The door opened again and Spike walked out. In the light of day, he looked even more huge than he had last night. Spike was taller than most men Myka knew, though not lanky or bony. He was big, hard with muscle, though it was lean muscle, honed by natural strength, not protein powders.
He wore only loose workout pants that rode low on his hips and tied with a drawstring, so most of that muscle was on display. The lack of clothing showed off his tatts, a dragon’s tail wrapping around his abdomen to disappear down somewhere under the drawstring. Holy effing moley.
Spike came off the porch, looming large as he approached. He walked right up to Myka, stopping maybe an inch from her, never mind about personal space.
Was it getting hard to breathe? No, Myka stood in the cool, fresh air, October in Austin dry and fine.
Jordan squirmed in her arms and pointed at Spike. “That’s my dad.” He said it proudly, no fear. “Did you know I had a dad?”
“He stays with me,” Spike said. His tone was flat, no argument welcome.
“How’s he doing?” Myka asked.
Instead of answering, Spike looked her over, running his gaze from her unmanageable hair to the pointed toes of her cowboy boots. Myka had put on a form-hugging tank top under a button-down shirt when she’d left the house, then thrown off the shirt when she drove over here, the day plenty warm under the sunshine.
Spike didn’t pretend not to look—he ran his dark gaze from her neckline to where the fabric clung to her waist. Myka held Jordan a little closer, a shield from Spike’s unnerving scrutiny.
“He’s fine,” Spike said, answering her question. His hard gaze broke a moment, as though he wanted to say something more, then he shut up.
Jordan squirmed to get down. Myka let him with some reluctance. Jordan ran back to the porch, jumped up on the swing, and started swinging as hard as he could. The chains creaked, but the porch swing held. The look on Spike’s face as he turned to watch his son was such a mixture of worry, protectiveness, and terror that it stopped Myka in her tracks.
“I came to tell you that Jillian’s funeral is Saturday,” she said into the silence between them. “Sharon—Jillian’s mom—thought you might like to come.”
Spike glanced at her. “Best I don’t.”
True. A Shifter showing up at a funeral with all Jillian’s family might cause some problems.
“Jordan shouldn’t go either,” Spike said. “He wouldn’t understand.”
Here Myka had to disagree. “He should be able say good-bye to his mother.”
“We’ll say good-bye. But in the Shifter way. Human funerals are depressing. You bury your people in the ground. Or shove them into a fire. That’s just weird.”
“Not much alternative, is there?”
“Jordan will give her to the Goddess, with me.”
Myka hadn’t been religious since she’d moved in with her stepfather at age ten, but she knew that Shifters followed some form of paganism no one really understood, though many documentaries had been made. Some of the churches around town had tried time and again to convert them, but had never made a dent.
“Come to the ritual,” Spike said.
“What?” Myka blinked out of her thoughts.
“Come to the ritual with us. Say good-bye to her our way.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Spike turned fully back to Myka, resting his hands on his hips, right above his waistband. “I have to go. I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice, and I can’t take him with me. Not to this.”
“Have to go where?” Here it came.
“Shifter business. My job.” He hesitated, giving Myka the once-over again. “My grandma can’t watch him by herself. She’s not use to kids, and . . .”
Myka waited, wondering where the and led, but Spike shut his mouth again.
“Are you asking me to watch him?” Myka asked.
“Can you?”
Now he was pleading. The bad-ass warrior, who’d defeated a giant bear, for crap’s sake, was asking her, near-fear in his eyes, to watch over a four-year-old so he could do . . . whatever he had to do.
“What is this Shifter business?” she asked.
Spike’s brows drew down. “You’re nosy.”
“Jordan’s the son of my best friend, and she died last night. So, yeah, I’m all kinds of nosy. I used to ride horses tougher than you, so don’t think I’m afraid of you.”
He just stared at her, like a lion might stare at a roach who’d made the same declaration. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”
“You didn’t answer my question about what kind of work you do.”
“Errands. I’m an errand boy.”
“Yeah?” Myka looked him up and down, from all those bulging muscles to his buzzed hair and his wicked-dark eyes. “What kind of errands?”
“Anything I’m told to do. And that’s all you get. Stay?”
Myka had planned to already, but she made a show of conceding. “Yes.”
“Yay!” Jordan yelled from the porch. “My new great-grandma made me pancakes. Want some pancakes, Aunt Myka?”
“Pancakes? Give him a sugar high, why don’t you?”
Spike looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Pancakes are good for him. He needs energy. He’s a Shifter.”
Myka raised her hands. Now was not the time to debate. “Just go do your thing. I’ll watch him.”
Spike gave her a nod, half of thanks, half of exasperation. He turned around without another word and loped back up to the porch. Gracefully. He moved with amazing precision.
He opened the screen door. Jordan hopped down from the swing and dashed inside before Spike could grab him, the kid shouting for Spike’s grandmother.
Spike glanced back at Myka, still holding open the door. “Well? Aren’t you coming in?”
Myka hurried up to the porch. Just before she reached the door, Spike moved ahead of her and walked into the house, the screen gently swinging shut in Myka’s face. What the hell?
Spike turned around impatiently and yanked the screen door open again. “I said, aren’t you coming in?”
“I was, but you cut me off.”
Spike scowled down at her. He was close enough that she could smell the warmth of him, the male musk, the faint sweet of syrup from his pancakes.
“You think I’m stupid enough to let a female enter someplace ahead of me? Without me checking it out first?”
“It’s your own house.”
Spike kept staring at her, then he shook his head. “Goddess, I’m going to have to help Jordan unlearn all kinds of stupid shit.”
Chapter Six
Spike rode down to San Antonio with Ellison, a wolf Shifter who’d decided to embrace Texas all the way, though he’d been transplanted here from Colorado twenty or so years ago. Ellison wore jeans, a big belt buckle, roach-killer cowboy boots, and a big cowboy hat. He wasn’t born with his Texas drawl, but he’d sure adopted it.
Ellison drove, fast and furious as usual in his old black truck, and pried the story of Jordan out of Spike. Shifters could never mind their own damn business.
Spike had mixed feelings about leaving Jordan back there alone with Myka. Good idea? Bad? She’d seemed happy to stay, had started helping his grandmother with the breakfast dishes, and Jordan had been excited to have Myka there.
That little tank top had been sexy as hell on her. Had a little bow right at her cleavage. Perfect for Spike to tug with his teeth.
He bet she’d smell good right there too. Her scent was like warm roses, spicy and strong but not overpowering. Dipping his tongue behind the bow to taste her skin—there was a good idea. His zipper started to stretch.
“I said, that little cub’s a wild one,” Ellison’s voice cut through the fantasy. He chuckled. “Fun to watch you running after him.”
Fun. Sure. Someone without cubs couldn’t understand.
Or, at least, Spike didn’t think Ellison had ever had cubs. The man never talked about his life before this
Shiftertown. But Spike had to worry about all kinds of shit now, from what to feed the kid to the fact that he’d have to put a Collar on him sooner or later.
Spike barely controlled his growls. The Collars were painful going on, and to subject his son to that . . . Damn it, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let Liam do it.
Ellison drove to a bar in the north part of San Antonio, near the National Cemetery, where Gavan, Nate, and Spike had hung out on their rare off hours back when they’d been Fergus’s thugs.
It was a Shifter bar—that is, a bar that allowed Shifters to drink there. This wasn’t the friendly corner bar near the Austin Shiftertown where Liam worked as a manager and Shifters came to take a load off. This was a rougher place where the human bikers eyed Shifters and were always spoiling for a fight. An uneasy truce existed, each side knowing the other could start one hell of a brawl.
Everyone in the place turned around and stared at Ellison and Spike when they walked in. They recognized Spike, but he’d ceased to become a regular, and Ellison was clearly out of place.
Spike sensed their assessments, and he assessed back. He noted the exits, how many males were between him and each door out, how many of those males were Shifters, how many human. He noted who sat where, where in the bar humans and Shifters mixed, where humans and Shifters preferred to keep to their own.
Balls clacked on a pool table in the back room. Spike and Ellison ordered beers at the long bar and drifted toward the sounds of the pool game.
Gavan, a big Feline with sand-colored hair pulled into a ponytail, stood at the head of one table, watching two other Shifters play. Spike got that the other Shifters were Lupine right away from their stink. Felines were more fastidious. Spike put up with Ellison’s Lupine smell only because he was used to him, and Ellison often offered to pay for beer.
Gavan hadn’t changed much since Spike had last seen him. Same lank ponytail, same granite-like face, same attitude. Gavan’s family was mostly mountain lion, and his washed-out eyes held the look of a solitary hunter.
Ellison started setting up a game at the empty table farthest from Gavan, signaling he wouldn’t intrude on Gavan’s territory. Territory fights could extend even to corners of bar back rooms.
“What are you doing here, Spike?” Gavan asked. “Morrissey send you?”
Ellison bent to break the cluster of balls, and Spike shrugged. Scents changed with lies, and Gavan would smell a false denial.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gavan said, then he chuckled. “I’m entitled to my own opinions. How you been, Spike?”
Spike shrugged again, burying deep any thoughts of his new cub, but he knew Gavan would scent Jordan on him too. “Can’t complain.”
“I saw you fight last night,” Gavan said. “You’re good. You wanted to kill that bear.”
“Could be.”
“Not could be. You did. I saw it in your eyes. You backed off because you had to. The kill would have felt good, yeah?”
“Yep.” No question. Of course Spike had wanted the kill. He was Shifter.
But Spike wasn’t as stupid as people assumed. Most Shifters and humans looked at Spike and thought, boneheaded fighter. Spike let them. Easier to keep them off guard while he figured out exactly what they were up to and what to do about it.
He’d have been stupid as hell to try to go for the kill with Cormac last night. The bear had been holding back his true strength, and Spike had known it.
Bears were stronger than all Shifters—they’d learned to temper their strength in order to live in Shiftertowns with other Shifters. They had to, or they’d crush every hand they shook.
Even in the ring, in a fight to show off skill, Cormac hadn’t wanted to accidentally kill Spike. Spike had won through strategy and opportunity, not strength.
If Spike had gone for the kill, today his grandmother would be lighting candles and planning a ceremony to send him to the Goddess. Spike wouldn’t have met Myka, who wouldn’t have taken him to Jordan.
Thank the Goddess the bear had held back.
Gavan looked at the two Lupines. “Beat it,” he said. “I want to catch up on old times with my friend.”
The Lupines looked annoyed, but Gavan out-dominated them, so they laid down their cues and strode off to the bar for more beer, pretending it was their idea.
“Let’s set ‘em up, Spike. And talk.”
Ellison didn’t consider himself part of Gavan’s command. He bent over the far table and took a shot, landing two solid balls in two different holes. He set up another shot as though happy to play a solo game. Gavan said nothing, which meant he didn’t care whether Ellison heard what he had to say. Interesting.
Spike shoved balls into the plastic triangle, lining it up to the top of the table, while Gavan put away the Lupine’s cues. Spike lifted a cue from the rack, hefted it a few times, put it back, chose another.
“Your break,” Gavan said.
Spike leaned down, set his cue, and punched the cue ball hard. Balls spun wildly across the table, a striped one falling into the far corner pocket.
Gavan watched while Spike sank three more balls. Polite of the Feline to not talk while Spike concentrated on his shots.
Spike enjoyed playing pool more than he enjoyed fighting. Fighting released tension in him, a coiled snake that had to be appeased as often as possible. Sex could ease that tension a little, but fighting, even with the Collar-shock hangover, let out his pent-up aggression so he could get on with life.
Pool, on the other hand, let him think, plan, test his skill. There was something about figuring out how to make a tricky bank shot at misaligned balls, something about the spark of triumph when hearing the correct ball thunk into the correct pocket.
This game didn’t depend on strength; it depended on planning and finesse, which the jaguar wildcat inside Spike found satisfying.
He’d love to play pool with Myka, came the unexpected thought. She had the look of challenge that said she’d be interesting to play against. And if she didn’t know the game well, Spike could always teach her.
He’d lean over her to show her how to hold the cue, his lips brushing her ear while he explained what to do . . .
The memory of her scent filled his brain, as did the feeling of her fingers in his pocket when she’d pushed in the scrap of paper with her number on it.
Spike mis-stroked, catching the cue ball wrong, and the cue ball zipped right past the ball he was trying to hit.
“Distraction,” Gavan said, grunting a laugh. “Is a bitch.”
Spike straightened, upending his cue in silence. Gavan took his shot, sending a solid red ball caroming off two banks and into a pocket.
“Distraction is killing us all,” Gavan said as he lined up his next shot. “It’s taking away our instincts, depleting us.” He let fly his next shot, the balls banging together with a sound like a gunshot, a solid ball fleeing to the safety of a pocket.
Too much strength. Pool was a game of subtlety.
“I thought we were having more cubs in Shiftertowns,” Spike said. He thought about Jordan, and his heart soared.
“Oh, yeah, I’m not denying that, health-wise, Shifters are doing a lot better. In the wild, I lost a mate when she brought in my cub, who died too, and I never want to live through that again. But wearing the Collars, giving in to human rules—it’s not what Shifters do. Humans can’t kill our instincts, no matter how much they try. But they don’t need to. We’re killing those instincts ourselves.”
Spike nodded as though he thought hard about what Gavan said. “What are we supposed to do then? Make our dominance battles to the death? We wouldn’t last long if we did.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Dominance battles are only to the death if they need to be. Mostly the other Shifter backs down, knowing he’s defeated and conceding dominance. But that’s hard for you, isn’t it?” Gavan upended his cue and stepped closer to Spike. “You’re a dominant, reduced to working for another dominant. That can’t sit well with you.”
“I’m a tracker. It’s different.”
“I know. We pledge ourselves to the leader of the clan, to be their eyes and ears, their best fighters. We do it even if the leader is an asshole.”
Spike wondered if Gavan referred to Fergus, for whom they’d both worked, or the new leader of San Antonio, for whom Gavan now worked.
“But this isn’t the wild,” Gavan said. “Liam Morrissey isn’t even in your clan. Neither was Fergus.”
But Liam and Fergus’s clan had adopted Spike and his grandmother when they’d been brought in from the wild. Gavan knew that—he was just trying to stir Spike’s anger. “Being tracker to the Shiftertown leader is a high position,” Spike said, pretending not to understand what Gavan was getting at.
“Sure it is, but you’re the dominant tracker, and you know it.” He glanced at Ellison, another of Liam’s trackers, who went on shooting pool, ignoring them. “Nate’s got nothing on you, and neither does Ronan, no matter how big he is. Liam’s using you, Spike. It’s not disloyal to say that—it’s blinking obvious. You’re a fighter, my old friend. A killer at heart. I say, use it.”
“To do what?”
Gavan gave him a patient look. “Let me show you something. I’m going to bet a hundred dollars that you can’t make this shot.” He grabbed the cue ball and positioned it at the top left corner of the table. “The orange stripe into the center left pocket.”
The orange-striped ball rested near the far right pocket. Spike eyed it skeptically but nodded. “I’ll take that bet.”
Spike lined up his cue, aiming the cue ball at another ball that would smack itself into orange stripe, to give orange stripe enough spin to glide the other way up the table.
He shot. The second ball popped into orange stripe just right, but without enough spin. Orange stripe rolled most of the way but bumped the table just shy of the center pocket.
Spike stood up without chagrin and fished into his pocket for a wad of twenties. “Doesn’t always work.”
“Hang on to your cash. Let’s try it again.”