by BA Tortuga
“Uncle Connor! Me next! Me too!”
“Everyone gets a hug. I swear!”
Lord have mercy. He would dance with every single kid if that was what it took. He thought maybe he ought to lead them around like the Pied Piper for a bit, wear them out.
A huge black panther landed in the middle of the cubs, roaring loud enough that the trees trembled. Everything stopped for a second, and then the puppies pounced, totally unafraid of the big cat.
Sam. Connor had to shift. Had to. His bobcat came right out, his clothes falling away. Boom. Paws.
He waded in, batting happily, yowling as someone started chewing on his tail. When he looked, it was Gray. Oh, no fair.
Connor rolled over and over, spinning a few cubs and Gray, landing with a thud against Sam.
Sam gave a comical kitty shout, paws batting with no claws in play. He joined in, forming a happy feline whirlwind, spinning pups with wild abandon.
My friend! My good friend!
Gray barked, and one of the wee ones tipped his nose to the air, howling. So frickin’ cute.
To his utter shock, Jason stood up, not furry a bit, voice joining Gray’s. The pups’ ears swiveled, and then all of the fuzzy ones were howling, just rocking the chorus.
Sam leaned against him, mouth open, panting hard.
All the adult wolves came out, staring in shock with their human eyes, and Connor rolled with hysterical laughter, his paws batting the air. Someone jumped right in the middle of his shit, growling and gnawing, and he realized it was Gus, the biggest Alpha wolf of them all.
He wrapped his paws around Gus, hugging hard, making sure not to scratch. Gus didn’t play too much, according to Sam. Not like he had a few years back. So this was a real honor.
Gus bowled him over, teeth on his throat for a second, and he allowed it, gave the puppy his due. It was no skin off his back. Gus had let him be family, after all. After the gentle shake, Gus pounced his tail once and bounded over to tackle Sam.
Connor rolled up to all four paws and tossed a puppy back into play. Gray shook, then came over to rub muzzles with him.
He shared scent, purring as hard as he could.
Yes. They were family. All of them. The pups flopped down, panting, and the younger human kids started grooming them all.
Connor began to groom Gray, chuffed softly as Marina appeared with a brush in each hand. She smiled at him, rubbing his ear tuft gently with one brush. “Hey, guys. Lunch soon.”
He nudged her knee, smelling chicken and bacon, all the good things.
She sat cross-legged between him and Gray, humming as she ran the brushes over them. That was universal, right? Brushing felt good.
Sam met his eyes from where Sam was holding Gus down and grooming with intent.
It was good to have a home. A place to return to.
And when that place came with lunch, it was even better.
THE FULL moon had come and gone, twice, and Connor began to itch, the world calling him east.
Something needed finding. Maybe a place. Maybe a thing. Maybe a person. Maybe nothing.
Regardless, he needed to go.
Connor crawled up into his loft and began to pack, surprised at how many choices he had with clothes. He’d accumulated quite a bit. He stuffed warm clothes in his pack. He always needed a few things to give away.
“Don’t forget to call once a week, brother.” Sam’s voice was warm, sliding gently in his ears. “I put some food in your trunk. Stuff that’ll keep.”
“Thanks, Sam. Don’t let the kids kill my guitars.” He had a feeling he wouldn’t have time to play on this trip.
“I never do.” Sam came over, squeezed him tight. “You need any money?”
“You know me. I always find what I need.” He had a nose for being in the right place at the right time.
“Mmm. Now if you could just find Gus’s shed key.”
“Underneath the cookie jar at Mona’s so it won’t get lost.”
“You rock!” Sam waited for him at the base of the laddery stairs, then took a hug as soon as Connor came down. “I’ll see you when you come home.”
“You will.” He held on for a second. “I’ll be home before the snow, I think. Maybe I’ll spend the holidays.”
“We’d love that. Let us know, and we’ll put you in the name draw.” They all drew names for gifts, because getting or making something for everyone… wow.
“I will. I swear. You can call me anytime.”
“I know that.” Sam let him go, then cuffed him on the shoulder. “Love you, brother.” Sam never let him leave without telling him that. It seemed seriously important to Sam.
“I love you. Take care of each other, and I’ll see everyone soon.”
Sam waved him off but didn’t walk outside with him. It was Jason who met him at the Mustang. “You leaving?”
“I have to, but I’ll be back. Gus says you’re staying, that you’re joining the pack.”
Gus’s exact words had been “The kid can fucking work his ass off, man. He’s something else.”
“I am, yeah.” Jason gave him a wry grin. “I may not be able to run under the moon anymore after, you know, all the crap, but I can use these.” Jason held up his hands. “Thank you, man.”
“You’re welcome, and you’re not alone here, right? Helena gets you.” Sam’s sister maybe had a wee thing for Jason.
“She does.” Jason’s cheeks went pink. “She’s a hell of a lady.”
“She is.” How fucking cool was that? That Jason had found something lost too. “Good luck. I’ll be home by the winter.”
“See you then.” Jason gave him an awkward man-hug, but it was clearly heartfelt.
“Call anytime. I’m going before the little ones wake up. I’m a coward.”
“Nah, you’d just never leave if they caught you. Later!” Jason pelted back toward the cabin he’d built for himself, which was just a cute-as-a-button tiny house.
They would have to build on when Helena moved in and they started having babies.
He grinned, then tossed his bag into the back seat of the car. Connor hopped into the driver’s seat, easing the ignition on so there was no roar to wake the kids.
Time to go.
Someone was needing to be found, and he needed to find them.
Needed to do his job so he could come home again.
Chapter Three
BROCK HERMAN watched the illegal hunters pack their guns and munitions and their traps and bait for the trip out to the hunting camp.
Thank God he was good at his job, because otherwise these assholes would see the disgust in his eyes. No, he could act like one of the boys and laugh and clap the jerks on the back with the best of them. This was a rare undercover job, but sometimes those were the best. Those were the ones where he could look a fucking asshole in the eye when he shut down an animal abuse operation.
“You just gonna sit and fondle your weapon, Brock?” That came from the main guide, Joe Montez, who got paid to take people out into the wilderness, trap a bear, and let six assholes shoot it.
Rage exploded at the base of Brock’s brain, but he tamped it down. “Thinking about it. It’s bigger than your cock,” he teased back.
Everyone else roared with laughter, but Joe sent him an ugly glare. He was a paying customer, though, wasn’t he? Joe couldn’t snap at him or tell him to get lost. The man had to force a smile and nod at him.
Tom Carruthers, the loosely titular head of the grizzly shifters around these parts, had hired him to ferret this shit out, help get the hunters routed before one of the momma shifters went and started beheading the bastards one at a time.
It had taken him all of three days to find out from the locals who was guiding the bear hunters up to the mountains for trophies. Now he just had to gather evidence and put together the best way to retire Joe from the bear business without letting a shifter kill him.
Not that it would be all that awful….
Okay, he’d pay to see Tom
Carruthers swack Joe good and hard. Hell, he might pay to bite the guy deep enough that he bled to death…. Or get paid to do it. Turning Joe in for poaching would probably be more satisfying, though.
God knew, the laws up here were brutal for the bastards who hunted without permits and out of season. The Fish and Wildlife team could take a man’s guns, his house, his car, his bank account—literally anything associated with the poaching. They just needed proof.
Good thing he was the king of proof. Shifter investigations extraordinaire. Sort of like Sherlock, with fewer scarves and more denim.
He grinned, then tucked his rifle away in its carry case. He didn’t want to put it in Joe’s truck, but he had to play the game.
There wasn’t a hell of a lot he liked less than giving a bad guy more weapons.
In fact, right this second, he couldn’t think of a single thing. Good thing he had a Glock in his ankle holster and the ubiquitous Bowie knife in his belt.
No one would even blink at either. These guys knew what they were doing was fucking illegal, and protection was good when you were out in the woods with someone so ready to break laws.
A banker, a real-estate asshole, and a hedge fund something or other coming out to kill things for no good reason. He turned away, gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose. He could stop them. He would.
“You okay, man? You look a little freaked-out.” Hank Walker looked over at him, obviously concerned.
“Huh? Yeah, I think I just ate too many beans, you know?”
“Yeah, you’d think with as much as we paid, we’d have steak every meal. Foie gras.” Hank wrinkled his nose. “Camp cooks are supposed to be gourmet these days.”
“I guess all that money is to make sure we get a guaranteed hit.” He forced a smile.
“Yeah. I guess.” Hank shrugged, glancing around, shoulders hunched up around his ears.
There was genuine reluctance in this one. Brock would work on him, try to persuade him to help turn evidence. He would totally vouch for Hank getting a reduced or deferred sentence.
“Have you ever done this before?” Hank asked, voice low.
“No. My buddy Stan talked me into it, then bailed. You?”
“I work for him.” Hank looked toward this asshat who had traded high school football for the belly and florid face of a long-term functioning alcoholic. Barry something or other. The hedge fund man.
“Team building, huh?” Yeah, Brock could really cultivate Hank. This guy had some moral fiber and a dislike for his boss.
“Something like that. He calls it growing a pair.”
“Ouch. Well, I do like the outdoors. I figure when the time comes, I can wave off, right?” Brock gave Hank what he hoped was a half-embarrassed grin.
“I hope so.” Hank leaned close. “I hate the idea of killing something so amazing as a bear.”
“Hank! Hank, come on, man. Let’s get a move on!” the portly one called out, his impatience clear.
“Yessir!” Hank gave him a wry smile. “Later.”
Brock nodded. Yeah. Time to move on. The others had bears to hunt, and he had evidence to gather before they did.
“Later.” This whole thing was a downer, seriously. What fun was shooting shit? He hunted, sure, for food, for survival, but he ate his prey.
He had shared it with a pack when he had one. Nowadays he made sure smaller carnivores got his leftovers. Coyotes and ravens always needed help, especially with encroachment on territory so rampant these days.
These assholes just wanted to kill something bigger than them. They wanted to sit around the beer tables at some bar in twenty years and brag about the big game hunt where they’d made their name. It made him queasy and so angry his ears rang.
Brock grabbed his phone out of his pocket to take a picture of Joe and the truck loaded with guns and ammo and more importantly, illegal traps. “Say cheese, guys!”
“Cheese!” Stupid fucks really did grin and give him a thumbs-up.
Brock sighed, then got busy pretending to move shit around until they all piled into the big SUV with leather seats and liquor flasks. Jesus. Booze and bullets. Maybe he would call his next thriller that. If he wrote thrillers. Hell, he ought to try. Might be a fortune in it.
He checked to make sure his satellite phone functioned and then loaded himself up. He just needed proof; then he could call in reinforcements. Tom had people ready to mobilize, and Brock knew folks at Fish and Wildlife too.
They headed out of base camp, Joe driving the truck, his assistant driving the SUV Brock rode in. They would create a camp higher in the mountains where they would start the hunt. Camp B.
He just needed images of the illegal traps being set and the camp, right? Maybe some reports from Hank. He was taking phone pics of everything, and he would send them to his contacts tonight. Tom would be the judge of whether to deal with it himself or call in the feds.
The assholes in the SUV with him were already three sheets to the wind by the time they got moving. This was insane. Someone was going to get killed, and Brock had a feeling it wasn’t even going to be a bear.
He just hoped to hell it wasn’t him.
BROCK SAT in the low crotch of a tree, his night vision sharp enough to see and photograph what Joe was up to.
Supposedly bears had a hundred times the sense of smell that a wolf like him had. If that was true, no bear would ever be caught in one of Joe’s traps. The guy smelled like beer, BO, and piss. He was reckless, arrogant, and pretty stupid.
Still, the bastard was making money, so something had to be going his way, right? Brock was sound asleep in his little tent, as far as Joe was concerned, though, so he could keep an eye out, make sure no bears got trapped.
It was a guaranteed trip, supposedly, so Brock worried. What did this bastard have up his sleeve?
Brock started when something utterly unexpected caught his eye. What in Sam hell was that?
He blinked. There was a bizarre, kinda Rasta hippie-looking guy standing at the edge of the trees. Stocky but short. Long dreadlocks. He had a pair of binocs, and he was watching Joe.
Okay, this was problematic. Had Tom hired two investigators? Surely not. Brock was damned good at what he did, and he had a solid reputation for results. He slithered down out of the tree and circled the clearing, staying just inside the tree line.
He headed toward the guy, trying hard to not make a sound, his nose working overtime to pick up the man’s scent.
Brock frowned. Shifter? Really? What the ever-loving fuck? Thankfully, he was downwind.
Tom had to have hired backup. Had to have. Still, Brock worked solo. He didn’t need some silly interloper messing up his job….
Wait.
Where the fuck did the guy go?
Brock turned in a full circle, opening up his wolf senses to find the guy. Shit and Shinola.
He was not insane. He knew this. So if Shifter Braids disappeared, then he either was fast or….
He lifted his chin, coming eye to eye with a smiling face halfway up the tree. The guy waved, mouthed, “Howdy.”
Are you shitting me? Brock stared, then motioned. He hoped the “get your ass down here” was plain.
To his utter shock, the guy shook his head, pointing deeper into the woods. Oh no. This was his job. He was not leaving it to some… amateur. Look at that hair. No one who was serious about poachers looked like that.
No one who was serious, full stop, looked like that.
Honestly, it was like a Forest Hippie Fairy Godfather. All the little fucker needed was a wand to wave to make the bad guys magically disappear.
Brock jerked his head toward the forest, then pointed to his chest and the other guy’s. Time for a confab.
He’d be goddamned if the bastard didn’t blow him a kiss. They were not sitting in a tree together. So what the hell was that about…? Okay, children’s rhymes aside, Brock needed this jerk out of the way. He had enough problems.
He headed into the trees, and he could barely
hear the sound of Fairy Man following him. It was all he could do not to spin around and snarl. He wasn’t prey, and he didn’t let anyone chase his goddamn tail.
He clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth together. Breathe. Just breathe.
The guy landed in front of him, just graceful as anything, plopping right down. “I have a car. It’s a walk, but I can get you out of here, tonight. No worries.”
It took him a second to get over the whole “fairy speaking Texan” thing, and then Brock growled.
“What are you? A monkey shifter? Look, I have a job to do, and I’m here on purpose. You are jeopardizing my operation.”
“Bobcat. Have you ever met a monkey shifter? That would totally rock my world.”
“No.” He’d never met a nonshifter monkey, let alone a shifter one. “Focus. Why are you here?”
“To find you.”
Was that English? Brock blinked. Shook his head. Fought the urge to scratch his ear with his back foot, which was awkward as hell in human form.
“I’m not lost,” Brock said very slowly.
“Are you sure? Because I’m never wrong. I mean, I am, but it’s not, and it says I’m here to find you. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
He backed up a step. “It? Like the alien parasite in your brain it?” That would freak him right the fuck out.
“That would be, again, a little weird, but somehow cool. No. No one has ever said I actually have an alien. Just a talent for finding things.”
He wanted to beat his own head with his hands. “Who the hell are you?”
“Connor Ragbone. I’m a finder. It’s a thing. I’m not a bad guy. I just… no one’s ever called me as hard as you are and not wanted to come with me when I found them. This is weird.”
“I didn’t call anyone but the guy who hired me. Bear poachers.” What was this guy’s game? Who had a name like Ragbone?
“Bear poachers? Like bear-bears?” Ragbone growled softly, the sound totally harmless.
Brock’s eyebrow lifted of its own accord, like it was trying to climb off his forehead. Seriously? “Yes, Ragbone. Like bear-bears.” Was he having this conversation?