Pumpkin Cream Pie by Kiki Burrelli
Summary:Welcome to Morningwood #7
A young man with a turbulent past meets the only man with a hand steady enough to tame him.
Seamus is a nineteen-year-old falcon shifter with a bad reputation, just ask anyone. Growing up in the insulated all-shifter town of Morningwood, there isn't a person around who doesn't remember each of his mistakes and they aren't afraid to throw them in his face at every chance. He'd leave town entirely if it weren't for his little brother and his stupid hope that Morningwood is where he belongs.
Leo Thibodeaux recently returned to Morningwood after his father died, leaving the leadership of the rabbit clan up to Leo. Widowed and a single father, Leo tries to do the best he can for his son, his pack, and his town.
When Seamus nearly burns down Morningwood University, he's given a choice, go to jail or do the repairs under the tutelage of Leo. Seamus expects Leo to treat him like everyone else does, but amazingly, while Leo does command respect, he doesn't look down his nose at Seamus. It doesn't take long for Seamus to realize that Leo isn't at all like the others. He makes Seamus feel protected, like he can turn his life around, he can be a friend, a better brother, a mate.
Leo recognizes that the timing isn't ideal. He was meant to mentor Seamus, but there is nothing he can do when the beast inside him recognizes his mate. They agree to keep their relationship behind closed doors, at least until the repairs can be done, but even that comes with its own risk.
Meanwhile, there's a spooky mystery in Morningwood. Someone—or something—is digging up old bones from the local cemetery and leaving them around town. It sounds like a stunt Seamus might have pulled, but this time he's innocent. But as his past deeds place him under suspicion, Seamus knows the true culprit must be found, or he'll lose everything.
Pumpkin Cream Pie is the seventh book in the Welcome to Morningwood series. It can absolutely be read as a standalone for total enjoyment and features an age gap romance, a new and steamy way to eat pumpkin cream pie, themes of family and redemption as well as all the sexy, sultry, fun you expect from Morningwood!
Original Review October 2025:
Again, I haven't read all the entries yet but of the ones I have, I think I can safely say this was my favorite. We met both Seamus and Leo previously, in small increments but certainly not new to me completely. Seamus ran with a tough crowd and it was easy to have a preconceived impression of the lad but as we all know, everyone has secrets or at least parts of themselves others don't see and it's those parts that can add a heck of a lot of context to what we thought we knew. I actually found both guys very easy to like but that doesn't mean I didn't want to smack their heads together a couple of times to make them open up more.
As for Leo, he might come across as too good, or at least Seamus thinks so and expects to see what Leo hides from everyone once the doors are closed. The big surprise is Leo isn't really hiding anything but that doesn't mean he doesn't jump to conclusions like practically everyone else in Morningwood at some point(I won't spoil anything with more specifics here). It was at this time I wanted to perhaps give Leo a bit more than smack but lets face it, if everything and everyone was super open and super good fiction would be a lot shorter.
I love the blending of healing, hurting, attraction, mystery, and heart that Kiki Burrelli brings to the table in Pumpkin Cream Pie, the whole Welcome to Morningwood series really. Sometimes earning and keeping one's trust is at the heart of a story but it's the effects it leaves on the characters that suck you in and I really think that is what Pumpkin Cream Pie is all about: trust. And sometimes its trusting the author to bring it all together that keeps the reader on the edge of their seat and I found that to be very true here. I look forward to experiencing the other entries in the series as time allows me to.
Summary:
Harper Valley Witch #1
Match is a hedge witch, part of a group of Guards that protect their town and the surrounding area from supernatural danger. He is not fierce and glamorous like his teammates, the paladins who do most of the fighting, a werewolf who does most of their hunting and tracking, or their sleek, crafty hacker who fights from a modern angle.
No, his life is plants, herbs, and potions—and being hopelessly in love with Ronan, the dark paladin of their group, who comes from one of the oldest families in the supernatural community. Far from a poor hedge witch living on the wrong side of town, even if they have been teammates and friends for years.
Then, in the aftermath of a fight with a bog witch, Ronan agrees to a date and it seems like for once, everything is going Match's way…
Summary:
Monsters & Mates #1
Getting a boner for the monster who saved us shouldn’t make sense in any universe. But here we are.
When a piece of Earth gets ripped into a monstrous new world, I barely have time to panic before I’m fighting for my life—and for Jamie’s. Terrafeara isn’t just dangerous; it’s a nightmare brought to life, where humans like us are hunted, enslaved, or worse.
Then there’s Solan. A beast of a warrior with horns I want to ride, fangs I want to lick, and a body built for war—and for wrecking me. He swears he’ll protect me, but his idea of protection comes with possessive touches, growled promises, and a claim I’m not sure I can resist.
But I don’t have time for this. I have a kid to keep safe. And with monsters, mercenaries, and power-hungry rulers after us, staying alive is hard enough. The only way to survive is to trust Solan, trust the rebels, and trust this connection between us that’s stronger than fear.
Because in a world designed to break us, maybe love is the sharpest weapon of all.
Summary:
Howl at the Moon #2
Deputy Roman Charsguard survived Afghanistan where he lost his best friend—his K-9 handler James. Roman was a military dog until two years ago when he developed the ability to shift into a human. It’s not easy to learn how to be a man. He found a place to live in Mad Creek, a haven for the secret world of dog shifters. Finding a reason to live has been harder. That is, until a certain human walks into the Mad Creek Sheriff’s office and starts making trouble.
Matt Barclay has the worst luck. First he was shot in a SWAT drug raid, then he was sent as DEA investigator to Mad Creek, a little town in the California mountains. Matt’s job is to keep a lookout for illegal drug farms, but nobody in the town wants him there. And then there’s Roman, Matt’s erstwhile baby-sitter. He’s the hottest guy Matt’s ever seen, even if he is a bit peculiar. If this job doesn’t kill Matt, sexual frustration just might.
The town is counting on Roman to prevent Matt from learning about dog shifters, Matt’s counting on Roman to be his work partner and tell him the truth, and Roman’s trying to navigate love, sex, and a whole lot of messy human emotions. Who knew it was so complicated to walk like a man?
Martin’s on a walking holiday in the Scottish highlands, trying to forget his ex, when he comes across a wildcat trapped in a snare. Releasing the animal gets him scratched and bitten for his pains—and that’s only the start of his problems.
At the village pub, Martin meets with an unexpectedly frosty welcome from the locals, while enigmatic Irish photographer Calum shows a strange interest in him. Calum’s intense lure is impossible to resist, even though all Martin’s instincts tell him to be wary.
But Martin’s nights are plagued with visions of hunting and snares—and free spirit Calum seems to have an unsettling insight into his dreams. The villagers have a secret to keep, and if Martin’s not careful, he could be the one caught in their deadly trap.
Pumpkin Cream Pie by Kiki Burrelli
Chapter One
Seamus
I kept to the shadows, slinking forward silently with a gas can in one hand and the rest of the party stuffed in a bag I carried on my shoulder. The Morningwood University sign loomed ahead, directly in front of admissions. I snarled. I was here for my brother, Shiloh, but really, this place deserved what I was about to give them. I just had to make a quick stop before I could avenge my little brother.
Directly behind the Morningwood University campus, the Morningwood Cemetery sat surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that did nothing to keep people out. I could've shifted and flown over, had I wanted to, but I was here to make a deposit and couldn't fly carrying my bag. I dropped the can beside the spot in the fence where the ground was low enough to slide under. Had I been a big, beefy alpha, that small space might have been too tight, but I slipped right under, reaching through the bars for my bag as I stood on the other side.
I shivered, gazing at the winding, uneven rows. This section was the final resting place of the first Morningwood citizens, before the all-shifter town had been established and the people had relied on the isolation of the mountain for protection from wandering normies. I liked it better here, where the vines were taking over and the lines between tombs were less manicured. This was also where I'd discovered my best hiding spot. After my mom had started having my room searched when I was in high school, whenever I had a surplus of product, I came here to hide it. Even though it was spooky, it was the perfect hiding spot since not a lot of people had a reason to be on this side of the cemetery, the fear factor kept out most of the punks, and this way, if my mom ever went all big-brother-this-is-the-police-open-up on me again, I wouldn't be left scrambling to cover for my stolen stash.
I stooped down at good old Zachariah Smith's grave. He was considered a founding father of Morningwood. But to me, he was more of a friend. A friend with a massive statue of an eagle, perched on the branch of a tree as his tombstone. I slid out the bottom brick, grabbed the triple-wrapped parcel from my bag, and shoved it back as far as it would go. I slipped the brick back into place, grabbed the pint of Black Crow whiskey I'd swiped from the store, and swallowed with a wince. The whiskey didn't go down smoothly, but I concentrated on the burn. Heat radiated from my gut, fortifying my limbs with that manic energy I only got while I was drinking. "Thanks, Zachariah, see you in a bit."
I had a school to burn down.
I went back under the fence, pausing to light my joint before picking up the gas can—I'd made that mistake before—and made my way back around to the entrance of the school. My little brother was the only thing that mattered to me. He'd been so excited when he'd gotten into Morningwood University early, but the kid was a quiet genius.
I was once like Shiloh. Not a genius, but I'd listened to the adults around me and given college a shot. They'd said that college was different from everything else, that people were too busy to bully me like they had all through grade school and high school. But college hadn't turned out any differently than everything else in my life. I'd been looked down on with pity, judgment, or suspicion. So I'd quit. I made more money selling weed and heat enhancers to the college kids who used to just look down on me anyway.
I didn't care what they thought about me, and I sure as fuck didn't need their pity, but Shiloh was still kind. He was nice and looked at people like they were telling him the truth. When I'd gotten home this afternoon to him crying, I'd seen red. He told me he needed a class for his degree. I didn't ask about what or why—that didn't matter. The only thing that did was that apparently there was a pompous professor who wouldn't let Shiloh register.
Let's see how much he enjoys teaching that class on a campus of ash.
Fueled by my anger, I ripped the cap off the gas can, turning it over as the gasoline glug-glugged out and onto the sign, soaking the posts and ground. The thick fumes filled my nose, and I stumbled back as if suddenly realizing what I was about to do. The sign was huge, wider than I was tall. I clenched the pint of whiskey and took several more fortifying gulps. Instantly, my courage shot up. With alcohol, I felt like I could conquer the world. Without it, I was just scared. I took another long drink, poured the rest of the bottle over the ground, and then flicked the spent end of my joint to the ground.
The gasoline ignited, and the flames spread quickly, engulfing not just the posts, but the ground, where it lit the dry leaves circling the base of a large tree. As the tree went up in flames, the fire glowed off the admissions building's walls. Fire raced down the tree branches, lighting the dried leaves that had yet to fall. The flames were close enough now that the admissions entrance began to smoke. You're next.
I retrieved a second joint from my bag and used the flame from the burning sign to light the end. I didn't usually dip into my own supply this much, but this was a celebration. For as much as the world felt like it was spinning out of control, flinging people out of your arms and lives without care or concern for who was left behind, it was during these moments that I felt like it wasn't all too much.
I inhaled deep, coughing so hard on the exhale my eyes were watering by the time I noticed flashing red and blue lights. "Fuck."
My first instinct was to shift and fly. Being a falcon had its advantages. But I couldn't carry my big bag and gas can in my falcon form, and if I left it behind, they'd find out it was me when they searched the belongings. I gathered my things quietly and waited, listening to the tires crunch over gravel as the car neared. If I waited for that awkward time when whoever was there was getting out of their car, I might be able to make it. I tensed, hearing more rustling, and then the doors opened.
I ran.
My feet pounded against the dirt, the breath already coming fast in my chest. My heart pounded. I was a good flier, but still loved running. I wasn't sure if I had a knack for it or if I'd just gotten so much practice over the years. Either way, I was almost home free. There was a small creek up ahead. I could toss my things into the water, trust the current to take them, and fly away. Later, I would go back and search for my backpack. I'd just have to hope no one found it before then.
I readied my things so I could toss and shift, but before I could, my shirt went tight, and my forward momentum suddenly stopped. I gasped, the collar tightening on my throat like fingers. Instantly, I fought against the feeling, scratching, kicking, and hitting whatever was keeping the air from my body.
"Stop resisting," the officer grunted, grabbing one wrist and then the other.
He wrenched them behind my back as I spewed a stream of curse words. I wasn't sure what I was saying toward the end, but I knew it wasn't nice.
"He's got a mouth on him."
"Does your mother know you're out here?" Deputy Flint asked after he'd slapped cuffs around my wrists.
At the mention of my mother, my stomach twisted. She'd been so angry the last time I'd gotten arrested, she told me to not bother coming home until I got my act together. "I'm nineteen," I grunted.
"You're a disgrace, that's what you are." Deputy Lidell spat. "Your mother bends over backwards for you two. How do you repay her? By being a delinquent." He looked back at the orange glow of the fire I'd started. There were sirens—the fire department pulling up. So much for a university of ashes. Still, a tiny part of me was relieved my plan had failed. Sometimes I was angrier than I was anything else. I would never say as much, but sometimes even I was disappointed when my plans ended up working.
Right then I wasn't. At that moment, my arms hurt, my head felt a little fuzzy—likely thanks to the weed and booze—and a cold ball of unease had formed in my stomach. Deputy Flint jerked on my arms, pulling me to the squad car. He shoved me in the back seat—not bothering to shield the side of my head before it slammed into the edge of the doorway.
While the pain from that pounded in my skull, the deputies went back to confer with the firemen.
By the time Deputy Flint and Lidell returned to the car, the blaze was mostly out. I should've used two cans of gas. The welcome sign looked charred, but the admin building still stood. They started the car without a word to me, driving us the few minutes to the Morningwood Police Department. In a small town like ours, the police department, jail, and Elite Force offices all shared the same building with the town's morgue, where my mother worked when there was a crime-related death. The rest of the time, she was at the hospital a few blocks over. It had to be after midnight at the moment, though, so she was most likely home.
"Is your mother worried about you?" the deputy asked after showing me my room.
This wasn't my first time in a cell, and I greeted the hard cot, single open-air toilet, and sink fondly. "No," I growled. She was too busy to keep constant tabs on me and my brother, and she'd been working a late shift today.
"Good. I'll keep it that way. You can rest here for the night—"
"I have rights! You can't keep me here!"
"Overnight? While we're understaffed and running behind?" He made a point of looking to the left and right, highlighting the fact that we were the only ones there. "I am well within my rights, Seamus. You didn't just spray paint on a wall tonight, kid. You tried to burn down the university. A few more minutes and you might have been successful. This can't be swept under a rug because your mom is important to this town."
"I don't need my mom solving my problems," I snarled.
"And yet…" the deputy responded tiredly. "Talking to you is like talking to an angry wall. I don't know what happened to make you so mad at the world, but tonight, you may have taken it one step too far. Tell me, how sad is your mom going to be when I go through the contents of your bag?"
No sadder than normal. I was her firstborn failure after all. I folded my arms, knowing better than to admit to anything.
Deny, deny, deny. I wasn't there that night; that wasn't my gas can.
This wasn't my life.
***
I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mom's voice. Shrill with panic, she demanded to see me. The deputy led her back as I was sitting up, stretching the sleep from my arms and legs. She scowled at me through the bars before coming to a stop directly in front of the door.
I looked at her and tried to remember back when she didn't have so many tired lines on her face. She used to look at me and smile. Now, her face was just pinched with worry. "What in God's name were you thinking, Seamus?" she asked, pressing a handkerchief to her nose.
Was she sick? Or crying? Shouldn't I know?
"That idiot professor is being a dick to Shiloh for no reason! He thinks he's better than us? He made Shiloh cry!" Though I understood my initial reasons, now that I was explaining them to my mom, I wasn't so sure what my plan had been. This was always happening. Things seemed like the right plan in the moment, and then after, I always regretted it.
So I drank or smoked to get rid of the regret, which just led to more bad choices. Rinse and repeat until the end of the world.
Sheriff Joseph came in behind her with a large set of keys. He must've come in to relieve Flint. The man didn't even say goodbye before he left. Rude.
"Am I being let go?" I asked, keeping my voice as even as possible.
"We need to talk," the sheriff replied cryptically. "All of us."
My mom's head dropped, and I scowled. She had no reason to look so dejected.
"I'm nineteen. She doesn't need to be there." I jerked my head in my mom's direction.
She gasped, her mouth dropping open as her eyes tightened. Why did she look so hurt? I was trying to save her from the stress of whatever the sheriff had to say.
"Let's go, Seamus," she said tiredly, stepping back to give the sheriff room.
Once again, I was ignored as the three of us were marched into the sheriff's office. I'd been here a few times before too. In recent months, there was a new addition to the sheriff's desk: a framed picture of his new mate, Dusty, smiling at the camera.
But that wasn't the only new thing in the room. A man sat in the corner, one I did not recognize. He was tall with long legs that he stretched out in front of him like he didn't have a care in the world. His dark hair was thick on his head and neatly manicured on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. His hazel eyes watched me enter the room. It was like I could feel his gaze picking me apart.
I glared at him. It was best to establish right away that I wasn't to be messed with.
"Who is he?" I snarled, jerking my head at the man while my knee bounced along with my whole leg.
"That is Leopold Thibodeaux, and you should be very nice to him," the sheriff said with a hard edge. "He might be the only thing keeping you out of jail, Seamus."
I opened my mouth to say I wasn't afraid of jail when my mom hit my knee. I closed my mouth, glad for the moment that she at least hadn't brought Shiloh. He was the last person who looked at me like he was proud of me, and I hated doing anything to change that.
"What has he done this time, Sheriff? Deputy Flint wasn't entirely clear," my mother said.
"Well, Dr. Formes, we're still waiting on the final report from the fire department, but it seems as though your son was trying to burn down the university. It looks like we discovered the blaze early on, but unfortunately, he was just successful enough to cause structural damage to the building while completely destroying the sign that had been hand-carved out of the oldest redwood in Morningwood and gifted to the school. The sign alone is appraised at over ten thousand dollars due to the artist's popularity, as well as the rarity of the wood."
"Ten thousand?" my mom squeaked.
"I'll pay it off," I grunted, not liking the shade of pink my mom's face was turning. "You don't have to worry—"
"How?" she snapped.
She knew I had ways of making money. She wouldn't accept any of my drug money—her words—for rent or bills, but when she hadn't been able to afford that new game console for Shiloh, who had stepped up on his birthday, making sure he had at least one reason to smile? I wasn't going to admit to any of that in a room with the sheriff and a quiet man who hadn't spoken, but whose eyes I still felt on my skin. "I'll figure it out."
"I'm afraid you won't," Sheriff Joseph replied. "I've offered you this courtesy in the past, Dr. Formes, but this time, the crime is too severe. Even if the sign were replaced, the damage to the university building needs to be repaired before the building can be used again. Dean Grubbs is livid. He's calling for full restitution and is well within his rights by law to demand as much."
"Dean Grubbs is a whiny tub of—"
"Seamus!" my mom exclaimed.
Meanwhile, the man in the corner moved with a low groan, getting to his feet. "I believe this is where I come in."
What had the sheriff said his name was? Leopold? I snorted, but he ignored me.
He had a soft accent that sounded Southern but with a fancy twist. I didn't hate his voice. "The rabbits are prepared to help…" he began.
"You live up with those crazy inbreds?" I exclaimed. Everyone in Morningwood knew that the rabbit clans that lived above the town were hillbillies. Funny, this guy hadn't looked like a hillbilly at first. His clothes were worn, but without holes or stains, and his body didn't seem like the type that spent hours drinking beer in front of the television. The more I looked at him, the more my inner falcon squawked with alarm. If my inner beast was alarmed by this guy, then I should have been too. Except I got the idea that my falcon liked being in this man's presence. My lower body ached, and there was no mistaking that feeling. Attraction. Instantly, my stomach turned, and I broke out into sweats as I swallowed to try to keep the contents of my stomach where they belonged. "What the fuck is this joker doing here?" I growled while hoping my outburst would mask my body's initial reaction.
I expected the man to lash out, but he ignored me, acting as if I hadn't spoken. "We have the supplies, talent, and know-how. But I ain't about solving other people's problems. Especially if they don't seem all that grateful."
I knew that last bit had been directed at me. My eyebrows lowered, but I was too weirded out by my body's response to looking at him to raise my face. I hadn't asked for his help. I didn't want to go to jail, but I didn't want to remain near this man even more. "Why should I be grateful? I didn't ask for this."
"If you want to go to jail, son, then don't let me stop you," Leopold said.
I shot to my feet, facing him. "Don't call me son."
"Outta everything that's going on here, you're worried about that?" he replied, except out of his mouth, the t-sounds were all sharp, sounding more like every-ting.
"Seamus, sit down, please." My mom tugged on my arm.
"No." I ripped my arm free because standing had been a bad decision, and now that I was nearly flush with the other man's body, mine started to feel light, tingly. On the heels of that arousal came disgust. Need, lust, passion, these feelings always came hand in hand with pain and revulsion. Thanks to my ex, I couldn't think of sex without breaking into a cold sweat.
"Mr. Formes," the sheriff interrupted, "do you have the money to make the necessary repairs? Keep in mind that we will check where that money has come from." His words carried a steely edge.
The only money I had was rolled up in the lock box I kept under my bed. It wasn't all mine, and it sure as hell didn't add up to ten thousand dollars. "No."
Sheriff Joseph lifted the stack of papers in front of him, tapping them into a neat stack against the desk. "Then I'm afraid my hands are tied."
Mismatch, Lovematch by Megan Derr
"Match. Maaatttccchhh. Match!"
Match jerked his head up, scowling at Benny. "What?"
"Pay attention to me."
"No." He went back to his book, even though it was futile, because Benny, being Benny, lay his head on it. Match gave him a hard shove, not at all sorry when he lost his balance and toppled to the floor. "This is a fourteenth century midland elves manuscript, fuckface. It cost me two thousand dollars. Stay off it! Don't even look at it." He was scared to look at it, and he'd bought it specifically to read it. It had taken him the better part of three years to save for this book. If someone so much as glanced in its direction the wrong way, death was their only future.
"Why the hell do you have a book that costs three times your rent in a coffee shop?
"Because my neighbors suck." The one above him was throwing bowling balls or something on the floor twenty times an hour. The two on either side of him were having some sort of feud, taking turns which apartment they had their shouting matches in, and the guy directly across from him was a vampire on some sort of trendy new 'light blood' diet that was not working at all, but try telling that to a stubborn, half-starved vampire fallen victim to diet culture.
Giving up, he closed the book, put it back in its case, and that into his leather, warded bookbag. "Get me a latte, and I'll pay attention to you." He'd had to settle on a bottle of water earlier, and he wasn't above making his better-off friends buy him coffee here and there when the opportunity presented.
"You're not allowed to have two lattes that close together."
Match smiled, all teeth and warning, and didn't bother to correct the assumption. "Do it anyway."
"I don't know why anyone thinks I'm the merry leader," Benny muttered as he dutifully went to stand in line.
Chuckling, Match pulled out his tablet to look over the inventory he'd taken that morning, making certain he'd gotten everything needed before confirming the shipping order. After that, he pulled up one of the spells he was working on, fussing with some of the castings on the outer ring. Wards cast in changeable areas like, well, anywhere outside, were always the hardest. When it involved water, it got about ten times harder. He'd been working on this one for nearly two months now, missing something that kept it from holding. No matter what he did, it was always gone after a few hours.
"You'll get it," Benny said. "You're the smartest, most capable witch I know. The only one with more skills than you is your mom, and even she concedes that in another few years you'll have her beat."
"Well, at the moment this warding has me beat, and that's all that matters," Match replied, closing his tablet and taking the latte Benny held out. "What are you doing here? I thought you were attending some queer rights things with Traci."
"Lace got sick, had a fever all night. Took her to the ER; thankfully it broke there and was nothing serious, just usual kids being germ factories stuff."
"If you get me sick…"
"You're good," Benny said, holding his hands up in peace. "Brought her back this morning, crashed, woke up like two hours ago. Agatha is watching her now, and the rally should be ending in like two hours, so not much point in me going." He shrugged. "Also, I got a call from the Watch about something weird in the picnic area up in the woods, near the pond. Wanna check it out with me?"
Match lifted his brows in silent query. Scouting usually fell to Benny and Ronan, the main muscle of the squad. He got brought in later when—if—his magic was needed.
"I tried calling, but he wasn't answering, which isn't like him, so I figured he must either be dead to the world or something else important is going on and we shouldn't bug him."
Fighting the urge to dive for his phone and text Ronan, ignoring Benny's knowing look, Match replied, "Fine, let's go. Hopefully it's something minor."
"From the description, I'm pretty sure it's pixies. That's one of the reasons I thought you'd like to go."
That did make the trip more interesting. "Maybe I can find a breeding male this time."
Benny wrinkled his nose as he clapped him on the shoulder. "Weirdo. Let's go."
Solan by Becca Seymour
CHAPTER
ONE
Sweat draws the flies. After thirty-seven years, you’d think I’d be used to having hundreds of the damn things buzzing in front of my face. Not a chance. They annoy the hell out of me.
A fast flick of my hand in front of my face does virtually nothing to get them to leave me alone.
Taking a steadying breath while trying not to draw one of the annoying insects into my mouth, I lean against the fence, staring out into the distance at the greying sky that has taken on a distinct tinge of green.
The storm’s only been brewing for fifteen minutes. It’s big and fast, and the hail is likely going to damage the tin roof.
Why the hell did I think it was a good idea for me to come home again?
Sure, I returned out west for my dad, Jack Sr, to help him through his sickness as best as I could before I finally laid him to rest next to the giant bottle tree he loved so much. But that was seven months ago, yet I’m still here.
One hundred and thirty kilometres from sort-of civilisation.
A crash of thunder rends the air, loud enough that the cows in the far-right paddock bolt for the fence line.
With this brewing storm that, honestly, I’ve never seen anything quite like before, I’m wondering why I’m still standing here.
There’s a strange orange and red, similar to that of a sunset. The sky is a kaleidoscope of colour as it washes over the dark red dirt. The sky, a stunning wash of vermillion, copper, and desert gold, should be beautiful. But that green and the flashes of lightning set my teeth on edge.
It’s enough to have me dragging in a calming breath, thankfully without pulling a flying insect in with—
It’s weird. I hold my breath, listening intently, realising that during the past couple of minutes of watching the fast-approaching storm, all the flies have disappeared.
The slowly descending late-afternoon spring sun usually brings with it a chorus of high-pitched buzzing, the song of the cicadas already filling the otherwise quiet space around me by now. But there’s nothing.
The birds have already flown away, out of the path of the storm, and even the herd is eerily silent.
The braying of Geralt and Gertie, secure in the barn, has even cut off.
This time of day is usually an in-between time of saying goodbye to a long day of working my old man’s six-hundred-acre property—or mine, technically, though it still doesn’t feel like it—and taking solace in the peace only the outback can offer.
But then there’s this damn storm. It’s closer than it was five minutes ago but still sits on the horizon, probably twenty but maybe thirty kilometres away.
And it’s just kind of hovering there.
The full display of incredible colours remains awash in the sky as the lightning strikes become more frequent. There’s what should be a growl of thunder, but it’s a low groan echoing across the flat land before me. A tired, almost-mournful sound reaches where I stand. It lasts ten long seconds, and by the time it ends, my hairs are standing on end and I’m no longer confident the house and the barn are as secure as I thought they were.
It’s odd. The whole thing.
The now-posturing storm. The majestic show of lightning. The painful wail tearing through the air.
A crack of sound rocks the very earth between my booted feet. Instinctively, I drop to the ground. The world shifts. Tilts. And doesn’t stop moving.
On my hands and knees, I cling to the red dirt as ingrained into my skin as the Australian air is embedded in my lungs. I stare out at the expanding storm. The grey continues to mix with the red and gold, the green growing brighter.
What the ever-loving fuck?
It’s like the aurora borealis or even the aurora australis but with its own palette of colour mirroring the outback landscape.
It’s also impossible. Here. So far away from, well, anywhere.
With the ground still rumbling under my feet, I use the metal gate to steady myself as I haul my arse off the ground. I don’t look away from the mountain of clouds as they stretch and tumble against one another, much like the heaving of ocean waves.
While the storm remains the same distance away, it stretches across the horizon until I have to physically turn to see how far and wide it spreads.
Eyes wide in fear, I back away from the fence. My house, about two hundred metres behind me, feels far away as the storm clouds continue to extend, the edges seeming to reach for each other, forming a goddamn circle. With me in the bloody middle.
I turn and run, grappling for my phone in my jeans as I race for the house. I manage a glance at the screen, fear slicing into me when no signal is evident.
Not even SOS Calls Only is on display.
Is this what a tornado feels like? Am I going to get sucked up and carried away?
I already live in the land of Aus, and if any walking, talking lions, scarecrows, or tinmen cross my path, they’ll be sucking lead.
What I need to do is get the hell out of here.
Hearing Geralt and Gertie, I hesitate, hand on the door.
There’s banging coming from the stables. They’re freaking the fuck out. And I get it. I’m right there with them.
Fuck.
They’re good horses, but trying to get them into the trailer while they lose their shit is going to be a nightmare.
I peer up at the sky, back at where I first saw the storm brewing.
My breath shudders out of me. The edges of the clouds speed towards each other. In no time at all, they’re going to touch. The circle will be formed.
While I have no idea what that means, I absolutely know it’s nothing good.
“Fuck,” I bellow and wrench the flyscreen door open. Half a step inside, I grab the key to my Ford Ranger, turn, and bolt for my truck.
I’m inside in a few heavy exhales, my fingers trembling as I jab at the ignition button.
Nothing.
I press it again, dread curdling my stomach. No lights are on in the dash, and there’s zilch coming from the engine.
Gripping the steering wheel, I shake it. Frustration bleeds out of me. “You fucking piece of shit. Fuck.”
Think, Jack. Think.
With my pulse racing and my thoughts spiralling, I tumble out of the ute. Right about now, I wish I’d listened to Jeremy. He’s a hard-core prepper and would be all over this shit. The man even built a bunker.
Instead, I’ve got an old Queenslander that’s made out of tin and wood, same as the barn, and an expensive-as-hell Ford Ranger that’s worthless.
I’m a few metres away from the barn, heading towards my bike, when silence has me pulling up short.
The growing wind has dropped, and the groaning storm has quietened. All I can hear are my uneven breaths sawing out of me.
Even Geralt and Gertie aren’t braying.
I take slow, measured steps to the side of the barn so I can see east—where the storm clouds are meeting. Wide-eyed, I swallow hard. The clouds appear less than ten millimetres away from touching at this distance. I take another breath, and the oxygen is sucked out of my lungs as I fly through the air.
My arms windmill, and any second now, I’m going to be kissing dirt.
I stare up into the once-blue sky, my brain stumbling.
Green.
The green of the Daintree Rainforest.
The sky above my head is fucking green.
I have but a second to process the strangeness before a light fills my vision so bright, I’m unable to see anything. Not the strangeness. Not the usual ochre dirt breaking my fall.
Not my red blood spilling against the soil.
My ears ring. The piercing brightness fades around the edges, narrowing into blackness. The darkness is the only familiar sensation in the changing landscape.
I welcome it.
I don’t know how much time has passed since I was knocked out. All I know for sure is, the back of my head throbs, my coccyx is screaming bloody murder, and it’s possible I have a concussion. The latter is the only explanation for the still-green sky above me.
It’s a possibility, I suppose, that I’m in a coma. It’s a valid reason for the world above me seeming like it’s been dipped in the North Queensland rainforest and appearing as a vividly bright canvas textured with varying shades of green.
“Shit me.” My fingertips come away damp when I shift my head and touch the tender bump at the back. Red stains my fingers. It’s still wet. So either I’m still bleeding or I didn’t black out for too long.
I test my limbs. Everything aches, but agony doesn’t send sharp stabs of alarm, so that’s something. I circle my ankles left, then right, and I release a shaky exhale. Not broken.
It’s time to sit up and take real stock. The weird sky above me is a problem I’ll solve once I know I can stand without falling on my arse.
I manage to lift myself up and stay upright on my butt, then pick up my worn, dusty Akubra off the ground by my side. The aches are very real, but I think that’s all they are: sore bones and muscles. From this position, my childhood home looks untouched from the blast that took me down.
The windows are intact, and the tin roof has the same number of dents from previous hailstorms. It’s a relief. Whatever put me on my arse felt like it had the power to demolish the whole building. It’s a miracle the old place is still standing—a Queenslander my grandpop built eighty years back.
The panicked braying from the barn has me moving.
I need to check on Geralt and Gertie. That I can hear them is a good sign. Sure, they’re distressed—a given considering the storm.
The storm.
The thought makes me slam on the brakes a few metres shy of the closed barn doors.
Where the fuck has the storm gone?
I do a slow 360, then a fast one, which sends a thud of pain through my head. But I don’t have the brain space to worry about that.
The dirt beneath my feet remains a familiar deep ochre. The kilometres of barbed-wire fencing—most I rigged up with my dad over the years—are laid out before me, spanning my inherited six-hundred-acre property.
From my property, beyond my cattle, the fences, and the yards, all there usually is to see is the main road, only visible on a still day, about three kilometres away in the south, and my sister and brother-in-law’s neighbouring property about four kilometres down the road in the east. Beyond that, there’s usually just flat land, red dirt, endless blue skies, and, during the wet season, glorious grass.
Fast, shallow breaths have my shoulders vibrating and my head spinning.
I shake my head, struggling to comprehend what I can see. What’s gone.
What the fuck’s happened?
The three-kilometre gravel road leading from my property via a two-hundred-metre dirt-track road to the bitumen of the A7 remains intact. Several kilometres out to the left of it, the usual flat plains are gone.
Literally fucking gone.
The ground, where the long grass usually dances in the breeze, hasn’t been burnt by the storm—a possibility from the lightning display I witnessed.
I shake my head, struggling to process what I see.
A mountain crouches in the distance. Its peak—impossible to tell how high it is from the ground—is covered in snow. Snow. Legit, the first and last time I ever saw snow was on a school trip almost thirty years ago when we visited Canberra. It had been cold—obviously—but disappointingly icy. None of the fluffy stuff good for making snowmen like you see in movies.
It’s not just the mountain that is nearly exploding my mind.
To the west, there are buildings. They’re too far away for me to tell what kind or how many. All I know is, they shouldn’t be there.
“The fuck is happening?” My words catch on a slight breeze that appears. It’s warm and surprisingly humid, not carrying the usual dry heat of the outback.
I spin around, looking in the opposite direction, my jaw going slack.
Gut clenching, I’ve no idea if I’m going to vomit or shit myself. Either is a possibility when, in the distance, I see movement. A cloud of… I swallow hard. Sand. It’s fucking sand. Here. Sure, there are deserts and beaches in Australia, but not fucking here.
The cloud of sand is heading towards my sister’s property.
Even though it looks like a speck from this distance, I can still sense that it’s big and fast. It could be an SUV, but my gut tells me it’s not.
The moving sand cloud has yet to meet the red dirt I’m so familiar with. It’s still several kilometres away.
Either way, my gut’s screaming at me to move.
While I’m sure my sister and Derek are at work, not usually finishing till the sun has set at six-ish, Jamie’s school bus drove by over an hour ago. He’ll be home, doing his chores like the good twelve-year-old kid he is.
Turning on my heel, I race back to my ute, my heart thundering.
Please start.
It doesn’t. The battery seems to be dead.
Not wasting time, I rush to the barn while doing a cursory check of my phone, but I already know I’ll have no signal. I’m right.
Whatever the blast was must have taken out the towers. My service is always a little sketchy out here, but I have no doubt that isn’t the issue.
When I open the barn doors, Geralt’s and Gertie’s braying assault me. They’re freaked.
“Hey, there.” I go straight to Geralt, who’s the bigger and noisier of the two. “Shh. It’s all okay.”
I stroke down his rich brown neck, his hair smooth and familiar. A breath gushes out of me when I do. I’m fucking wrecked, my nerves shot. But I have to pull my head out of my arse and get to Jamie.
“We’ll all be okay,” I whisper, straightening my spine and willing myself to believe it.
I was brought up here, isolated and battling everything from grassfires to floods to dealing with snake bites. I know I’m made of tougher stuff than this. I need to do better.
Closing my eyes, I take a calming breath. This is the last one I allow myself before I take action and stop having a breakdown. “Get your shit together, Jack.”
Geralt nudges my shoulder, and I snap open my eyes.
My dirt bike, quad, and ATV are dead. Even the tractor is fried.
I force steel into my words when I say, “We’ve got this.”
At least I really hope Geralt has got this with me.
Rather than cussing up a storm, I put my focus on saddling Geralt.
As I swing myself onto his back, I feel his familiar powerful muscles beneath me, his fifteen hands of chestnut power offering me comfort. He’s a stockhorse and has been my steadfast companion for years, yet today even he’s skittish.
He whinnies and huffs.
“Come on, boy. We need to get to Jamie.”
A snort escapes him, his muscles tensing against my legs as he prepares to move. He’s clearly anxious, but he’s intelligent and reliable. I have faith that he knows what I need from him.
As we burst from the shelter of the barn into the expanse of rich soil beneath Geralt’s hooves, his nervous energy transforms. His strides become purposeful, his movements sure.
With each step, his confidence grows, and thank fuck it does. I can’t look away from the changed landscape in the distance and the green-tinged sky that keeps snatching my attention.
Was there a chemical explosion? Maybe radiation is polluting the sky. But what about the buildings? The further I move from my home, it becomes clearer there are shelters of some sort in the distance.
Then there’s the goddamn mountain that’s appeared like a damned mirage.
Fuck, I’m at the point of believing aliens really do exist.
The first fence is looming, but I know Geralt’s got this.
He launches over the barbed-wire fence with such effortless grace, relief barrels into me. He’s in control. It feels good. And since I’m the one riding him, I need to suck that shit up and take a page out of his book.
Wind whips around us, but Geralt powers on, his hooves pounding the familiar path towards my sister’s property. Urgency gnaws at me, anxiety coursing through my veins.
Jamie’s a good kid. He’s smart. He’s also a country kid. He knows how to handle himself.
He has to be fine.
My reassurances are a mantra in my head as I push Geralt harder, urging him to go faster and cover the distance in record time.
My sister’s property grows closer on the horizon, and my heart races, fear and hope battling it out. But the house looks unaffected. So does the barn.
That’s a good thing, right?
As we draw closer, the adrenaline in my veins matches the thundering beat of Geralt’s hooves.
Movement.
The screen door swings open.
Thank fuck.
Jamie barrels down the steps, his arms pumping fast as his gangly form hits the gravel path.
He’s safe.
The weight pressing against my chest eases.
He’s unharmed.
“Uncle Jack!” The warm breeze snatches his words and delivers them to me.
His relief mirrors my own, as do his wide eyes.
This kid means the world to me.
In truth, he’s the main reason I chose to stay after losing my dad.
“Jamie.” On shaking legs, I dismount. “You’re okay.” I tug him close, embracing him tightly, gratitude flooding me.
He’s shaking and gripping me.
Geralt stands by, a comforting presence, his chestnut coat glistening with sweat. Reaching out without releasing Jamie, who takes a long, shuddery breath, I stroke Geralt’s mane.
He’s done good.
“Hey.” I dot a kiss on top of Jamie’s dirty-blond hair, the same colour mine was at his age, but I lost all traces of gold by the time I turned sixteen.
Leaning back, Jamie’s wide eyes meet mine.
“You good?” I search his face, trying to see how he really is. His face is flushed, his eyes a little watery, but there are no tear tracks down his cheeks.
He straightens and steps out of my hold but remains close enough to touch.
I do just that and place my palm on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
“I am now. I had to change my undies ’cause I shit myself from that blast. But holy crap, Uncle Jack, what the hell was that?”
Warmth blooms in my chest, humour dislodging some of the fear that’s taken root there.
This kid has a mouth on him, which, sensibly, he curbs around his parents.
But not around me.
I swear I’m the best kind of influence on my nephew. Admittedly, Harper doesn’t always agree. But this kid’s a mini-me. Even his poor folks can’t deny that.
“For real,” he continues, barely taking a breath, “I fell on my butt.”
“Are you hurt?” I cut in before he no doubt continues talking nonstop.
“Bruised.” He stops, his eyebrows shooting high as he takes me in. “Bloody hell, you’re bleeding.”
I touch the back of my head, no longer feeling fresh blood there. “I’m good.” I shake my head. “It’s stopped.” It still hurts like I’ve been whacked with a piece of two-by-four, but since there’s not a pool of blood at my feet and I’m still standing, I figure I’ll be okay.
“So, what happened? One minute I was making myself a bowl of cereal, and the next I hit the floor and the air-con went out. I’ve checked the trip switch, but nothing’s working. Ridge hasn’t stopped kicking off.”
With my panic subsided, I hear Jamie’s horse. Ridge does sound like he’s going apeshit.
“Is your phone working?”
Jamie shakes his head. “Nope. The internet is down too.”
A given, as there’s no electricity.
“I tried the Can-Am,” he says. “It won’t start. I was going to come over, check on you.”
Of course he was.
This kid’s been brought up knowing how to make a Vegemite sandwich, fix a fence, and ride a bike and a Can-Am. He’s also a sure shot with a rifle and can ride a horse even better than I could at his age.
His dad’s a good guy—an accountant, if you can believe it.
Which is the reason why my parents shaved off just five acres fifteen years back for them to build a home, knowing that Derek could ride a mower, but beyond that, running a property wasn’t his thing.
My dad spent the time teaching Jamie how to live and love the property life, and I did, too, when I visited.
“Let’s just settle Ridge, and I’ll give Geralt a quick brush down. We’ll then figure out what’s going on, yeah?”
“Okay.” He hesitates, his focus moving beyond me. “And what are we doing about that?”
Fuck. The plume of sand—not freaking dirt.
I jolt around and follow his line of sight. Narrowing my gaze, I try to figure out what I’m seeing. It’s closer now, but I still can’t work out what it is.
“What is that?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
“Are we ignoring the fact that there’s sand where Mr Bates’s property used to be?”
Why Jamie’s so damn calm is beyond me, but my pulse is going berserk. Not only because the plume is likely just seven kilometres out, but before Jamie spoke, I could have pretended I’ve been hallucinating.
“You see that too?” It’s best I double-check.
“Yep. And the giant freakin’ mountain. That too.”
“Shit.”
“And what’s up with the green sky?”
I snap my head up, knowing he’s doing the same.
It looks more sea green at the moment. Has it changed shade? Maybe the way I’d perceived it earlier was just my head still spinning and struggling to make sense of it.
“Radiation?” It’s clear I’m clueless.
“No way is that radiation.” My nephew legit scoffs, a sound too light and carefree, considering neither of us knows what the hell is going on.
“How would you know, wise-arse?”
“We did a project on it in science last term. That’s not what radiation looks like.”
“So, what are you thinking?” I glance at Jamie, my heart squeezing at the contemplative expression forming on his face. God, I love this kid. And thank Christ he’s not freaking out.
He shrugs. “It kinda looks like some of the video games I play.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Uh-huh. That’s helpful.”
He shrugs and meets my gaze. “I’m not saying I think we’re in a video game, but nothing about this is right.”
“True that.” He’s dead set got it in one. Nothing about this is right.
While our homes are still here, as are part of the road and a section of Liam and Nancy’s neighbouring property, beyond that—from the sky to the very ground—nothing is as it should be.
It’s like a section of our world’s been cut out and stitched into somewhere “other.” And just thinking that makes me want to roll my eyes and knock back a bottle of whiskey.
Geralt snorts and paws the ground. I tighten my grip on his reins. He shakes his head, eyes wide, almost frantic.
“Uncle Jack.”
The hitch in Jamie’s voice captures my attention completely. But his whole focus is on the direction of the plume of sand. I follow his gaze, my heart jolting so hard, my chest feels bruised.
It’s no longer a speck I can mistake for an SUV.
“Seriously, what is that?”
At the panic in his voice, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Horror floods my system, but more importantly, I agree with my nephew: What the fuck is that?
“We need to move. Get the saddle on Ridge.” I thrust Geralt’s reins at Jamie and charge into the barn, knowing I can get Ridge ready for riding faster than my nephew can. “Get the key for the gun safe,” I holler as I tug the leather saddle from its mount.
Hearing Jamie moving, I focus on saddling Ridge, my pulse pounding a frantic beat in my ears.
We need to get out of here. Fast.
Whatever the hell that thing is outside, it’s not a vehicle.
With shaky hands, I get the saddle fastened and put on the bridle. I can’t think about what I saw. If I do, it’s likely I’ll hesitate. Stumble. Lose my fucking mind.
“Got the keys.”
I nod as I secure the reins. “Get your popsy’s gun sling.” It’s one Dad gifted Jamie a few years back even though it would take some time for him to grow into.
“Okay.”
After finally securing the stirrup straps, I head to the gun cabinet in the barn and unlock the door. A satchel sits on the floor, one of my dad’s that he used to carry ammo when he went mustering—intending to shoot brown snakes and the occasional taipan.
“Here.” Jamie passes me the sling as I grab one of the guns.
“Thanks. Take Ridge outside. And grab the water container and make sure it’s full. Throw it in one of the rucksacks.” I focus on gathering ammo, securing the rifle in its sling, and collecting the saddlebag attachment that carries my sister’s shotgun.
I lock the safe back up and look around.
This feels dramatic, reacting this way. Or at least it should.
But deep in my gut, I know something—quite possibly everything—is wrong.
And if what I saw in the distance is real and not my concussed brain freaking me out, getting armed and the hell out of here is simply common sense.
Outside, under the weird sky, Jamie joins me. He passes me a backpack.
“I shoved some jerky and potato chips in there.”
I ignore the way his hand trembles and nod, offering a smile I absolutely don’t feel. Beyond sheer panic, dread, and knowing I need to protect Jamie, there’s little room for anything else.
“Mount up.”
He puts on his own pack, pushes his Akubra firmly onto his head, and mounts Ridge. He does so effortlessly, causing pride to swell in my chest.
How the hell he’s so calm and keeping his shit together is beyond me.
He saw the same thing I did in the distance.
Yet he’s here, kitted out, and looking at me with wide, clear eyes as if I have all the answers.
If only I did.
But for him, I’ll bullshit my way through this. There’s no other choice.
Securing the shotgun to Geralt, I finally glance in the direction I’ve been avoiding.
“What’s the plan?”
As I stare at the monstrous creature speeding towards us, its horns large and purple, I swallow hard.
What the fuck is our plan?
“We’re going to get the hell out of here, head south towards Injune.” It’s where my sister and brother-in-law work. It’s usually a forty-minute drive, so it will take longer than that by horse.
“Do you think it’s still there?”
Jamie’s question freezes my brain.
Slowly, I glance at him, risking taking my eyes off the creature that I mistook for a vehicle. Understandable, since it really does look to be the size of a big SUV.
I see it in Jamie’s worried frown. In the moisture in his eyes. Beyond the familiar red dirt is a land that we both know is not our own.
If we’re right—and I absolutely pray we’re not—it’s likely that town and the world as we know it has gone. Disappeared.
That or it’s been swallowed somehow by the beastly creature who I have no doubt wants to eat our faces off.
Fuck that shit.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.” I mount Geralt, nod at my nephew to take the lead, and together, we ride on out.
Who knows what we’ll find. The important thing is that Jamie’s okay and I have a bag full of bullets for the rifle and shells for the shotgun if I need them.
How to Walk Like a Man by Eli Easton
Chapter 1: THE IMMINENT THREAT OF TANGERINES
"Now Roman, remember. You're going to have to stay very conscious about not exhibiting any dog-like behavior during this meeting. We can't afford to raise suspicion."
"Yes, sir. I'll be on my guard."
Roman didn't need to be reminded. He knew humans were unaware that dog-human shifters, called the quickened, existed. But he could tell Lance was anxious, and his chatter was down to nerves. Sweat beaded on Sheriff Lance Beaufort's upper lip as he steered the car and—Roman sniffed as subtly as he could—Lance smelled wary, suspicious. Roman's inner dog wanted to whine at the unease of his pack leader, but Roman swallowed it. No dog behavior.
They were driving to Fresno in Lance's white sheriff's department SUV for a big regional law enforcement meeting. The DEA was giving a presentation, and Lance had asked Roman to go along. He probably just wanted company on the long drive, but Roman had been thrilled. Since he'd become a full-time deputy with the Mad Creek's Sheriff's Office, he had a purpose in life again, and he liked being included in Lance's plans. Besides, he loved to ride in cars! It was even better when you didn't have to drive and could roll down the window and stick your hand out, feel the wind buffet your skin.
With the window rolled down, a scent caught Roman's nose on the warm September air. He turned his head as they zipped past endless pine trees. There was something dead out in the woods—something small, like a groundhog. If he were on foot, he'd go find it just for the fun of it. But not today. Not today.
He smiled and looked at his hand as he tried to catch the wind. Today he was a man, and it was still amazing. Hands were amazing. Lately he'd been finding his own body more fascinating. He'd been quickened for two years now, but sometimes he felt like he was just now wakening from a dream—only to find it wasn't a dream at all.
"I think it’s very different," he said, wiggling his fingers. "Being quickened from birth, like you were, and getting it later in life, like me. Living as a dog first."
"I'm sure it is," Lance agreed. "Incredibly different."
"I'm glad I was who I was. That I had that time in Army K-9. With James."
Lance said nothing, and Roman felt a pang of self-doubt. Maybe he was talking too much in an 'un-human-like’ way. Lance was pack, but he was also Roman's boss. He cleared his throat and rolled up the window. "So. What do you expect to happen at this meeting today?"
"I don't know." Lance frowned at the windshield. "I'm hoping it'll be good news, but—"
"We haven't had any trouble. Not since that night those drug dealers shot up Tim's house."
"I know. But I have a sense something's coming, like… a prickling on my neck. I've had a bad feeling for days."
Roman didn't have any such 'bad feeling', but he didn't say it out loud. As a border collie shifter, Lance worried about his territory obsessively, more than Roman or any other quickened. So if Lance sensed something, he was probably right.
Roman's heart beat a little faster. "Do you want me to carry my weapon, sir?"
Lance laughed. "No, I don't mean I expect trouble at this meeting. Coffee and donuts and a lot of ass-kissing is probably as dangerous as it'll get. But the DEA's presentation… This is the first time they've called us all together for something like this. I'm assuming it's not going to be good news on the war-on-drugs front. I just hope whatever's brewing out there, it has nothing to do with Mad Creek."
"Because that would be bad." Roman knew Lance's philosophy: fly as under-the-radar and away from human things as possible. Mad Creek was in the middle of nowhere for a reason.
"Yes, Roman. Because that would be very bad," Lance said darkly.
* * *
There were at least a hundred sheriffs, deputies, and other law enforcement personnel at the meeting. Roman stayed by Lance's side, said ‘hello’ when he was introduced, and otherwise kept his mouth shut. He also refrained from scratching his ears or visibly sniffing people. He adopted the stoic military stance that was so familiar to him from his time in the Army. There was a lot he didn't know about being human, but he knew how to imitate a soldier.
In fact, it felt like the old days being around so many people in uniform, though most of them were older and not as lively or fun as the soldiers in Afghanistan. Still, there were jokes Roman didn't get, lots of backslapping and, yes, coffee and donuts. The ones with the white icing and raisins were Roman's favorites! He ate six of them before a warning glare from Lance reminded him to slow down.
After the donuts, it was time for the presentations.
The Forest Service went first. An older man with gray hair and a pot belly spoke. "Last year, we found over four hundred illegal marijuana farms in California. Three hundred of those were in the Sierra Nevada Mountains."
The man showed pictures of razed dirt areas among trees and big water ponds sheeted in plastic. "The worst part of all this is the extensive destruction of public lands and animal habitat. These illegal farms use heavy pesticides. They cut down trees. They set out poison for animals. They create irrigation ponds, siphoning off hundreds of gallons of water that starve the area of moisture, and rob water from the cities downstream."
Lance had been right. It wasn't good news. Roman felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he looked at the slide show. He loved the woods around his cabin, loved to run there, both as human and dog. It was beautiful and it was full of life. He'd be so angry if someone did that to his woods.
"Besides the environmental impact, it's a danger for hikers and campers who might stumble across these things. There were twelve murders last year for exactly that reason. And it's a danger for our Forest Service officers, who aren't trained, and don't have the bandwidth, to do this extensive policing. So we've asked the governor, and the governor has asked the president, for resources from the DEA."
The man from the DEA—the Drug Enforcement Agency—talked next. His name was Dixon. He had silver in his brown hair, but he was trim and tough-looking. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt that said "DEA" on it in gold letters.
"I guess I don't have to tell you that this is a huge problem," Dixon said. "It's mostly marijuana farms in California, but in Arizona and Texas we're seeing an increase of meth and opium labs in wooded parks like these too. Fortunately, we've gotten the funding we need to make a concerted effort here in the California mountains."
Dixon put up a list of town names. Mariposa, Oakhurst, Briceburg, and Coulterville were on the list, among others. And there, in black and white, was the name Mad Creek. Lance started vibrating with tension in the seat next to Roman's.
"The new operation is called Operation Green Ghost. We're funding a full-time agent in each of these towns for at least the next twelve months. These DEA investigators will be based out of your offices and will form a coordinated web under the control of the DEA. We've got—"
Lance shot to his feet. "Excuse me!"
Dixon looked at Lance warily. "Yes?"
"As the sheriff of one of the towns on your list, I think we should have a say about this. We don't need any extra manpower. We're overstaffed as it is, and I can promise you, we haven't had any trouble with the drug trade anywhere around Mad Creek."
Lance was in his most intense mode. His voice made Roman shift in his chair uncomfortably, even though it wasn't directed at him. But Dixon just narrowed his eyes. "Mad Creek? Are you Sheriff Beaufort?"
"I certainly am."
Dixon nodded. "Well, Sheriff, I'm afraid you don't have any say over this. This is a federal operation, and we've chosen the locations for this task force strategically." He brought up another slide showing the Sierra Nevadas with circles over every town he'd listed and lines interconnecting them. Mad Creek was one of the towns most distant from all the others, so it was clear to Roman they held a key position. Maybe it was clear to Lance too. He sat back down, his blue eyes bright with worry. Roman's instinct was to rub his arm and shoulder up against Lance, to soothe him. But that was dog behavior. He remained still.
Dixon went on. "I'll be running the operation from here and coordinating with the Forest Service. The DEA task force members located in these towns will report to me. They'll work fairly independently day to day, but there may be times when they'll need your assistance. For example if they need to investigate a suspicious site. We hope you'll—"
Lance popped up again. "Excuse me! If we have to have an additional staff member in our office to coordinate with this 'Green Ghost' task force, can we be allowed to hire them ourselves? I have several candidates—"
"Sheriff Beaufort, these will be specially trained DEA agents, on our payroll. No, you will not be hiring them or interviewing them or picking out their clothes. They're our agents and they will be assigned to your town. They will sit in your office, if you would be so accommodating, but they will not report to you. Is that clear?"
Dixon was losing patience, and so were the other people in the room. Some turned in their seats to give Lance begrudging glances. Maybe, Roman thought, they also wanted more of those donuts with the white frosting and raisins, so they wanted the presentation to hurry up and end.
But Lance didn't care. He was a good-looking and charismatic man with his thick black hair, tight compact build, and turquoise blue eyes. For a long moment, Lance stared at the DEA man, his shoulders high and tight in a warning. Dixon stared back. No human being on this earth could out-stare Lance Beaufort, so the man gave up first. He went back to his slide show and continued to talk, ignoring Lance. Lance sat down.
Roman could feel the anger coming off Lance in waves. He understood why Lance wasn't happy. He didn't want a stranger in Mad Creek, not a stranger like this, an investigator who'd be looking down every dirt road, who’d be sitting in their office. Roman pushed down a growl. He didn't want that either. He loved the sheriff's office in Mad Creek, where he had his very own desk in a room he shared with Charlie. There was even a little sign with his name on it and everything! Everyone who worked in the office was quickened. They'd have to be so careful with a stranger around.
Dixon went on to discuss the details of Operation Green Ghost. Roman did his best to listen. But he was too aware of Lance's anger, too aware of the fact that all this spying would be over the homes of people he knew and land he loved. It made him feel edgy and threatened.
Mad Creek was a safe haven for so many souls—good souls, trusting souls, sometimes lost souls. He should know. He'd been lost himself.
After the meeting broke up, Lance pulled Roman aside in the hall. "Stay here. I'm going to go talk to the district supervisor, see if I can't do something about this." His blue eyes burned so bright it almost hurt to look at them. He kept his voice low so only Roman could hear. "I can't push too hard, though, or I’ll just draw more attention to Mad Creek. Goddamn it. Just don't talk to anyone. And don't do anything… weird. Okay? I'll be back."
* * *
Roman waited in the hall.
The Fresno County Sheriff's Office was a low stone building. There were wooden planks on the walls and they were covered with pictures, certificates, and maps. Roman kept his back to a wall, standing in parade rest. In his deputy’s uniform—green pants, green tie, khaki shirt, and badge—people passed him with barely a glance, like he was security, like he belonged there.
They didn't guard their tongues either. He heard a few men complain about Lance, wondering what his issue was, if he was just a control freak or had something going on 'up there'. Lance was right. If they protested too much, people would get suspicious. An older woman in uniform was telling stories about drug crimes in her area and others talked about their budgets or bad knees. The people all smelled of too much coffee and fast food—a slightly rancid oily smell. Roman stood still, waiting.
The hall emptied as people made their way outside. Lance still hadn't returned. Roman's gaze darted down the hall where there was the door of a men's room. He sure would like to use the bathroom before the long drive back to Mad Creek. Should he wait for Lance to ask permission?
Would a real man wait to ask permission? Probably not. Lance was his boss, not his master. And it wasn't as though Roman was guarding anything. He was just waiting.
He sharply turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom door.
He pushed it open and turned the corner. There were three urinals on the white tiled wall, two stalls, and some sinks. There was also a man already in the room. He was in the process of peeing into a urinal.
Roman's eyes snapped away, but not before he registered the black DEA T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and the slender waist. The man was young, fit, had a soldier's build, and dark brown hair that was short in the back but longer on top. The scent of the man's urine was ripe in the air as Roman moved to the urinal closest to the door—and farthest from the man. He knew to keep his distance even though everything inside him itched to get closer, smell deeper.
Human ways were just plain baffling sometimes. A dog's instinct was to size up a stranger by sniffing their scent. That made so much sense! His brain stored smells very precisely. He could remember if he'd smelled that creature before, if he’d found its urine on a tree or in the grass. He could even tell if it was sick and what it had been eating recently.
But humans hated it when you sniffed their crotch as a dog. In human form, well, it was so far out of line, it would land you in a fight. Roman should know. He'd gotten in a few fights for that very reason when he was still young enough not to understand.
Roman stared down as he took out his penis and held himself over the basin. He hesitated another moment, though, unable to resist testing the pure urine smell in the air one more time, reading what it had to tell him… male, excellent health, at reproductive peak, hasn't eaten sugar lately, faint traces of beer. He could also smell the man himself—warm and faintly sweaty, a frustrated sweat, like he'd done something unpleasant recently.
Satisfied he knew the score, Roman let himself go. He didn't look up. When he finished and zipped his pants, he was surprised to see that the guy was still standing at his urinal. He was trying, with his right hand, to get the button at the top of his pants through the hole. His left arm was in a sling. Immediately images of dogs and men, broken and limping, came to mind along with a wave of pity. Afghanistan.
The man glanced at Roman, his eyes bright with frustration. "I'm left-handed, of course. Son-of-a-bitch pants."
Without a second thought, Roman crossed the space between them in one stride and dropped to his knees. "I can do it."
He grabbed both sides of the man's waistband, tugging them together and slipping the button through the hole. Above him, the man tensed and slowly moved his right hand out of the way. Roman grabbed the zipper and put his fingers inside the waistband to hold it still as he moved the zipper up.
"There." As he released the pants, his fingers brushed across a soft-hard bulge that was growing under the canvas fabric. At the same moment, a musky scent rose up, perplexing Roman. He frowned, still on his knees. He couldn't resist—his nostrils flared as he tried for another whiff, staring at the bulge in the canvas. It smelled like… musky tangerines, like when a tangerine is past ripe and is just starting to go moldy. Roman liked the smell. A lot.
The man took a step back. "Thanks, I… wow. That's an, uh… interesting technique."
Roman got to his feet and looked at the man's face. He was very good at reading faces and the expression he saw there confused him—mouth slightly open, eyes evaluating him in a warm and curious way that he'd never seen before. Then the man's expression changed to one of surprise.
"Oh my God! You're that guy!"
Roman saw it too and everything clicked. He knew this man. This was the DEA SWAT soldier that he'd gone after during that drug bust several months ago. In all the tension and confusion of the drug raid—the one he and Lance were supposed to be merely watching—Roman had seen this man get shot in the distance and had snapped. Something about the way his square jaw and the shape of his nose had looked in the dim light…. Roman had been convinced in that instant that the man was James. He’d run right into the firefight, endangering Lance, endangering himself, and the mission.
No one had been hurt, and Roman had managed to drag this man to safety, but that was mere luck. The mistake had been one of the most humiliating moments of Roman's career—either as a man or a dog.
Unsure how to respond, Roman ducked his head and went to the sink. He turned on the water to wash off the scent of the man, and his own scent, from his hands.
"You're the guy who pulled me out of that fire fight in Coarsegold." The man was at his side by then, only a few feet away. Roman met his gaze in the mirror. The man had large, brown eyes with long lashes, and his square jaw did make him look a little like James. His expression was excited. "That's where I—my arm. It was shot up pretty bad."
"Sorry." Roman's gaze dropped to the man's arm where it was bent and flush against his chest in a black sling.
"Eh, modern medicine, you know? PT and all that shit. It's coming back. Anyway, I'd probably be dead if you hadn't pulled me out. But man, that was some crazy-ass stunt. You could have been killed!"
"I know." Humiliation burned in Roman's chest. He shut off the water and grabbed a few paper towels. He hadn't thought about that night in many weeks now. It was not a good memory. He tossed the paper towels and turned, not having much choice. The man stood there watching him. His gaze was too sharp and observant. Roman felt nervous.
"Hang on a sec." The guy reached around Roman to wash his right hand and dry it. "There." With a sheepish smile, he stuck out his hand. "I've been wanting to shake your hand, but I figured I should wash first. Not that you weren't just practically touching my junk, but it's only polite."
There was a sharp lilting bite to his words that Roman recognized as humor, even if he didn't quite get why it was funny. He shook the man's hand.
"I'm Matt, Matt Barclay. I thought about you, you know. Sort of wanted to try to find you and thank you, but I thought you were a civie. You're a sheriff's deputy?" He looked at Roman's badge, his hand still clasping Roman's. Roman didn't pull away. He liked Matt's strong-gentle grip. He missed being touched.
"I am now. Deputy Roman Charsguard. Mad Creek."
A complicated series of expressions moved over Matt's face, and he dropped Roman's hand. "You're… Mad Creek, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
Matt looked away. "Of course you are," he muttered to himself. With his good right hand, he ruffled his own hair and huffed out a bemused laugh, though Roman didn't have the first idea why. "Well, Roman… Are you as unwelcoming as your sheriff?"
Roman wasn't sure how to respond to that. He didn't always understand the subtleties of human communication, but he got the feeling the man didn't like Lance. Roman didn't want to say or do anything against Lance, so he said nothing.
Matt shook his head and started for the door. "Right. Well. Anyway. What I said before—thank you."
Roman knew he'd disappointed the man and was sorry. He didn't dislike Matt. In fact, he thought Matt’s military bearing and short hair were very nice. He reminded Roman of the old days. And he had a pleasant face too.
"Good-bye, Matt Barclay," he said. "Maybe we'll meet again."
Matt gave him a funny smile. "Oh, you can count on it."Chapter 1: THE IMMINENT THREAT OF TANGERINES
"Now Roman, remember. You're going to have to stay very conscious about not exhibiting any dog-like behavior during this meeting. We can't afford to raise suspicion."
"Yes, sir. I'll be on my guard."
Roman didn't need to be reminded. He knew humans were unaware that dog-human shifters, called the quickened, existed. But he could tell Lance was anxious, and his chatter was down to nerves. Sweat beaded on Sheriff Lance Beaufort's upper lip as he steered the car and—Roman sniffed as subtly as he could—Lance smelled wary, suspicious. Roman's inner dog wanted to whine at the unease of his pack leader, but Roman swallowed it. No dog behavior.
They were driving to Fresno in Lance's white sheriff's department SUV for a big regional law enforcement meeting. The DEA was giving a presentation, and Lance had asked Roman to go along. He probably just wanted company on the long drive, but Roman had been thrilled. Since he'd become a full-time deputy with the Mad Creek's Sheriff's Office, he had a purpose in life again, and he liked being included in Lance's plans. Besides, he loved to ride in cars! It was even better when you didn't have to drive and could roll down the window and stick your hand out, feel the wind buffet your skin.
With the window rolled down, a scent caught Roman's nose on the warm September air. He turned his head as they zipped past endless pine trees. There was something dead out in the woods—something small, like a groundhog. If he were on foot, he'd go find it just for the fun of it. But not today. Not today.
He smiled and looked at his hand as he tried to catch the wind. Today he was a man, and it was still amazing. Hands were amazing. Lately he'd been finding his own body more fascinating. He'd been quickened for two years now, but sometimes he felt like he was just now wakening from a dream—only to find it wasn't a dream at all.
"I think it’s very different," he said, wiggling his fingers. "Being quickened from birth, like you were, and getting it later in life, like me. Living as a dog first."
"I'm sure it is," Lance agreed. "Incredibly different."
"I'm glad I was who I was. That I had that time in Army K-9. With James."
Lance said nothing, and Roman felt a pang of self-doubt. Maybe he was talking too much in an 'un-human-like’ way. Lance was pack, but he was also Roman's boss. He cleared his throat and rolled up the window. "So. What do you expect to happen at this meeting today?"
"I don't know." Lance frowned at the windshield. "I'm hoping it'll be good news, but—"
"We haven't had any trouble. Not since that night those drug dealers shot up Tim's house."
"I know. But I have a sense something's coming, like… a prickling on my neck. I've had a bad feeling for days."
Roman didn't have any such 'bad feeling', but he didn't say it out loud. As a border collie shifter, Lance worried about his territory obsessively, more than Roman or any other quickened. So if Lance sensed something, he was probably right.
Roman's heart beat a little faster. "Do you want me to carry my weapon, sir?"
Lance laughed. "No, I don't mean I expect trouble at this meeting. Coffee and donuts and a lot of ass-kissing is probably as dangerous as it'll get. But the DEA's presentation… This is the first time they've called us all together for something like this. I'm assuming it's not going to be good news on the war-on-drugs front. I just hope whatever's brewing out there, it has nothing to do with Mad Creek."
"Because that would be bad." Roman knew Lance's philosophy: fly as under-the-radar and away from human things as possible. Mad Creek was in the middle of nowhere for a reason.
"Yes, Roman. Because that would be very bad," Lance said darkly.
* * *
There were at least a hundred sheriffs, deputies, and other law enforcement personnel at the meeting. Roman stayed by Lance's side, said ‘hello’ when he was introduced, and otherwise kept his mouth shut. He also refrained from scratching his ears or visibly sniffing people. He adopted the stoic military stance that was so familiar to him from his time in the Army. There was a lot he didn't know about being human, but he knew how to imitate a soldier.
In fact, it felt like the old days being around so many people in uniform, though most of them were older and not as lively or fun as the soldiers in Afghanistan. Still, there were jokes Roman didn't get, lots of backslapping and, yes, coffee and donuts. The ones with the white icing and raisins were Roman's favorites! He ate six of them before a warning glare from Lance reminded him to slow down.
After the donuts, it was time for the presentations.
The Forest Service went first. An older man with gray hair and a pot belly spoke. "Last year, we found over four hundred illegal marijuana farms in California. Three hundred of those were in the Sierra Nevada Mountains."
The man showed pictures of razed dirt areas among trees and big water ponds sheeted in plastic. "The worst part of all this is the extensive destruction of public lands and animal habitat. These illegal farms use heavy pesticides. They cut down trees. They set out poison for animals. They create irrigation ponds, siphoning off hundreds of gallons of water that starve the area of moisture, and rob water from the cities downstream."
Lance had been right. It wasn't good news. Roman felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he looked at the slide show. He loved the woods around his cabin, loved to run there, both as human and dog. It was beautiful and it was full of life. He'd be so angry if someone did that to his woods.
"Besides the environmental impact, it's a danger for hikers and campers who might stumble across these things. There were twelve murders last year for exactly that reason. And it's a danger for our Forest Service officers, who aren't trained, and don't have the bandwidth, to do this extensive policing. So we've asked the governor, and the governor has asked the president, for resources from the DEA."
The man from the DEA—the Drug Enforcement Agency—talked next. His name was Dixon. He had silver in his brown hair, but he was trim and tough-looking. He wore blue jeans and a black T-shirt that said "DEA" on it in gold letters.
"I guess I don't have to tell you that this is a huge problem," Dixon said. "It's mostly marijuana farms in California, but in Arizona and Texas we're seeing an increase of meth and opium labs in wooded parks like these too. Fortunately, we've gotten the funding we need to make a concerted effort here in the California mountains."
Dixon put up a list of town names. Mariposa, Oakhurst, Briceburg, and Coulterville were on the list, among others. And there, in black and white, was the name Mad Creek. Lance started vibrating with tension in the seat next to Roman's.
"The new operation is called Operation Green Ghost. We're funding a full-time agent in each of these towns for at least the next twelve months. These DEA investigators will be based out of your offices and will form a coordinated web under the control of the DEA. We've got—"
Lance shot to his feet. "Excuse me!"
Dixon looked at Lance warily. "Yes?"
"As the sheriff of one of the towns on your list, I think we should have a say about this. We don't need any extra manpower. We're overstaffed as it is, and I can promise you, we haven't had any trouble with the drug trade anywhere around Mad Creek."
Lance was in his most intense mode. His voice made Roman shift in his chair uncomfortably, even though it wasn't directed at him. But Dixon just narrowed his eyes. "Mad Creek? Are you Sheriff Beaufort?"
"I certainly am."
Dixon nodded. "Well, Sheriff, I'm afraid you don't have any say over this. This is a federal operation, and we've chosen the locations for this task force strategically." He brought up another slide showing the Sierra Nevadas with circles over every town he'd listed and lines interconnecting them. Mad Creek was one of the towns most distant from all the others, so it was clear to Roman they held a key position. Maybe it was clear to Lance too. He sat back down, his blue eyes bright with worry. Roman's instinct was to rub his arm and shoulder up against Lance, to soothe him. But that was dog behavior. He remained still.
Dixon went on. "I'll be running the operation from here and coordinating with the Forest Service. The DEA task force members located in these towns will report to me. They'll work fairly independently day to day, but there may be times when they'll need your assistance. For example if they need to investigate a suspicious site. We hope you'll—"
Lance popped up again. "Excuse me! If we have to have an additional staff member in our office to coordinate with this 'Green Ghost' task force, can we be allowed to hire them ourselves? I have several candidates—"
"Sheriff Beaufort, these will be specially trained DEA agents, on our payroll. No, you will not be hiring them or interviewing them or picking out their clothes. They're our agents and they will be assigned to your town. They will sit in your office, if you would be so accommodating, but they will not report to you. Is that clear?"
Dixon was losing patience, and so were the other people in the room. Some turned in their seats to give Lance begrudging glances. Maybe, Roman thought, they also wanted more of those donuts with the white frosting and raisins, so they wanted the presentation to hurry up and end.
But Lance didn't care. He was a good-looking and charismatic man with his thick black hair, tight compact build, and turquoise blue eyes. For a long moment, Lance stared at the DEA man, his shoulders high and tight in a warning. Dixon stared back. No human being on this earth could out-stare Lance Beaufort, so the man gave up first. He went back to his slide show and continued to talk, ignoring Lance. Lance sat down.
Roman could feel the anger coming off Lance in waves. He understood why Lance wasn't happy. He didn't want a stranger in Mad Creek, not a stranger like this, an investigator who'd be looking down every dirt road, who’d be sitting in their office. Roman pushed down a growl. He didn't want that either. He loved the sheriff's office in Mad Creek, where he had his very own desk in a room he shared with Charlie. There was even a little sign with his name on it and everything! Everyone who worked in the office was quickened. They'd have to be so careful with a stranger around.
Dixon went on to discuss the details of Operation Green Ghost. Roman did his best to listen. But he was too aware of Lance's anger, too aware of the fact that all this spying would be over the homes of people he knew and land he loved. It made him feel edgy and threatened.
Mad Creek was a safe haven for so many souls—good souls, trusting souls, sometimes lost souls. He should know. He'd been lost himself.
After the meeting broke up, Lance pulled Roman aside in the hall. "Stay here. I'm going to go talk to the district supervisor, see if I can't do something about this." His blue eyes burned so bright it almost hurt to look at them. He kept his voice low so only Roman could hear. "I can't push too hard, though, or I’ll just draw more attention to Mad Creek. Goddamn it. Just don't talk to anyone. And don't do anything… weird. Okay? I'll be back."
* * *
Roman waited in the hall.
The Fresno County Sheriff's Office was a low stone building. There were wooden planks on the walls and they were covered with pictures, certificates, and maps. Roman kept his back to a wall, standing in parade rest. In his deputy’s uniform—green pants, green tie, khaki shirt, and badge—people passed him with barely a glance, like he was security, like he belonged there.
They didn't guard their tongues either. He heard a few men complain about Lance, wondering what his issue was, if he was just a control freak or had something going on 'up there'. Lance was right. If they protested too much, people would get suspicious. An older woman in uniform was telling stories about drug crimes in her area and others talked about their budgets or bad knees. The people all smelled of too much coffee and fast food—a slightly rancid oily smell. Roman stood still, waiting.
The hall emptied as people made their way outside. Lance still hadn't returned. Roman's gaze darted down the hall where there was the door of a men's room. He sure would like to use the bathroom before the long drive back to Mad Creek. Should he wait for Lance to ask permission?
Would a real man wait to ask permission? Probably not. Lance was his boss, not his master. And it wasn't as though Roman was guarding anything. He was just waiting.
He sharply turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom door.
He pushed it open and turned the corner. There were three urinals on the white tiled wall, two stalls, and some sinks. There was also a man already in the room. He was in the process of peeing into a urinal.
Roman's eyes snapped away, but not before he registered the black DEA T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders and the slender waist. The man was young, fit, had a soldier's build, and dark brown hair that was short in the back but longer on top. The scent of the man's urine was ripe in the air as Roman moved to the urinal closest to the door—and farthest from the man. He knew to keep his distance even though everything inside him itched to get closer, smell deeper.
Human ways were just plain baffling sometimes. A dog's instinct was to size up a stranger by sniffing their scent. That made so much sense! His brain stored smells very precisely. He could remember if he'd smelled that creature before, if he’d found its urine on a tree or in the grass. He could even tell if it was sick and what it had been eating recently.
But humans hated it when you sniffed their crotch as a dog. In human form, well, it was so far out of line, it would land you in a fight. Roman should know. He'd gotten in a few fights for that very reason when he was still young enough not to understand.
Roman stared down as he took out his penis and held himself over the basin. He hesitated another moment, though, unable to resist testing the pure urine smell in the air one more time, reading what it had to tell him… male, excellent health, at reproductive peak, hasn't eaten sugar lately, faint traces of beer. He could also smell the man himself—warm and faintly sweaty, a frustrated sweat, like he'd done something unpleasant recently.
Satisfied he knew the score, Roman let himself go. He didn't look up. When he finished and zipped his pants, he was surprised to see that the guy was still standing at his urinal. He was trying, with his right hand, to get the button at the top of his pants through the hole. His left arm was in a sling. Immediately images of dogs and men, broken and limping, came to mind along with a wave of pity. Afghanistan.
The man glanced at Roman, his eyes bright with frustration. "I'm left-handed, of course. Son-of-a-bitch pants."
Without a second thought, Roman crossed the space between them in one stride and dropped to his knees. "I can do it."
He grabbed both sides of the man's waistband, tugging them together and slipping the button through the hole. Above him, the man tensed and slowly moved his right hand out of the way. Roman grabbed the zipper and put his fingers inside the waistband to hold it still as he moved the zipper up.
"There." As he released the pants, his fingers brushed across a soft-hard bulge that was growing under the canvas fabric. At the same moment, a musky scent rose up, perplexing Roman. He frowned, still on his knees. He couldn't resist—his nostrils flared as he tried for another whiff, staring at the bulge in the canvas. It smelled like… musky tangerines, like when a tangerine is past ripe and is just starting to go moldy. Roman liked the smell. A lot.
The man took a step back. "Thanks, I… wow. That's an, uh… interesting technique."
Roman got to his feet and looked at the man's face. He was very good at reading faces and the expression he saw there confused him—mouth slightly open, eyes evaluating him in a warm and curious way that he'd never seen before. Then the man's expression changed to one of surprise.
"Oh my God! You're that guy!"
Roman saw it too and everything clicked. He knew this man. This was the DEA SWAT soldier that he'd gone after during that drug bust several months ago. In all the tension and confusion of the drug raid—the one he and Lance were supposed to be merely watching—Roman had seen this man get shot in the distance and had snapped. Something about the way his square jaw and the shape of his nose had looked in the dim light…. Roman had been convinced in that instant that the man was James. He’d run right into the firefight, endangering Lance, endangering himself, and the mission.
No one had been hurt, and Roman had managed to drag this man to safety, but that was mere luck. The mistake had been one of the most humiliating moments of Roman's career—either as a man or a dog.
Unsure how to respond, Roman ducked his head and went to the sink. He turned on the water to wash off the scent of the man, and his own scent, from his hands.
"You're the guy who pulled me out of that fire fight in Coarsegold." The man was at his side by then, only a few feet away. Roman met his gaze in the mirror. The man had large, brown eyes with long lashes, and his square jaw did make him look a little like James. His expression was excited. "That's where I—my arm. It was shot up pretty bad."
"Sorry." Roman's gaze dropped to the man's arm where it was bent and flush against his chest in a black sling.
"Eh, modern medicine, you know? PT and all that shit. It's coming back. Anyway, I'd probably be dead if you hadn't pulled me out. But man, that was some crazy-ass stunt. You could have been killed!"
"I know." Humiliation burned in Roman's chest. He shut off the water and grabbed a few paper towels. He hadn't thought about that night in many weeks now. It was not a good memory. He tossed the paper towels and turned, not having much choice. The man stood there watching him. His gaze was too sharp and observant. Roman felt nervous.
"Hang on a sec." The guy reached around Roman to wash his right hand and dry it. "There." With a sheepish smile, he stuck out his hand. "I've been wanting to shake your hand, but I figured I should wash first. Not that you weren't just practically touching my junk, but it's only polite."
There was a sharp lilting bite to his words that Roman recognized as humor, even if he didn't quite get why it was funny. He shook the man's hand.
"I'm Matt, Matt Barclay. I thought about you, you know. Sort of wanted to try to find you and thank you, but I thought you were a civie. You're a sheriff's deputy?" He looked at Roman's badge, his hand still clasping Roman's. Roman didn't pull away. He liked Matt's strong-gentle grip. He missed being touched.
"I am now. Deputy Roman Charsguard. Mad Creek."
A complicated series of expressions moved over Matt's face, and he dropped Roman's hand. "You're… Mad Creek, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
Matt looked away. "Of course you are," he muttered to himself. With his good right hand, he ruffled his own hair and huffed out a bemused laugh, though Roman didn't have the first idea why. "Well, Roman… Are you as unwelcoming as your sheriff?"
Roman wasn't sure how to respond to that. He didn't always understand the subtleties of human communication, but he got the feeling the man didn't like Lance. Roman didn't want to say or do anything against Lance, so he said nothing.
Matt shook his head and started for the door. "Right. Well. Anyway. What I said before—thank you."
Roman knew he'd disappointed the man and was sorry. He didn't dislike Matt. In fact, he thought Matt’s military bearing and short hair were very nice. He reminded Roman of the old days. And he had a pleasant face too.
"Good-bye, Matt Barclay," he said. "Maybe we'll meet again."
Matt gave him a funny smile. "Oh, you can count on it."
Snared by JL Merrow
MARTIN used his elbow to ring the doorbell of the Callander B&B and did his best not to bleed on the paintwork.
“Good gracious!” The lady who opened the door blinked up at him like a startled lamb, the resemblance enhanced by her spry little figure and tightly curled white hair. She seemed at a loss for any further words. Martin didn’t blame her. After all, it wasn’t every day strange men turned up on your doorstep with their hands all covered in blood—at least, not in Martin’s experience, although maybe they did things differently in Scotland.
“Mrs. McPherson? We spoke on the phone. Martin Lowrie. I’m booked in for the next three nights? I had a bit of a run-in with the local wildlife,” he added, waving his hands in illustration and wincing as he saw a droplet of blood flying onto the doormat. “Sorry about that.”
The landlady’s eyes widened. “Dear me! Your hands are cut to ribbons. Come in, young man, come in, we’ll get that seen to just now.” She bustled down the narrow hallway in front of him in a waft of lavender. Luckily the hall happened to be tiled, not carpeted, saving Martin the further embarrassment of trampling mud and blood into the Axminster. Or was it just luck? Perhaps they did do things differently in Scotland, after all? Martin grinned to himself at a sudden vision of the sweet, little old lady turning out to be some kind of Scottish Sweeney Todd, murdering one week’s guests and serving them up to the next. Mind you, it’d play hell with the repeat business.
“This way, my dear. Now, let’s get those hands under the tap. Och, that’s some nasty scratches you’ve got there. What on earth have you been doing with yourself?”
Martin held his hands under the cold water as directed. The initial stinging gradually eased to a dull throb and then an icy numbness. “You know, people warned me about the midges here, but….” He laughed, trailing off at her genteelly raised eyebrows. “I found a cat caught in a snare on my way over,” he continued hurriedly. “Not very grateful things, cats, are they?”
The old lady turned off the tap and examined his wounds. “Well, if it was a wildcat, you’ll get no gratitude from one of them, it’s true enough. So you freed the wee creature, did you?” She turned unexpectedly sharp eyes on him, not looking away until he nodded. “Did you no think to call the SSPCA?”
Martin drew in his breath sharply as she wrapped his hands loosely in a tea towel. He’d have felt bad about ruining her linen, but the shortbread recipe and improbably colored picture of the Isle of Skye led him to suspect she wouldn’t be too devastated by its loss. “Well, yes, in hindsight that might have been an idea. I don’t suppose you have any Savlon?”
“Och, no, we’ll get Dr. Brodie to look at those. Alan?” Martin jumped as her soft, high voice suddenly became a bellow. A red-headed boy, all gangly limbs and hands too big for his body, came hurtling down the stairs in a manner so uncoordinated Martin was amazed he didn’t fall headlong.
He shot Martin a deeply suspicious glare. “Gran?”
“Will you go down the way and ask Dr. Brodie to come up? This young man’s in need of some first aid.”
DR. BRODIE turned out to be somewhere between Martin’s age and Mrs. McPherson’s, and appeared to be doing his best to perpetuate single-handedly the stereotype about the dour Scotsman. “Well, you’re lucky you were wearing thick sleeves,” he admitted with an air of disappointment. “It doesn’t look like the creature’s teeth have broken your skin.”
Martin shrugged as well as he could whilst keeping his hands still for the doctor. “Yes, there was a sort of steady, light rain when I was coming over the tops—what do you call it round here? Mizzle? So I had my waterproofs on. Just as well the cat only bit down on my arms, not my hands.” Martin winced involuntarily at Brodie’s none-too-gentle touch on a particularly deep scratch. “I can’t really blame it. The snare was caught around its hindquarters and pulled tight like a corset—it must have been out of its mind with pain.”
Brodie nodded sourly. “Still, you’ll be wanting a tetanus injection for these scratches, lad,” he huffed as he finished dressing Martin’s wounds. “You can come in after surgery tomorrow. Eleven-thirty.”
“Are you sure that’s really necessary?” Martin had intended to walk up to Strathyre tomorrow, and this was going to totally bollocks up his plans.
“Have you ever seen a man with the lockjaw? Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. You’d not be scared of a little needle, now would you?”
“What? No, of course not!” Martin defended himself, annoyed by Alan’s snigger.
“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow, lad. Good day to you, Mrs. McPherson.” Brodie rose, and Mrs. McPherson saw him out with a prim smile before heading back into the kitchen.
Kiki Burrelli lives in the Pacific Northwest with the bears and raccoons. She dreams of owning a pack of goats that she can cuddle and dress in form-fitting sweaters. Kiki loves writing and reading and is always chasing that next character that will make her insides shiver. Consider getting to know Kiki at her website, on Facebook, or send her an email: kikiburrelli@gmail.com.
Megan is a long time resident of m/m fiction, and keeps herself busy reading, writing, and publishing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she's not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her cats, or watch movies (especially all things James Bond). She loves to hear from readers, and can be found all around the internet.
Becca SeymourBecca Seymour is the #1 gay romance best seller of the True-Blue series. Known for “steamy and endearing” and “emotionally profound love stories” (InD’tale Magazine) her books have been nominated for multiple RONE Awards.
Becca lives and breathes all things book related. Usually with at least three books being read and two WiPs being written at the same time, Becca’s life is merrily hectic. She tends to do nothing by halves so happily seeks the craziness and busyness life offers.
Living on her small property in Queensland with her human family as well as her animal family of cows, chooks, and dogs, Becca appreciates the beauty of the world around her and is a believer that love truly is love.
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
JL MerrowJL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.
She writes (mostly) contemporary gay romance and mysteries, and is frequently accused of humour. Her novel Slam! won the 2013 Rainbow Award for Best LGBT Romantic Comedy, and several of her books have been EPIC Awards finalists, including Muscling Through, Relief Valve (the Plumber's Mate Mysteries) and To Love a Traitor.
JL Merrow is a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association, International Thriller Writers, Verulam Writers and the UK GLBTQ Fiction Meet organising team.
Kiki Burrelli
AUDIOBOOKS / CHIRP / INSTAGRAM
EMAIL: kikiburrelli@gmail.com
Megan Derr
Becca Seymour
Eli Easton
EMAIL: eli@elieaston.com
Solan by Becca Seymour
How to Walk Like a Man by Eli Easton
Snared by JL Merrow
