncomfortable, you've got a job here."

"Thank you." The wolf looked honestly relieved. "You won't regret it."

No, Tyson figured, they just might not at that. He shook hands with the new company secretary, and this time didn't even bother to check his fingers. "Welcome to Beaver Brothers."

Justifiable Herpecide

A woman walks into a bar. She wears a heavy cloak with the hood pulled up to hide her face—not out of a need to remain anonymous, but out of shame and a growing anger. The anonymity might come in handy for later, she reflects, and leaves the hood up.

The person she seeks sits casually at the bar, nursing a margarita. The woman slides onto a stool beside her target. The target glances her way, one eyebrow raised. “It’s my husband,” the woman says. “This time he’s gone too far.”

She orders a beer. The two sip their drinks and speak in low tones. Eventually an agreement is reached, and money is exchanged.

# # #

Osborne Hancock lay in his bed and grinned, watching the woman approach him. Even in the gloom he could see she was a looker. And naked, just like he’d insisted. He hitched his flabby legs apart. That wide, full-lipped mouth was made to have a cock thrust into it. He could tell by her walk she was ready and willing. Now he was assured she’d be able.

Yeah, that walk. There was something off about that walk. She didn’t move like a wolf, or a cat, or even a human. The sway of her hips suggested a serpent gliding over desert sands. Her scent was dry as scales. Just for a second unease overrode his lust. Then she sat on the edge of the bed with her tits hanging practically in his face, and he told himself he was being a nervous old mutt.

“Howdy,” the woman drawled. “Heard you were in the market for some company.”

“Oh yeah,” Ozzy rumbled. Up close she was even more striking, and her scent even more unsettling. “You’re not a wolf, are you?” he asked.

The woman tossed her hair and grinned at him. “That a problem?”

“Not to me. I like to try new things.”

“You’ll be trying new stuff out tonight for sure, I guarantee you that. Y’know your wife’s in the other room right now?”

“Fuck her. I’d rather fuck you.”

He reached for the woman. She swayed out of reach. “Uh-uh, sugah. I set the pace here. You just sit back and enjoy.”

All right. A skank willing to do all the work. Ozzy lay back down and rolled his fat legs even wider apart.

This evening’s skank took the hint. She positioned her body between his legs and her mouth right in front of his cock. She opened her mouth. Wide.

Holy shit, Ozzy thought. It was like her jaw had come loose. Was that even possible? What kind of a shifter was she?

She showed him.

His lust-befogged brain barely had time to register the fangs before they sank into his penis. What felt like molten acid squirted into his most tender area. He was still writhing when she struck again, this time at his sack. His scream almost shattered the windows.

“You bitch!” he howled through tears of agony. “Stinking—”

A high-speed buzzing answered him. Mocked him. Ozzy squinted through the sting of his tears and focused on the huge rattlesnake coiled between his legs. He hurled a pillow at it. The rattler dodged it easily and thumped off the bed. He lost sight of it in the shadows.

The implications sank in far more slowly than the fangs had. Rattlesnake. Bitten. He’d been poisoned. If he didn’t get help pronto, he was going to die.

Ozzy rolled off the bed and lurched to the door. He yanked it open and bellowed into the corridor for help.

Only one wolf appeared in answer to his frantic howl: Claudette, his meek omega wife. She did not look so meek tonight. She eyed his nudity, the blood and venom smeared across his private parts, in implacable silence.

“Call 911,” he barked at her. “I’ve been snakebit. I’ve been poisoned. I need an ambulance.”

She didn’t move. A little bit of a smile quirked her lips. “I don’t think you’re going to find anybody willing to suck that out.”

“Did you hear me? I’m snakebit! Call a doctor!”

“Don’t work yourself up, dear. It will only spread the poison through your system that much faster.”

Ozzy gaped at her. “You bitch. You put that snake in there.”

“And you pimped out our shes to those alphas. You turned our daughters into whores, for your own selfish ends.” In the twenty-three years of their marriage she’d always had trouble looking him in the eye. She had no trouble now. Her glare burned him like the venom in his bloodstream. “Our daughters, Osbourne. I know you married little low-rank me so you’d feel safe doing whatever you wanted. And I put up with it. Not this time. Even an omega has a breaking point.”

He found it hard to get his breath. His package had started to swell. He lifted his hand to smack her, and was terrified to see that hand shaking.

Screw her. He staggered down the hall in search of help, a phone, anything.

Once he was gone the sidewinder slithered out of the bedroom and became Rosa Terranova again. She rubbed the back of her hand vigorously over her mouth. “I’m gonna be brushing my teeth for hours,” she complained. “We good?”

“And then some.” Claudette pulled a wad of bills from the pocket of her robe and counted half of them into Rosa’s palm. “Your clothes are in my chambers. Use the back exit I showed you. No one will question you. My husband often entertains late-night visitors.”

“Whoo! This is more’n we talked about.”

“I didn’t ask you to bite him there. That was a nice touch, worthy of a bonus.” Something flickered in her eyes. Likely it wasn’t concern. “Will he die?”

“Not if’n he gets treated quick. Him runnin’ around like that ain’t helping him any. If he makes it, he’ll be sick as a dog for a week at least. He ain’t gonna be happy with you.”

“A week should be time enough. But you’re right. I may need some backup during the consolidation phase. How can I reach you?”

“Check for me at Humpty’s. I’m usually at the pool tables. If I ain’t there, leave a message with Jose.” Rosa touched her hand to the brim of an imaginary Stetson. “Pleasure doing business with you, ma’am. I’m lookin’ forward to a long and profitable relationship.”

# # #

After the ambulance hauled her husband away, Claudette called the pack together. In the interim she’d taken time to dress in a dark, tailored suit that screamed power. The pack stared at her in awe. They weren’t used to sniffing confidence on Ozzy’s mousy little wife.

“My husband’s had a medical crisis,” Claudette announced. “He may or may not survive. Actually, that’s irrelevant. I’ve already reported his misdeeds to Damien Hancock. Osborne is no longer alpha of our pack. I’m running things now.” She smiled at the assembled wolves, especially the shes. The relief on their faces made her glow inside. “Things are going to be different from now on.”

The Wolf-Shifter's Destiny

Well, if this didn’t suck elk antlers. Virgil had put a lot of time and miles behind him, and now he’d have to drive right back to the compound and start all over, this time with Darnell breathing down his neck. All because some bitch in a snit had used him as an impulsive escape route.

She had to go back, of course. That was never in doubt. Virgil tried to explain this to her, but she wasn’t having any. “You’re low-rank,” she said bluntly. “I don’t have to listen to you. You have to do what I say.”

“I’m packless,” Virgil corrected. “If anything, that makes me an alpha, head of the pack of me.” Hey, he realized. It did, didn’t it? He’d left his rank-obsessed pack behind. He was in charge of himself now. He sat up a little straighter. “If you stay away too long, you’ll end up packless too. You have to go back, right now.”

“Maybe I want to be packless.” They were seated at a creaky picnic table at the rest stop. Virgil had gotten them snacks from the machines. The she-wolf crammed coconut candy bars and peanut-butter crackers into her mouth in between refusals to cooperate. “Maybe I’m tired of being used and told who I have to mate with. Maybe the whole upper echelon should get stuffed and mounted on some human’s wall. Maybe alpha privilege sucks.”

He certainly couldn’t argue with that. Nevertheless … “They’ll come looking for you. I don’t want them finding me. You realize this looks like a kidnapping, don’t you? Do you know what they’ll do to me if they catch me with you?”

She daintily licked chocolate off her fingers. “Then we’d better make sure they don’t catch either of us, hadn’t we?”

Scat-damned high-ranks. Virgil munched gloomily on a cheese puff. Lupa save him, how long had these wretched things sat in the snack machine? He flicked it into the grass, where a magpie pounced on it. “What’s your name?”

“Destiny.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Hey, I didn’t choose it. We’re a wolf pack. Big family. Sooner or later they start running out of decent names.” She glared across the picnic table at him. “What’s your name?”

“Virgil.”

“Ha! You see? When I have my pup, she’s going to have a real name, like Mary or Sarah or something. Not—”

The she-wolf suddenly clapped a hand to her mouth. She bolted up and darted into the bushes. Magpies scattered. Virgil’s ears picked up on the unmistakable noises of yarking. “Um … Destiny?”

He hesitated to get up and go over there, but it seemed required. He compromised by going to the edge of the brush, with her hunched back just within reach. He hovered his hand uncertainly over her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She straightened but didn’t turn around. “No, I’m not scatting okay. I’m pregnant.”

# # #

They sat side by side on the bench, with their hips just brushing. Destiny sipped water from a bottle. Little by little, the story came out. “You remember the alpha conclave last month?”

Virgil nodded sourly. As if he could forget. A bunch of puffed-up alpha assholes paying lip service to unity and cooperation while jockeying for the role of top dog. Hell on earth for any pack member under the rank of beta. Virgil had spent the better part of those two weeks out in the woods in wolf form.

“A lot of the males took off for the woods,” Destiny went on. Virgil nodded again, this time with guilt attached. “They could do that. We girls couldn’t. We were expected to entertain our guests.” She actually used air quotes for entertain. “Our esteemed leader, Ozbourne the Great and Powerful, had hopes of mating off one of us to an unattached alpha. Get a toehold into another pack through blood ties. We were ordered to do whatever it took to win the alphas’ favor.”

Virgil gulped. He’d always assumed the she-wolves had it easy, especially those up the ladder. All they had to do was look pretty and allow the males to pant after them. This aspect of their existence caught him off guard. All of a sudden his own life in the pack, with all its restrictions on mating, didn’t look so bad.

“I was one of the bitches assigned to that yelp from Michigan. You remember him? With the hair?” Virgil didn’t, but he made himself look knowledgeable. “He was cute, but grabby. Nice smile, though. And unattached, or so he said. Ozzy wanted to attach him, and trust me, he cooperated fully. And then … ” Her upper lip twisted, showing teeth. “He went home to the wife he’d neglected to mention. Three weeks later I’m barfing up my kibble and Ozzy’s telling me how lucky I am.”

“Didn’t you use … ?” Virgil stopped himself. He knew humans had methods to prevent accidental whelping. He’d never really thought about it regarding his own situation. Having cubs, establishing a pack, was pretty much the point.

Her bitter words confirmed it. “We weren’t allowed to. Ozzy wanted us fertile. Pregnancy was Plan B.” Again with the air quotes. “My aunt gave me this awful tea to drink. I guess it didn’t work.” She snorted. “Now I’ve got an alpha’s bun in my oven, a possible heir to their pack, and Ozzy’s got leverage. But first he wanted me securely mated to a wolf of his choosing. Somebody who could be his eyes, ears and nose in the Michigan pack. Needless to say, I was not consulted.”

Enter Virgil and his truck, with its convenient tarp over the bed. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t hold it against her. He’d have done the same. He was doing the same. “So where are you headed? Michigan?”

“Are you kidding? I’m headed away. Someplace with woods. I’d rather live as a lone wolf than let the pack push me around any more. I heard you telling Darnitall you were headed for Wyoming. Works for me. Just drop me off wherever.”

“Um. We’re not going to Wyoming. That was just my cover story. I left the pack too."

“Yeah? Why?”

They wouldn’t let me mate. He had a feeling Destiny wouldn’t appreciate hearing that. “I wanted a change of scenery,” he said.

She nodded knowingly. “Yeah. I hear that a lot from the low-ranks. Where are you headed?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll go all the way to the coast. I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Me either. You don’t mind the company, do you? I mean, at least until I find a good spot. Someplace Ozzy wouldn’t think of looking for me.”

Or me, Virgil thought. They’d skin him alive and use his tail to decorate a motorcycle. Even if he took her back, they’d rip him to pieces on principle. But he couldn’t just dump a pregnant she-wolf at the side of the road.

Anyway, wasn’t the whole point of his great escape to find himself a she-wolf? Well, now he could check that off his to-do list. Not that he could keep her. Way too much baggage, not to mention the threat to his life. But he could hone his shaky dating skills on a real live girl, at least until she ditched him. Then he’d be better prepared when the real thing came along.

Besides, he’d been part of a pack his whole life. Shaking off life in a crowd might not be as easy as he’d figured. He couldn’t deny his relief at knowing he’d have another wolf around, if only temporarily. All of a sudden the big, bad world outside the pack looked a lot smaller and less scary.

“I pick the radio station,” he said.

She made a face. “You better like rock. Not that emo easy listening crap.”

“There is no other music than rock. Not even country western.”

Destiny brightened immediately. “Oh-kay.”

Smiling, Virgil clinked his bag of cheese puffs against her pack of crackers. Technically they didn’t clink, but he could tell she’d caught the gist. “East Coast, here we come.”

Moving Out

Virgil Hancock carefully loaded another box into the bed of his pickup. Today’s the day, he thought. Today I leave Montana behind and start a new life. My life.

What kind of life it might turn out to be, or where, he had no idea yet. But it would include a she-wolf, that was for damn sure. And pups. Don’t forget the pups.

The Hancock shifter pack might be progressive in a lot of ways, but when it came to mating rights the leaders clung to their ancient privilege like a wolf with a bone in its jaws. Only the alpha pair got to mate and reproduce. Sure, the lower ranks could hump all they liked. Pack law had loosened up that much. They just couldn’t hump she-wolves. Non-wolf partners only. Pups resulting from such liaisons couldn’t rise to leadership. Full-bloods could be seen as a threat to the alpha’s authority. And alphas were utterly paranoid when it came to enforcing their authority.

As a low-ranker, Virgil was far enough down the line to be unnoticed, by females as well as the males. Those higher up the ladder took their pick of available non-wolf women. That didn’t leave much left over for Virgil and those at his level. Therefore, a permanent road trip was necessary.

He wrestled a trunk into the bed of the truck. Work fast, he ordered himself, before you change your mind. All he asked of life was a she-wolf to share it with, and maybe pups to raise. Was that too much to hope for?

In the Hancock pack, hell yeah.

He leaned against the truck to catch his breath, just as a she-wolf burst out of the pack compound’s main lodge. Virgil didn’t recognize her. She was high-rank and out of his reach. Hot on her heels charged a wolf Virgil did know, whose face prompted swearing and sub-vocal growls. Oh scat. Darnell. Mr. Beta-Enforce-the-Rules. Virgil turned back to his loading. Another hour and he wouldn’t have to put up with Darnitall any more.

The two stormed past him and his truck without noticing either. Typical up-ranks. Darnell caught up with the she some distance off. They argued hotly, in low tones, though not low enough that a wolf with sharp ears couldn’t pick up on the gist of it. A wolf such as Virgil, for instance.

“Why can’t I just—”

“You know why. This is too important. This affords us a chance t to—”

“I won’t be used like some kind of—”

“Well, if you hadn’t—”

“My fault?”

Perhaps, Virgil considered, a quick duck into the lodge might be prudent. However, before he could move the she-wolf stalked past his truck and stomped back inside. Okay, one crisis averted.

Now here came Crisis Part Deux. Darnell sauntered up to him, as if the preceding drama hadn’t just happened. He looked Virgil up and down. That smile couldn’t fool a blind mole. “Vinnie. You’re up and about early.”

“Virgil.” Not that it was going to matter in about an hour or so. He slapped the side of the truck before Darnitall could start asking questions. “Hunting trip. I could be gone for a while.” Yeah. Try forever.

Darnell nodded absently. “Any chance you’ll be running into humans?”

“I’m not planning on it, but there’s always a chance.”

“You know the rules. No open conflict. Self-defense only. Be discreet.” His narrow eyes flicked toward the lodge. The porch still burned with the high, acrid scent of angry bitch. “Our survival as a pack hinges on discretion.”

“I’m going outside our territory, so it isn’t going to matter.” I.e., no chance he’d gossip to the other low-ranks about anything he might have just witnessed. He saw by the glint in Darnitall’s eyes the anal beta got it.

“All right, then. Have a good time. Bring us back some—” His usual suspicious frown returned. “What are you hunting?”

A life not dictated by hidebound high-ranks. “I was thinking elk. I might try Wyoming.”

“Good luck, then.” Darnell swept past him, on the trail of the outraged bitch. Never mind that an elk was too big and tough for a single wolf to bring down on his own. That wasn’t the point. As long as Virgil didn’t yap about anything he’d just seen, he and his plans didn’t matter a beaver’s flat ass to Darnell. Just the way Virgil wanted it.

He transferred the last two boxes from ground to bed of truck, then covered it all with a tarp. No good-byes. One last go-over in his quarters and then it was off to a brighter, better future.

There was no sign of Darnell or the she-wolf in the lobby, Virgil was happy to note. He made it to his room without incident. He had very little to pack up here—some extra clothes, bits of cash he’d stashed away, his favorite running shoes. Nothing in the way of mementos.

It frightened him a little, how easily he could walk away from the place that had been home and family to him for almost twenty-seven years. His place in the world was defined by the pack. What awaited him beyond its borders?

His first thought as a lone wolf brought a thin smile to his lips. Let’s find out.

Returning to his truck, Virgil checked the tarp and found a number of the ties loose. He snorted and secured them. Pups, sniffing around. He was going to miss the pups far more than their rank-rigid parents. His own pups (once he found a mate) would be raised to be more open-minded.

Before he climbed into the cab, he dug a quarter out of his pocket. He had no destination in mind, other than away. Heads, east, tails, west. Virgil tossed the coin, caught it, and slapped it onto his wrist. “East it is,” he murmured.

He drove out of the Hancock compound without a single backward glance. From here on out, everything was forward. He was packless now. With a little luck and a lot of effort on his part, that shouldn’t hold true for long.

# # #

Miles and hours rolled by before Virgil finally glanced in the rearview. He noticed not one but two ties on the tarp had come loose. Fortunately a road sign announced an upcoming rest area. He kept a close eye on the tarp for the full two miles, and pulled over.

His possessions were all still intact. Along with the one he hadn’t packed.

“Hi,” the argumentative she-wolf said. She smiled up at him brightly. “Where we going?”

Meanwhile, Back at Java Joe's ...

(Note: This scene immediately follows “The Write Stuff” but takes place at least a week or so before “Surprise Party.”)

Aramilla stood rooted to the spot, unable to move as the vampire glided up to her. He smiled at her, his fangs gleaming in the moonlight. His eyes were the color of the ocean at midnight, deep and threatening to drag her under. He sketched a mockery of a bow to her and said—

“Howdy, Miss.”

Chloe’s hand jerked, knocking the pen from her fingers. It rolled across the table and came up against the hand of one of the two cowboys she’d been studying earlier. His hand now rested on her table, perilously close to her choco-mint latte. The rest of him lounged with easy familiarity against the rim of her table. His eyes were the color of honey on a muffin, and his smile didn’t have any fangs in it that she was aware of.

“I couldn’t help noticing you noticing my pard and me,” he said in a breezy drawl. Traces of a second accent lurked beneath the Western affectation. She thought it might be New Jersey. “Why don’t you come join us? Give your eyes a rest.”

“Uh.” Chloe slammed her notebook shut and fumbled after her pen. Just when she’d been getting into the groove. The words had begun to flow and she thought she might finally have a plot. Why couldn’t she get hit on during one of her frequent blocks?

But the guy was so cute, and so was his buddy. Even if Buddy was making a point of not looking at her right now. And they were in a public place, so it wasn’t like anything bad could happen.

Chloe decided the next Great American Vampire Novel could wait. “Sure, why not?” She scooped up her notebook and pen and talismanic Tempest Arouz paperback. The cowboy took her coffee mug. Maybe she could get some ideas for her latest opus out of this. Or, with any luck, a whole plot. Or even better, a date.

The blond cowboy held out a chair for her and helped her arrange her belongings. His pal with the brownish-reddish hair just sat and stared, and it wasn’t a happy stare, either. He looked at her like he thought she was an IRS agent or something. His eyes were a dark, earthy brown with flecks of gold in them, like buried treasure. Now this one would have fangs.

According to his friend, his name was Dale Hancock. The friendly friend was Ewan Carter. Dale only grunted when Chloe introduced herself. Not a reader, she decided.

Ewan ordered a fresh round of coffee and set about charming the socks off her. Chloe let him take his best shot and ignored the rude one with the dark eyes and darker scowl. What was up with him? Maybe he didn’t like her. Maybe he didn’t like girls. Maybe he’d lost too many lovers over his long existence as a vampire and was wary now around women he was attracted to. Tendrils of plot ideas curled around her inspiration gland and began to squeeze.

Somewhere along the way she lost track of Ewan and his stream of enticements. With a stab of alarm she suddenly realized he’d flipped open the cover of her notebook. “So what’s this?”

Chloe snatched it away from him. “Nothing. Just scribbles. I like to keep track of my thoughts.”

“A diary, huh?” Ewan’s grin got suggestive. “I could give you an entry that would scorch the pages. All you have to say is yes.”

“No.” Chloe clutched the notebook tight against her sweater. Nobody saw her works in progress. She abandoned her unfinished coffee and what had sounded like one hell of a fun night with Blondie and shoved back from the table. “Y’know, I should go. It was nice talking to you.”

She got halfway off the chair before a hard hand on her forearm stopped her. Dale had finally made a move. There were his fangs—in his grip and the suspicion in his eyes. “I’d like to have a look at that,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Chloe reacted instinctively. She smacked the notebook across Dale’s face, then brought the stiffened side of her hand down full force on the crook of his elbow. The hard grip on her arm went soft and vanished. Chloe followed up with a kick to the leg of his chair. Dale went over backwards. He hit the floor with a crash and a yelp that sounded more canine than human.

“Oh geez. Not again.” Chloe leaped to her feet. When you were a service brat raised on a succession of military bases by an overprotective Marine drill sergeant dad, disasters like this happened on a daily basis. Usually to unsuspecting guys who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

Ewan sprang up and back, out of reach, with superhuman speed. “On second thought, we don’t need to look at your book at all. Do we, Dale?”

Dale’s response was a grab at her ankle. Chloe hit the hardwood floor beside him. The notebook tumbled out of her arms and landed under the table.

Then Dale disappeared.

Wait, there he was, dangling from the hand of the big scary guy. His hair and skin reminded her of the Rocky Mountains and their caps of snow. So did his size.

“Careless, to fall like that,” he pronounced. From heights to depths: that Russian-accented voice seemed to rumble up from the center of the earth. “You watch how you sit from now on, yes?”

“He will. We both will,” Ewan assured him fervently. His own hands were raised and in full view. The ice giant sniffed and swung Dale away from Chloe before setting him back on his feet. Dale made no moves, not even a shiver. Anything could be misconstrued.

That huge hand, still warm from Dale’s neck, gently drew Chloe to her feet. “You are all right?”

Chloe nodded. A thin whine leaked out of her throat. She gulped it back down.

The giant bent a second time to retrieve her notebook, which he handed to her. “Guard this,” he ordered her. “Privacy is precious.” He shot icy glares at Dale and Ewan. Their expressions told Chloe they'd gotten the point.

With a sigh the giant picked up his hat and went to the counter. He handed the barista several bills. “For mess. These things follow me, it seems.”

“Relax. We’re used to it.”

Hands landed on Chloe’s shoulders. She nearly shrieked. “Chill. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it,” Ewan murmured in her ear. He continued to hold her until the giant had safely exited the coffee shop. Or maybe he was using Chloe as a shield. It was hard to tell.

Both let their breaths loose after the monster was gone. “That’s Sergei,” Ewan said, as if that explained everything. “I know he looks scary as hell, but he’s a good guy, for a stripey.”

“For a what?”

“Nothing. Let me make it up to you,” Ewan rushed on. “Howzabout dinner tonight? Rattigan’s Pub. You can teach me those moves. Dale needs to be knocked on his ass every now and again.”

“I have to go.” Her writer’s block had totally disappeared. So had any illusions of personal safety. Chloe flung a five on the table and bolted out of the coffee shop.

“Call me!” Ewan yelled after her.

# # #

“Well, that was slick,” Ewan said in the contrails left by Chloe’s hasty exit. “Between you and the Abominable Snowman, my future mate will never show her face in here again. Thanks for nothing. Now I’ll have to hunt her down. Good thing I got her scent.”

“So did I.” Dale brushed himself off. “We have to find her. She’s definitely hiding something. We need to find out what’s in that notebook.”

“I was thinking more what’s under her sweater, but that works too. Well, lookie here.” With a wicked grin Ewan handed over two crumpled pages covered in sprawling longhand. “Ripped ‘em out while you were waltzing with Sergei. Doesn’t look too spy-laden to me.”

“Let me see.” Dale skimmed the pages. The word vampire appeared several times. So did chiseled chin, sculpted abs, bulging groin and nipples. “What the hump is this?”

“It looks,” Ewan said, still grinning, “like secret agent Lady X is writing a dirty book. Like this one.” He held up Chloe’s forgotten paperback. “She seems to think we’re vampires, and she wants to have sex with us. Me I can understand, but you’re a surprise. Think we should report her to Dante? About her wanting to hump you, I mean. I know that’s got my hackles up.”

Dale’s mouth twisted. Shes didn’t really think like this, did they? “A dirty book?”

“They call ‘em romances, but they’re smut. My sister ate these up.” Ewan flipped through the paperback. Something must have hit his eye, because the flipping stopped. “Whoa. You should see this. Two hes doing—whoo-ee, are they serious? Even a coyote’s not that flexible.” He held the passage out for Dale’s inspection. “Check this out.”

Dale recoiled. “No thanks. We’d better report her to Dante anyway. Writers are born snoops, and this one’s human. That’s a combo I’m not comfortable with.”

“Suit yourself. But if your cousin wants us to question her, I get first shot. Preferably by candlelight.” Ewan glanced at the shirtless cowboys on the paperback’s cover, shrugged, and stuffed the book into his back pocket. For later.

Surprise Party

The truck and its attached horse trailer rolled cautiously up the wide dirt track. Its headlights were off, but Elliot Hancock saw quite well in the dark. He’d also scouted this track in wolf form earlier in the day, and marked the location of anything that might hang them up. “Stay sharp,” he advised his co-conspirators. “The fence should be right around—”

The truck rebounded off a barrier in the road and shuddered to a stop. “There?” Ewan Carter suggested.

Elliot's younger brother Dale growled something and hopped out to check on the state of the hood. Elliot cut the engine. He and Ewan climbed out and went to inspect the fence. Its twelve feet of pine slats and steel wire remained intact. So, Dale reported shortly, was the truck. Elliot sniffed, and caught a trace of elk droppings from somewhere deep in the woods. They’d picked the right paddock. At least that much luck ran in their favor tonight.

“Sturdy,” Ewan pronounced. He gave the fence a shake to prove his point. “It’ll take a while to cut a hole in this.”

“It’ll take us a while to find that herd and drive the bull down here,” Elliot said. “We’ll need an elk-sized exit when we get back. Somebody will have to stay human and work on the fence.”

“I’ll do it,” Ewan offered. “If I’m caught, I know how to slip out of handcuffs.”

“You’re a strange dog, Carter.”

“You betcha.” Ewan winked and moved to the truck to get the wire cutters. “You two better get at it. The fence isn’t electrified, but it might be wired for alarms.”

The Hancocks quickly shed their clothes and shifted to wolf form. It didn’t take the two of them long to burrow under the fence and wriggle into the paddock. Once inside, Elliot loped off in the direction of the elk odor, with Dale close on his heels.

It took them about forty-five minutes to locate the herd, which had bedded down on a sheltered hillside near the treeline. Even the lead bull dozed. These were true elk, not shifters. They might not know what a game farm was, but their dull herbie brains understood their territory hosted no predators. They wouldn't put up much of a fight. As long as they were amenable to herding, Elliot would be satisfied.

The brothers shifted for speech. “Andreas mentioned a two-year-old,” Elliot said. “You see him?”

“Just the boss bull and a bunch of cows.” Dale frowned. “Are you sure about this? I mean, technically it’s stealing.”

“Technically it isn’t. I’ll send her a check for the full price of the bull in the morning.”

“You said she told you no. Emphatically.”

“Fine, then. You tell the Hancock beta his daughter will have to chase after some spindly deer on her sixteenth birthday because some squeamish human she wouldn’t give us an elk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with human shes,” Dale grumbled. “I met this really nice one in town—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Elliot snarled. “Scat on Turk’s old bald head anyway, selling his game farm to humans. He only did it to piss us off.” He straightened abruptly. “Hey. I think I see him.”

Two cows had ganged up on a third beast and were driving it down the hillside. Yep, Elliot figured, that had to be their immature bull. Still too small to threaten the boss but cursed with a teenager’s rampaging hormones. Since they were still months from the rut, the cows weren’t interested. They’d just done the Hancocks an enormous favor and shoved the kid outside the herd’s protection. Neither boss bull nor cows were liable to help out some stupid adolescent under a wolf attack.

“That’s our boy,” Elliot whispered. “Let’s go.”

They shifted to wolf form and headed for the bull. He let them trot right up to him before he snorted in alarm. A few nips at his heels turned him around and started him toward the woods and, hopefully, a waiting hole in the fence. As predicted, the rest of the herd didn’t even bother to get up.

Piece of cake, Elliot thought. This stupid stud didn’t even know enough to run. He and Dale ought to get it down to the fence with no trouble. If Ewan had done his part, they’d be home free in no time. Ashley would get the best birthday hunt ever, and Elliot might just get …

A stinging sensation along his muzzle as razor talons raked his face.

He stumbled but didn’t yelp. Too startled. Elliot stared around just in time to spot a small dark shadow drop out of the sky to divebomb Dale. Dale did yelp, loudly. That spooked the bull, which bolted back toward the herd.

The hawk swung skyward for another strafing run. Elliot reared up and shifted. Seeing his brother on two legs, Dale followed suit. The hawk came to earth yards away, out of reach of the wolves. He flipped in midair so that he landed on the ground on two human feet.

“I knew it,” the werehawk said. “Gimme a break, Elliot.”

Elliot rubbed his fingers along his cheek. They came away damp. “What the hell, Andreas! We’re here for our elk.”

“Which Miz Jenks didn’t sell you. I figured you’d try something sneaky. You wolves are so predictable.” He waved a hand at Dale. “Hey, Dale.” Dale shot him the finger.

“C’mon, Andreas,” Elliot said. “This is the beta’s daughter. We need that elk. Turk wouldn’t have pulled this scat.”

“Sorry, man. Orders are orders. Miz Jenks won’t put up with it.”

“Damn queasy monkeys. What is she, vegetarian?”

“Oh hell no. I’ve seen her rip into a bison burger. She just doesn’t get the Peak yet. I put in a call to Dante, see how much we’re allowed to tell her.”

“Better tell her something quick. The party’s in two weeks.”

“Then you talk to him. He’s your cousin.”

“Or,” Dale said reasonably, “you could just give us the elk.”

“No can do, wolfie. I like Miz Jenks. She bakes. Cakes and pies and stuff. And these little cupcakes, with the icing and cherries on top.” Andreas shivered with pleasure. “You squeeze ‘em in your talons and just plunge the beak right in, they’re that moist. Then the sugar rush hits. I can fly for hours on just one of ‘em. Maybe she’ll bake Ashley a cake if you ask her nice.”

“Hump the cake. What about the brother? Will he sell us the elk?”

“Doubt it. He does what she tells him, mostly. He likes to ride around and play cowboy. I’m a bird and even I think he’s flighty.”

So Toni Jenks was the brains of the outfit. There had to be a way around her human sensibilities without spilling their shifter secrets. Or they could head into the high country and find a wild elk herd and try to capture a young bull alive without them or it getting killed. Or bring back a deer for Ashley’s birthday. Elliot would rather face the elk than a teenage she-wolf. Or her sire, Damien Hancock’s right hand.

“She bakes, huh?” he murmured as the wheels began to turn.

My Super Sweet Sixteen

Toni looked up from the spreadsheet at the sound of a vehicle rattling up the drive and into the front yard. Customers already? Abe would be pleased. Toni shut down the computer, tugged the wrinkles out of her blouse, and stepped briskly out of the office, formerly the old farmhouse’s guest bedroom.

She and her brother had bought the game farm with the understanding that Toni’s involvement would be temporary. Abe was the one into farming and animal husbandry and the great outdoors. Toni kept an eye on income and expenses and made sure their new venture stayed solvent. Once she was certain Abe stood on firm financial ground, Toni would be off to make her own way in the world.

None of the hands had come forward to see to the visitor’s needs, so Toni added that to her list of jobs as Abe’s support system. She trotted over to the truck, expertly dodging the many chickens pecking around the yard. The game farm had come with a variety of exotic fowl, but the domestic chickens were Toni’s idea. She wanted fresh eggs for baking and breakfast, and as long as they now lived on a farm …. Ditto for the three Guernseys grazing in the field and studiously ignoring the bison, which returned the snub. Toni had never tried to milk a bison, let along make butter and cheese from the milk, and she wasn’t about to start.

The truck’s driver automatically doffed his cowboy hat. His welcoming smile wobbled the closer Toni approached. Pity, because he was cute as all get out. Long dark hair in a ponytail, worn jeans and calloused hands. A working man. Toni liked getting her hands dirty, and couldn’t stomach a man who didn’t feel the same.

“What happened to Turk?” he said bluntly.

“Mr. Turkle retired and sold the spread about three months ago. My brother and I are the new owners. I’m Toni Jenks.” She held out her hand. The man sniffed, like he was trying to take in her scent, then accepted her offering. His dirty paw swallowed hers whole. “What can I do for you, Mr. …?”

“Turk sold the place to a—?” The man shook his head. “That old hound. Who knew? So, were you planning on running it the way he did, ma’am?”

“As in … ?” Toni prompted cautiously.

“As in fresh meat to paying customers. My family’s fond of game.” Belatedly he added, “I’m Elliot Hancock.”

Toni nodded. The Hancock name figured heavily in Mr. Turkle’s ledgers. “What is it you’re looking for today?”

He’d better not ask her to butcher anything. Eggs and milk she could handle, but dressing a carcass was far dirtier than she wanted her hands to get. Flour on the fingers, not blood, was Toni’s motto. Even Abe drew the line at the messy stuff, leaving that to the hands. She’d hoped they could just breed the stock and supply other breeders and maybe petting zoos. But this was Montana, and she was a realist. Just the same, she held her breath.

“My niece is having a birthday in two weeks,” Elliot Hancock said. “Sixteen. The biggie.” Toni smiled in understanding. “We’re going to need venison. Whitetail, not muley. She’s partial to whitetail.” He eyed the distant bison speculatively, then said, “You still have elk?”

“The herd’s a bit small, but they’re all healthy. How many pounds would you like?”

“Not meat. We need a live one. A yearling if you’ve got one. Something small and not too fast or tough. A little, inexperienced bull ought to give her a thrill and not too much of a challenge.”

“Um … excuse me?”

“We’ll be backing her up, of course, but she doesn’t have to know that. It’s important she pulls it down herself. I mean, you’re only sixteen once—”

"You want us to sell you a live elk so you can shoot it?”

“Of course she’s not going to shoot it. What do you think we are? She’s going to hunt it down and take it out the traditional way. It’s the highlight of the party. Then the rest of us get to gorge ourselves and—”

He broke off in the face of Toni’s horrified stare. “Oh. Yeah. Look, we do this for all the pups when they turn sixteen. Didn’t Turk tell you anything?”

“I don’t know what kind of arrangement you had with Mr. Turkle, but we don’t abuse our stock, and we don’t let anyone else abuse them, either.”

“It’s not abuse. It’s tradition. Her parents will make sure the kill is quick and clean.” He muttered something under his breath. It sounded suspiciously like, “I hate dealing with apes.”

“Mr. Hancock, I think you’d better leave.”

“Scat. Look, Miss Jenks? We’re not doing anything kinky. It’s a birthday party. It’s part of the natural order.”

“Killing an elk at a birthday party? What are you, Native Americans or something?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

“Well, no offense to your traditions, but I’m not about to turn a young elk over to you just so you can—”

From the corner of her eye she spotted Andreas charging up at a run. Andreas was part of the staff they’d inherited from Mr. Turkle. Toni liked Andreas. Something about him reminded her of a beaver. Maybe it was the overbite. “It’s okay, Miz Jenks, I got this. Hey, Elliot, lemme guess. Who is it this time? Tobias?”

“Ashley. You got a spare elk? She thinks she’s getting a deer, but her daddy wants to surprise her.”

“Whoa. Sixteen already? I’m starting to feel old. Y’know, we’ve got a two-year-old. Bit of a runt, but he’ll look like a monster to her. I doubt if he’ll live through the rut anyway.”

“Let me take a look at him. Maybe—”

“Absolutely not,” Toni said. “You can have all the meat you want, but no live animals.” Somebody had to draw the line somewhere.

Both the men stared at her. Hancock bent to confer with Andreas. This time she was certain she heard the word “monkey.”

Andreas took her arm respectfully and drew her aside. “It’s okay, Miz Jenks. The Hancocks are regulars. Their alpha—I mean, the old man holds a lot of power here.”

“I don’t care if he’s holding a bazooka. He’s not getting a live elk, or a live anything else.”

“Turk didn’t warn you about Talbot’s Peak, did he?”

Toni shook her head, her belligerent stare trained on Elliot Hancock. Whatever was going on with this crazy backwoods outfit, she figured she could handle it.

The Write Stuff

Chloe sucked furiously on the cap of her ballpoint and glowered at the ruled page that was supposed to have words on it. Its pristine blankness continued to defy her. She fortified herself with another slug of her mint coffee (with its generous head of whipped cream), set the tip of the pen to the paper, and ordered the magic to happen.

Nothing. All the words, all the plots, all the ideas in her head jammed up like a case of literary constipation and refused to come out. Only two words made it out of her subconscious and into her surface thoughts. These were nyah nyah.

C’mon, she prodded the recalcitrant words, help me out here. She’d done everything she could think of. She was sitting in a coffee shop and drinking coffee with a pen and a spiral notebook, just like a real writer was supposed to. It had worked for J. K. Rowling when she was writing her Harry Potter books. Who was Chloe Stevens to argue with the success of Harry Potter?

Maybe she should have used a legal pad. Hadn’t John Grisham written his first bestsellers on a legal pad?

Her other talisman, a copy of Tempest Arouz’s latest bestseller, sat at her right hand. Tempest wrote erotic M/M, whereas Chloe aspired to mild-to-tame M/F, but the paperback was proof it could be done, and done well enough to make a modest living on. Since Chloe’s last layoff, any kind of living at all topped Chloe’s list of priorities. Her aging Honda wasn’t big enough to live in, even by starving artist standards.

The “About the Author” page said Tempest lived here in Talbot’s Peak. Maybe she wrote her books here. Chloe glanced around hopefully at the other customers of Java Joe’s, but so far all were male. Maybe Tempest wrote in a lofty penthouse with a spectacular view of the mountains. The crisp Montana air had yet to prove conducive to creativity, but Chloe was determined to stick with it.

If all else failed, she could go crawling to the local newspaper and beg for a job, even though print journalism wasn’t the most stable of career choices right now. Her last two jobs had downsized her out the door after three years and two years, respectively. With unemployment running out, Chloe decided what the hell, time to become a romance novelist, like she’d always wanted. Now if only the words would cooperate.

Characters, that’s what she needed. Story follows the characters. She took another, closer look at her fellow caffeine addicts. Maybe the hero of her first bestseller was sitting here at Java Joe’s.

But not that guy. The huge, pallid man with the Russian accent would never make it as a romance hero by anybody’s standards. Too darn scary. Bad guy, maybe. The ruthless head of a vampire flock who threatened to make the heroine his bride. Perfect. Now all she needed was a damsel in need of some serious rescuing, and a man capable of performing same.

Or men. The two cowboys seated over by the window fit the hero bill quite nicely. Both were tall and broad-shouldered and majorly cute, and filled out their jeans in all the ways a romance hero was supposed to. The one was blond, the other sort of reddish-brown. Brownie had a deeper voice than Blondie. She couldn’t see what color their eyes were. Chloe shrugged. She was in charge of this story. She could give them whatever color eyes she wanted.

She glanced at the cover of Tempest’s paperback, which featured two hot cowboys, then back to the real deal by the window. Chloe had never tried to write a ménage before. Maybe now was the time. Menages were huge on the market right now, especially paranormals. Maybe the cowboys were vampires too. But good vampires. They only drank cow blood. Her heroine, whatever her name ended up being, would fall for them head over stiletto heels. After they rescued her from the bad vampire. And had hot animal sex.

Chloe took one last preparatory slug from her mug and started writing.

# # #

“That she over there,” Dale muttered to Ewan. “The one with the pen and the notebook. Is she looking at us?”

“Can you blame her?” Ewan slicked back his blond hair and licked his lips. “Two handsome dogs like us? I’ll bet she’s plotting to get herself into our Levis even as we speak.”

Dale forced himself not to turn around. Apes in general didn’t bother him. Apes with pen and paper or other recording devices, that was a whole other deal. “Her scent says she’s human.”

“Even better. Human shes don’t give a whiff for rank. They’ll put out for anything.”

“What do you suppose she’s writing?”

“A love letter to me. ‘Oh, Ewan, my heart pounds with unending lust for your irresistibly hot good looks.’ What? Chicks are into love letters.”

“She doesn’t even know you. If she did, she’d be writing a restraining order.”

“You’re just jealous of my luck with the ladies.”

Dale Hancock snorted. Ewan came from back East, and was rumored to have more than a dollop of coyote in his suspect DNA. He’d adapted to the Montana lifestyle with no trouble, and looked more like a cowboy than native-born Dale. So far Dale’s blood connection to the ruling pack hadn’t gotten him squat, shes or otherwise. Just patrol duty from second—or was it third?—cousin Dante.

And standing orders to keep an eye out for any humans acting suspiciously. Such as the tasty bit at the table back there, studying everybody in the coffee shop and jotting notes.

“I’m going to sneak a peak at that notebook,” he decided. “Get over there and distract her.”

“What? Why me?”

“Because the ladies love you so much. Go. And try not to get any coffee tossed in your face this time.”

“Watch the master in action,” Ewan said. He got up and ambled over to the human’s table. Dale sat by, legs tensed to move, and hoped she was just some innocent ape and not another hunter or something. The last thing they needed in Talbot’s Peak was any more bad press.