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“Everything will be forgiven,” I said simply, “if you tell me the fastest way to get pancakes into this starving teenager.”
“The fastest way?” Becky’s eyebrows rose and the sulfurous scent fled. “The fastest way is to go to the midnight breakfast Edward is organizing. But I’m not sure it’s the smartest thing to....”
“Who cares about smart? I want pancakes,” Kira interrupted, heading toward the door. “Midnight breakfast! I love being a wolf!”
And I could have stopped her forward motion. I probably should have too, given the way her usually sunny temperament seemed to be descending into demands and domineering at the drop of a hat. But, for once, Kira was smiling...and I was starting to get an idea of what caused the here-one-moment-gone-the-next scent of sulfur. So I didn’t even interrupt my sister’s chatterbox monologue as we strode along a secluded road and out into a well-lit picnic scene.
I was physically hungry, the salty tang of bacon dragging me toward the food being carried out in huge vats and on platters. And I was also hungry for companionship, glad to find the clan had forgotten us for a reason that didn’t relate to the shape of our fur-form skins.
Still...Gunner must have known about this community mealtime and he hadn’t dropped back by to invite me. Which suggested Becky was right and this wasn’t the smartest place to feed my sister and my soul.
No wonder my eyes scanned our surroundings, looking out for signs of danger even as I noted the distinct lack of familiar faces in the werewolves’ midst. Tank, Allen, and Gunner were all elsewhere, but at least there was no rotten-egg aroma filling the Green. Well, there wasn’t until a gob of spittle struck the grass before us, a sulfur-scented werewolf I’d never met pressing her way into our personal space.
“Disgusting,” the old woman growled, and I had my sword in hand to protect Kira before I realized the speaker wasn’t interested in the two of us. Instead, Becky was the one scooping up her son, neck bent in submission. And Becky was the target of the old woman’s jabbing finger as the crone continued with her tirade.
“If Old Chief Atwood was still alive, he never would have allowed such an abomination,” the older woman said while spraying us all with spittle. “Liam knew better too. If he’d lived, he would have dealt with this rot before it went so deep.”
She raised her cane as if to strike either Becky or Curly, which made me, in turn, prepare to tackle the foul-mouthed bitch. But clearly the call of pancakes was greater than the allure of ornery hatefulness. Or maybe the crone had finally noticed my aggressive stance. Either way, the old woman turned away with only a sniff of dismissal, taking her foul scent with her as she stepped into the longer of two lines forming up on either side of the expanse of grass.
I wanted to ask Becky what the deal was, but the female barely knew me and was unlikely to spill her guts in public. So, instead, I changed the subject. Heading toward the shorter line—the only one with bacon, were these werewolves crazy?—I offered, “Let’s find ourselves something to eat.”
“Not there.” Becky’s hand was on my arm then off again so quickly I barely registered the contact, and her gaze was still riveted on the ground as she spoke. But her voice was nonetheless loud enough for me to understand as she deciphered the bacon mystery for me. “That’s the line for warriors. If you join it, you’ll be asking for a fight.”
Sure enough, a newly arrived family split up on the threshold. The father headed for the bacon, the mother and two children veered right toward pancakes and eggs. Rather than joining the end of the line, however, the male insinuated himself midway down it, setting the neighboring shifters bristling for a moment before they chose to subside. And, in reaction, the pancake line easily made room for the newcomer’s family in the middle of the queue, right about where her mate would have stood had he chosen the longer line instead.
Seriously? Werewolves made even group meals into power struggles? Well, that answered the question about how to carve out a place for me and Kira within the Atwood community.
“I want scrambled eggs, pancakes, and a banana,” I told my sister. Then, allowing my sword to form in its sheath along my backbone, I headed for the bacon line.
***
GIVEN THAT GUNNER AND his closest lieutenants were apparently occupied elsewhere, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the square shoulders and closely shorn hair at the head of the line. But as Edward turned around to face me and immediately emitted enough sulfur to drown out the delicious bacon aroma, I grumbled internally. Of course my least favorite Atwood werewolf would be the one I was facing to get my fair share of pig fat.
For half a second, I hesitated, considered choosing a spot a few werewolves back instead. Did I—and Becky and Kira by proxy—really need to proclaim ourselves the most dominant shifters in the entire clan? Wouldn’t second or third best suffice just as well?
“Lost?” Edward asked as I debated. His smile was so smug as he motioned to the head of the opposite line that I felt my teeth grinding together even as the decision made itself. “The alpha’s mate eats over there.”
His words were a minor concession and everyone knew it. An acknowledgement that if Gunner were here, the pack leader would win by default and I’d head up the non-bacon-enabled queue.
But I didn’t intend to hang upon Gunner’s coattails. He had enough on his plate without slapping down shifters who disrespected me. Instead, I was perfectly willing to fight this battle on my own.
Willing...and excited as I drew my sword out of its sheath with a musical ring of magic-imbued metal. I was sick and tired of backhanded put-downs. It was time for Edward to find a weapon and face me like a man.
Only, my chosen opponent had no intention of engaging in a sword fight. Instead, the male made room for me before him, somehow managing to turn a motion that should have been submissive into a slight instead. “By all means, if your only other option is to use a weapon none of us is familiar with. Stand in for Gunner. The rest of us will all move back.”
There were grumbles from the queue behind me, high-pitched annoyance from the opposite side of the grass. Now I looked like a bully, unable to bend to Atwood customs and instead hiding behind Gunner’s requirement that everyone in the pack settle their differences with swords.
That wasn’t going to garner Becky the protection I was going for, nor would it smooth the path for my sister in the days ahead. So, opening my hands wide, I let my sword flare back into an immaterial star ball. Then, toeing out of my sneakers, I shifted into the form of my fox.