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When we met for the second time, Stormwinder’s respectability stood out in stark contrast to my barely veiled bloodling nature. He’d left me directions to a private gentleman’s club...and not the type my team mates liked to frequent, either, where the term “gentleman” was a euphemism for “guys who like to see naked girls wriggling around on a pole.”
No, this club required a tie for entry, which the snooty maître d’ supplied in my case since I’d been forced to turn in my dress uniform along with the rest of my gear the day before. The shred of silk looked strange sitting two inches above the ratty collar of my faded t-shirt, but who was I to complain? I was used to the stipulation of donning an entirely unnecessary human uniform.
Stormwinder required no such fashion assistance. Instead, when I sniffed him out in a private nook way in the back of the attached restaurant, the older shifter was trim and elegant in a three-piece suit. His slightly graying hair was slicked back with scented gel, reminding me that I needed to buy a brush if I planned to let my own buzz cut grow out. And the smile my dinner partner graced me with held none of the hints of wildness I’d seen on the faces of recent outpack shifters.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, dropping into what appeared to be an antique armchair. I spared a momentary thought for whether or not the creaking contraption would bear the weight of an ex-Navy EOD tech, but mostly I was wondering about Stormwinder’s motives. What did he have to gain by inviting a nearly unknown shifter into his territory and offering to treat me to a meal and a bunk? And why had he handed over his business card to a random bloodling in the first place?
I’d mulled over the same issues for hours during the long bus ride from shore to foothills, a journey that would have been considerably shorter if not for the hours stuck in a bus station halfway in between. The best I’d come up with was that Stormwinder had taken some sort of a shine to me when I’d chosen not to tear him to shreds in front of his kin a few days earlier.
Now, though, as I took in the power emanating from my companion’s square shoulders and the ease with which he moved through human territory, I wasn’t so sure I’d judged him correctly.
“Thank you for coming,” Stormwinder said at last, rising from his seat and shaking my hand in an entirely human display of greeting. He’d delayed his salutation just long enough that I was forced to mimic a jack-in-the-box, popping right back out of the chair I’d so recently settled into. I eyed my companion askance, trying to decide whether this was just another shifter power play.
But Stormwinder’s face was cordial, his scent vague and unassuming. So I shrugged off my suspicions and instead returned his squeeze just firmly enough to satisfy my companion’s sense of manhood yet not so hard that I’d be the one presenting a challenge.
With alpha werewolves, you could never be too careful.
“So,” Stormwinder said, sinking back into his chair. He paused to shake out a white linen napkin that he then proceeded to drape across his trouser-clad lap before continuing. “I hear you’re out of the Navy. What’s next?”
Rather than answering his question, my mind got stuck in a loop trying to decide whether to mimic the other shifter’s actions. The last time I’d eaten in a restaurant, Stooge had used the napkins—paper, of course—to sop up the grease pooling on top of his one-dollar slice of pizza. But there didn’t seem to be any harm in pretending my stained jeans needed to be protected from whatever greaseless victuals this fine-dining establishment offered. So I followed my current companion’s lead and slid the thick white fabric across my dirty knees.
The pause also gave me time to collect my thoughts. Just by coming here, I was effectively throwing myself on Stormwinder’s mercy since he knew as well as I did that I’d spent all night in transit for the sole purpose of meeting him. Given that show of weakness on my part, I figured I might as well let it all hang out.
“I’m done with the Service,” I explained, “but I’m sick and tired of beating up on pups in the civilian world. I was hoping you’d tell me more about that job you were offering. Or maybe you could just steer me in the right direction to find a place where I can hang without a pack.”
That wasn’t the whole truth, of course. What I wanted more than anything was meaning with a capital M. The Navy had spoiled me, giving me a reason to wake up every morning that transcended my own personal wants and needs. But the chances of finding such a ready-made purpose in the civilian world seemed pretty slim, so I figured I’d focus on the bare necessities instead.
Food. Shelter. Not turning into a cold-blooded killer.
Now, I held my breath, hoping that Stormwinder wouldn’t take my words as an admission of defeat. The endlessness of shifter dominance battles wore on me, which is why I’d never confided in another werewolf before this. Meanwhile, my current companion was just strong enough that he might think it was a good idea to try to get a jump on my wolf when faced with the first sign of weakness, in which case I’d be forced to slap him down.
Literally.
Sure enough, the older shifter eyed me consideringly for far longer than the moment I’d spent fiddling with my napkin. He took a sip of wine, his nostrils flaring as he savored the aroma of the beverage and enhanced his tongue’s ability to report on the complicated flavors. Then his eyes crinkled up into an honest smile.
“How about joining my pack?”
Despite my relief that Stormwinder wasn’t planning to go belligerent on my ass, I immediately shied away from his response. The notion of clans had confused me ever since I’d been raised by a female wolf amid a band of stray dogs. We’d had fun hunting together, sure, but my gut said there was more to pack than that...especially after Mom dumped me on her two-legged relatives as soon as I discovered my human feet.
Add in the ease with which my inner wolf had turned against our human partner and I was even more queasy about the idea of fraternity now than I had been just a few days earlier. So I shook my head adamantly. “No, I’m not pack material.”
Stormwinder’s gaze landed on my cheekbones, the location just barely far enough removed from my eyes to prevent the gesture’s intensity from kicking us into a battle of wills. He tapped one of the three forks I had no clue what to do with against his wine glass, creating a bell-like tone so hushed that a one-body wouldn’t have even been able to pick up on the sound.
“The job then,” he said after another long moment of silence.
I shrugged, not quite as uneasy about the notion of employment as I was about packhood but not entirely sold on the idea either. A job would require spending far too many hours per day doing someone else’s bidding and the idea of repeatedly bowing to another shifter’s demands stung. I guessed I wasn’t so good at mimicking a submissive werewolf after all.
“Or how about this,” Stormwinder said at last, his lips curving up into the barest hint of a smile. I got the distinct impression that this third option was what my companion had been leading up to from the beginning, but I didn’t mind once I heard what he had to say.
“You may know that the Tribunal is a body governing all werewolves in the Southeast,” he began, filling in the gaps of knowledge I’d picked up willy-nilly over the years. “I happen to be on that council, and we’re sorely in need of someone to help enforce our laws. It’s not really a job. More of a paid position with flexible hours and one simple duty—to iron out inter-pack difficulties before they explode into outright warfare.”
He paused theatrically then sealed the deal with eight short words. “We’re looking for someone to keep the peace.”
