Fucking idiot. Fucking loser. Fucking juvenile moron.”

Rough hands on his shoulders, pushing him, hard enough to leave smudged bruises on his skin. They blackened in minutes, then faded to purple and finally yellow over the course of the next few hours. There was no sign of them now, as shifters possessed an ability to heal rapidly and efficiently in most cases. Still, it was the principal of things.

“Goddammit,” Moody swore. “I can’t believe I actually fell for someone like him. I can’t believe I told him I loved him.”

Right now, Moody was trying to compose a poem. He often wrote poetry, had won a few writing contests throughout his school years. The prizes were never anything significant. A certificate printed on computer paper, being published in an article buried deep inside the local newspaper, a gift card for $50. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He knew many, many other aspiring writers in his classes would have loved to have the validation that one of those prizes brought.

Since he graduated high school, he hadn’t tried to enter contests, had never submitted anything for consideration to one of thousands of magazines which published such things. He hadn’t even shown anything he wrote to anyone except his mother, because she was the only one who ever showed support for him no matter what he did. It was difficult to get off the ground when you only had one fan.

And when that fan was gone, it was impossible.

But that didn’t stop him from writing. Even when he left home and left most of his compositions behind, he didn’t stop. He stole a pen from the bank and wrote on napkins, pieces of cardboard, or discarded envelopes. Once he was able, he bought cheap notebooks and wrote in those.

Many of his poems, he was aware, were no good at all. That didn’t matter to him. He needed to do it, needed to have a place where it was just him and his thoughts coexisting without distraction.

Right now, his current poem went something like this:

He felt like something was there, some bit of potential which needed to be worked at and refined. If only he could bring that starting idea around to a conclusion, make a finished thought of it, then maybe he stood a chance of being in a good mood today.

The only thing wrong with that was thinking about the subject of the poem kept bringing him back to thoughts of Isaac. Stupid! Fucking! Isaac! The pushy, no-good, deserting alpha.

Suddenly, someone knocked hard on his door.

Moody dropped his pen in surprise, the utensil clattering on the cheap plastic stand which acted as his desk. The pen rolled off the edge and seemed to somehow jump across the floor, vanishing underneath his bed.

“Goddammit,” he said again. Rising from the milk crate he used as a chair, he went over to the door and pulled it open. The door only rattled in its frame, reminding him that he hadn’t unlocked it. Growing flustered, feeling a little embarrassed at this lapse, Moody unlocked the door and then tried to open it again.

Abraham Savage stood there in the doorway. The younger brother of Cain Savage, Abraham was only 16 years old. He still lived at home with their parents, though recently he had begun showing interest in life as a biker. Cain brought him to the garage upon occasion, where Abraham generally set about to making as much of a nuisance of himself as possible. He poked his nose in where it didn’t belong, pestered the alphas, stole motorcycles and took them for test drives though he didn’t even have a regular license yet.

Suffice to say, as someone who had his own bike stolen by Abraham, Moody didn’t like him much at all.

“What are you doing here?” Moody asked. He tried to stand a little taller. He wasn’t short by any means, but Abraham was like a beanstalk, all height and no substance.

“Everyone in the whole entire garage can hear you talking to yourself,” Abraham said. His gray eyes narrowed. He spoke with a feminine lisp, what might be called a stereotypical gay voice. As far as Moody could tell, this was how Abraham naturally spoke. It wasn’t a mockery, or a façade he put on to try and appear to be what he thought he should be like. “Swearing. There’s kids out here today, okay?” His voice rose up an entire octave at the end of his question.

Dogs within a 10-mile radius are howling right now.

“You’re a kid, Abe. Go away and play with the other brats.”

Abraham’s face darkened. “Fuck you. I was going to tell you something but you went and fucked that up.” He leaned to the side, peering around Moody.

Moody leaned with him, trying to block his vision. He might be living in a tiny room in a garage owned by his pack leader but he still considered this to be his room. No one had any right to go poking around inside there without his permission, especially not a jerk like Abraham.

Unfortunately, he was a little too short to really block Abraham from seeing inside the room.

“You writing in there? What are you doing, writing a novel? You think you’re Charles Dickens or something?” Abraham snorted, derisive either at the idea of Moody’s writing or writing in general. “Let me look, and I’ll tell you if it’s any good.”

“I don’t think so.” Moody put himself in the way as the other omega started to step forward, blocking his entrance.

Abraham looked at him like he was shit on the bottom of a shoe, then reached out with one incredibly long arm and shoved Moody to the side. To do so, he put his hand in the exact same spot Isaac had.

Moody stepped back more than he staggered, all the breath gone from his lungs. He tried to pull in air and couldn’t, the world reeling around him in a dizzying spiral. His pulse pounded in his ears. Pressing his back against the wall, he tried to focus. One hand pressed against his forehead, as if he thought holding himself would bring the rest of the world to a halt for him.

Not now. Not one of these, not now.

These attacks mostly happened when he woke up and found himself in his room at the garage—and he refused to admit even to himself that he was pretty sure they came then because he still expected to be at home. He still wanted to be at home, convinced that everything was okay and right with the world. However, one was happening now.

“What the fuck is this? You really are writing?”

With some difficulty, Moody turned his head to look over in the direction of the voice.

Abraham stood over his makeshift desk, Moody’s private poems clutched in his hands. “Poetry?”

“Put it down,” Moody whispered. All of the thoughts he kept to himself, the things he could tell no one else, all there in the hands of someone who would never ever understand.

Abraham ignored him, flipping papers in his hands, skimming the words Moody spent so much time on. “Look at this emo shit. Throwing shells in the ocean? And this one.” He waved a poem around in the air. The edge of the paper was torn, which it hadn’t been before. “Eternal sorrow like the darkness behind city lights? You really think this shit is worth anything, man?”

“Put it down!”

Out of nowhere, he was suddenly so angry that his vision went red and warped. On top of all the terrible things that had happened recently, now there was this. The world was out to get him.

If he couldn’t take his anger out on the world, he’d take it out on Abraham.

Snarling, Moody threw himself forward, pushing off from the wall. He snatched one of the poems away, ripping it in half in the process. The red in his eyes only darkened further. Instead of going for the rest of the papers, he thrust his hands out at Abraham and went for his throat.

The terrible, mocking grin on Abraham’s face morphed into a grimace of terror. He ducked away, surprisingly agile for someone so tall, then lunged towards the open door. “I’m going to tell everyone about your shitty poems!”

Moody ran out onto the floor after him, quickly catching up. Abraham slid around a makeshift barrier, putting space between them.

Other wolves glanced over at this disturbance, idle interest sharpening into a need to know what was going on once they realized that two omegas were involved in this little spat.

“Hey, guys!” Abraham said, waving the poems around in the air. Moody went around the barrier and put his hands up to swat the papers out of his grasp. Flashing that wicked smile again, Abraham suddenly hopped up in the air and tossed all the poems up towards the ceiling. Papers dispersed across the room, fluttering away from their brethren like startled birds. “Everyone check it out! Moody wants to be a poet!”

“You fucking…!”

Moody threw himself at Abraham again. The other omega stepped back behind another barrier. Moody didn’t care. He kept going, crashing through the barrier, sending planks of wood and the weight of his own body careening right into Abraham. Yelping, the tall omega fell over and hit the ground.

Bringing out his claws and fangs, Moody pounced on Abraham and started to slash at him, shredding his clothes, scratching his face and hands and arms as he tried to defend himself.

Out of nowhere, Moody felt himself being yanked away. Snarling, he twisted around to face this new assailant and found himself face-to-face with none other than Cain.

Oh, I’m in deep shit now.

Panting and shivering, trying to catch his breath, Moody felt another wave of dizziness start to overcome him.

Cain opened his mouth to say something, then abruptly closed it with a snap. His gaze flicked from Moody, to Abraham, who was clawing his way out of the ruins of the barrier, and back to Moody again. “Okay,” he grunted. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I was just trying to show everyone his poems,” Abraham said. He brushed off his jeans, which were so tight they showed pretty much every detail from ankle to groin. “He was just all shut up in his room, writing like he thinks he’s Edgar Allen Shmoe. I was helping.”

“Poe,” Moody muttered vaguely, not sure what else to say in this situation. These two were brothers. He was the odd man out, here. Cain was going to favor Abraham.

“I know who it was,” Abraham said, sounding haughty in the way that only a teenager can be. Moody knew, because he was a teenager himself until recently.

Cain lifted his hands. They were enormous hands, the sort that would block out the entire world when one came flying at you. “That’s enough.” His voice was deep, an alpha’s dominant command. He didn’t need to speak louder to gain that intimidating edge. Instead, the effect originated from very deep within his chest. “Both of you. Abraham, pick up those fucking papers. Put them back in Moody’s room. Moody, come with me. Let’s talk.”

Something inside Moody’s stomach trembled. Fear, trepidation. “Why?”

“Abraham didn’t tell you?” Cain raised one eyebrow, looking over at his younger brother. Abraham wilted in front of his gaze like a flower in the face of fierce heat.

“Tell me what?” Gradually realizing that he wasn’t the one in trouble, Moody started to relax a little. The quiver in his stomach abated, and his breathing slowed into what resembled a more normal rhythm. Angry red lingered at his peripheral vision, but that was all.

“Abe,” Cain sighed. “Do you have to keep causing trouble?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Abraham protested.

“Sure you didn’t. I sent you to fetch Moody for me, and now you’ve caused a scene.” Cain apparently remembered that they had an audience, his own words drawing his attention back to reality. He glanced around the floor. At least ten other shifters sat in various places, none of whom were even pretending to mind their own business. “Show’s over. All of you. Abe? Papers. Now.”

“Wait,” someone else said. A beta wearing a leather jacket and a sensible haircut stood up, holding her pup under one arm. The pup was in wolf form, wiggling around and waving all four paws, but it couldn’t escape her practiced grip. “I’ll do it. I’m sorry, Cain, but I wouldn’t trust your brother to do anything.”

Cain dipped his head in her direction. “Me neither. Thank you, Cujo.”

Cujo flashed a little smile at him, then walked toward the nearest piece of paper. She had been given her nickname because her wolf form’s coloration strongly resembled a Saint Bernard’s.

Bikers weren’t known for their subtlety.

“Come on, Moody. Let’s go talk.”

Moody followed along after Cain, trying to lengthen his stride to better keep up. They went over to one of the large windows on the outskirt of the main floor space, far away from anyone who might overhear.

“I’m sorry about all that, Moody,” Cain said, looking out across the gray cityscape. “Are you okay? You looked pretty rough back there for a second or two. Did Abe hurt you?”

Moody shook his head. Doing that made him feel a little dizzy again and he quickly stopped. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t the kind of person to willingly spill his feelings. Maybe once, but not now.

“Are you sure?” Cain pressed. His voice was anything but rough and deep right now, having grown soft and worried.

I bet this is how he talks to his mate and child.

For some reason, thinking about Cain’s family made him feel incredibly sad. His shoulders hunched up and he couldn’t stop it from happening. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he tried to hold in all the words that wanted to come out.

“You know,” Cain continued, continuing to look at the city, “if there’s anything bothering you, you can always come to me. Or Destiny. You’re just as important to us as everyone else.”

“More important than your own brother?”

Cain smiled, though the bitter twist of his lips made it seem more like a grimace. “Pack is pack. All are equal.”

Moody set his hands on the windowsill, trying to see what Cain saw out there. The city belonged to him, so full of life and joy and excitement, but right now it all just looked so bleak. Gray buildings, gray streets, gray skies. What was there here for anyone except disappointment? The beach life was only a façade, a face worn for tourists.

His thoughts were too confused to make any sense right now. He spoke slowly, trying to put words together as they came out. “You can’t tell anyone about this, okay? I don’t want to take any shit for it. Abraham called me emo. I don’t care. I just don’t want to give people more fuel to despise me.”

Up until very recently, he would have said the exact opposite. Bring it on. Let everyone give him shit for being emo, for writing, for being sensitive. Whatever. He’d just give it all right back.

Today, he just didn’t think he wanted to deal with that. He needed to recover from dealing with Isaac.

“I won’t tell. Except maybe Destiny. I’ll be honest with you about that. If I feel like I need to, I’ll let him in on it. Other than him, no one will hear a word.”

Smiling a little, Moody nodded. He liked that Cain had been honest with him. It made him feel better about what he was going to say. “Sometimes I have these moments where it feels like I can’t breathe. I get dizzy. It’s like everything’s ending. My mind goes blank. Things get hazy.”

“Panic attacks?”

“I guess. They happen a lot when I first wake up. It sucks a lot.”

Cain didn’t say anything for a minute. The two of them stood together at the window, both of them looking out in silence. “You had one back there when I grabbed you. I’m so sorry, Moody. I didn’t mean to do that to you.”

“You didn’t.” Moody shook his head. “I was scared about Abe getting into my poems. It’s pretty private stuff for me.”

The alpha sighed. “I’m going to really have to punish him this time. You want the honor of deciding what the punishment should be?”

A tempting opportunity, like having a carrot dangled in front of him. It felt like a trap, even though he didn’t really think it was. “No, thanks.”

Cain nodded. He seemed pleased. “He needs to learn that being a biker doesn’t mean you go around causing shit. We’re better than that.” He straightened up, finally turning his head to look at Moody again. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Am I in trouble for something?” His heart started pounding as he realized that the previous conversation didn’t mean he was out of the woods.

“No! No, you aren’t. I just wondered if you’d seen Isaac recently.”

Moody froze, thinking back to the way Isaac had chased him away from the beach. “Not for a few days. Since we went on patrol together.” He didn’t see much point in informing Cain of their coincidental meeting on the west end of the island.

“Damn. No one’s heard from him.”

“That’s not exactly unusual,” Moody pointed out. One thing he and Isaac did have in common these days was their desire to be left alone.

“No, you’re right,” Cain agreed softly. “But someone told Destiny that they saw Isaac with another wolf they’d never seen before. They said Isaac looked really upset. We’ve been keeping an eye out for him since then, but he hasn’t been around. No one’s seen him out in the city either.”

Isaac looked upset?

For the past couple of days, all he had been able to think about was how he felt when Isaac pushed him. But what had come before that?

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember.

Isaac told him to go. Demanded it. Snarled at him. And even before that happened, Isaac had looked around across the beach. And before that, he had gone still, like he was concentrating. His scent had gone bitter.

He had been afraid.

“Moody? What are you thinking about?” Cain pressed.

The sudden change in Isaac’s demeanor hinted at something incredibly important, relating to the sighting of him talking to a strange wolf. And now, he was missing.

“I can go look for him,” Moody blurted out. He spoke too loud and a few other wolves glanced over in his direction, then away as they noticed he was still with Cain. Struggling to lower his voice, he continued, “I thought he seemed kind of weird last time I saw him. Maybe the two are related.”

“Maybe. Would you have time to go see him, then? Or were you in the middle of something important?”

He bristled at the question, then relaxed when he realized Cain wasn’t mocking him for his writing. “I can go. Right now, even.”

“That would be best, yes.” Cain looked thoughtful now, or at least as thoughtful as it was possible for a man like him to be. “Do you know where he lives?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know the trailer park in the middle of the Triangle? I think it’s called Tanglewood Gardens.”

The Triangle was a local name for the part of the city sandwiched between the parallel highway 29 and I-110, and the perpendicular I-10 which connected them at the north. Isosceles in formation, the Triangle was a very long and thin area whose point came to a blunt end at the south. It wasn’t the best place to live.

“I know it, yeah.”

He’d never set foot in the trailer park personally, though he’d seen it from a distance while riding his bike on the highway. The trailers were all cluttered together around a few roads, surrounded by thick tangles of the kind of trees a person could only find in Florida. Swampy, humid, drooping, sickly trees that looked as if they were fantastic homes for snakes and mosquitos and any manner of other unpleasant things. Broken furniture littered tiny yards, and faint dog barks occasionally burst up as the animals went into a frenzy for no reason that Moody was able to understand. Of course, it was hard to tell anything while he was on the outside.

Cain was speaking still. Moody tuned in to the conversation again. “His address is 14 Quiet Lane. Apparently it’s difficult to find anything based on the numbers, so look for the blue trailer with the cardboard in the window.”

“Wow, what a great place to live.”

“Good thing we don’t live in Canada or someplace with actual seasons, right?” Cain grinned. “So, you going to go over?”

“Sure. You want me to text you or something when I find out what’s going on?”

Cain mulled over the question. That was the difference between himself and Destiny. The pack leader made his decisions very quickly, confidently, always certain that he was right. Usually, he was.

“Unless it’s something bad, I think you can hold off on that. Just tell him that Destiny and I would like to talk to him.”

Moody nodded. “Got it. I’ll get going, then.”

“Thank you. And Moody?”

Moody looked over at Cain, raising his eyebrows at the alpha. “Yes?”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Simple thanks didn’t seem good enough, but pushing himself beyond that would be overdoing it.

Rather than do anything, he just nodded and walked away. No one bothered him at all as he walked down the stairs and went out of the garage to the parking lot. He grabbed his roadster, placed a helmet on his head, and got moving.

It was an easy ride to Tanglewood Gardens once Moody got over the highway, though not exactly a walk in the park. There was little other traffic and definitely no cops, but the roads were so knotted and tangled he could hardly go half the speed he wanted to. Buildings and shrubbery and tree branches jutted out into the angles of the twisting road, so it was difficult to tell if there was another side road there or not.

Relying on his internal compass to keep him heading more or less north, correcting his course whenever the sounds of the distant interstate grew too near, Moody finally found the park. He broke through a very rough wall of trees, tangled giants crowding in on the road from either side, and there were suddenly trailers right ahead of him. Most of them looked to be either old or just in terrible shape, with breaks in the foundations or rotting wood steps. Windows were boarded up. Doors sat oddly on their hinges. Everywhere, paint needed refreshing.

This was a place for the tired, the broken down, and the destitute. Only people who had very little to begin with would choose to come to such a location.

His heart climbed up into his throat. Isaac had very little to be here. He’d had a job before, a very important one, and that was the reason he returned to Daphne and left Moody all alone. Isaac had had a pack. A purpose. A future, all leading out in front of him with no end in sight. And now he lived here.

“What happened, Isaac?” he whispered.

The sound of his voice, already quiet, was lost beneath a volley of threatening barks that exploded up from a yard to his left. His hands clenched on the bars and his body jerked with surprise, making his bike stutter to the side. Twisting slightly with the motion, Moody managed to bring the bike back on course. As he did so, he glanced at the source of the barking.

A huge dog of indeterminate breed, presumably a mutt of some sort, bucked and writhed at the end of a short length of chain. A circle of torn yard surrounded the chain post, signaling that the animal was often kept outside and maybe had taken to endless pacing in order to satisfy its need for exercise.

The dog’s eyes were mad red with fury. Saliva sprayed from its opened maw, drizzled down from yellow fangs. Its face was warped into an ugly, monstrous caricature.

Other dogs around the neighborhood heard the cry and took the opportunity, howling and baying and yapping in a dozen different voices.

Clearly, this was why the dogs were always barking. One saw something and set the others off.

“Don’t you mind him, boy.”

Moody turned his head, startled, wondering why he hadn’t noticed a human nearby. He quickly got his answer when a lanky man stepped around the side of a trailer, bringing with him a plume of blue cigarette smoke. The man’s face and hands were stained with nicotine. His hair was greasy, and would probably qualify as dreadlocks. His eyes were squinted slants, not because of his ancestry, but because his skin was wrinkled and leathery with too much exposure to the sun.

When the human didn’t say anything else, only drew deeply on his cigarette, Moody ventured, “Are you talking to me or the dog?”

The man gave a phlegmy sound, then spat a huge glob of something against the side of the trailer. Judging from the huge brown stain in that general area, he did this same action quite a lot. “You. Damn dog don’t listen to nobody. He just barks his fool head off all day. Don’t mind him. He’ll shut up soon.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Moody adjusted himself in his seat and started forward again. So far, he had seen plenty of yellow and white trailers -and the yellow ones had probably been white at some point- but no blue ones.

“’fore you go, why are you here, boy?”

“Visiting a friend,” he replied, truthfully enough.

“Like hell you are.” The man dropped his cigarette, then stomped on the butt and ground it underneath his heel. “Ain’t none of us up here got a cityslicker like you for a friend.”

That was confusing, since the trailer park was part of the city. Moody looked over at the man again, sensing he probably shouldn’t ask the question in his mind or else be labelled as a fool. He noticed now that the human wore a stained wife beater with huge damp patches under the arms, and sweatpants spotted with little burn marks, as if he often put his cigarette out on them.

He thought he understood.

Moody might live in a parking garage, might be jobless—unless he counted the chores he did around the place to earn his keep—but he had plenty of food, all the amenities he could ever ask for. He was wearing a shiny black leather jacket that probably cost more than what this man could afford for food each month.

He didn’t know what to do or say. It seemed like it would be in his best interest to just ignore this guy and get moving, so he gripped his bike and headed off again. He wouldn’t stop now, no matter what the man said.

“Mutt don’t much like the sight of you and neither do I, cityboy!”

Moody turned the corner. The man stopped shouting after him, though the dog kept barking for several more minutes. As the seconds passed, the furious cries took on a more hoarse, spent edge, until the dog seemed to be coughing instead of baying. Then, silence.

He just looked harder, searching and searching for a blue trailer. His internal compass was all fucked up at this point. He couldn’t get his bearings. Everything started to look the same, and then the trailers ran together at the edges.

Oh, no!

His heartbeat picked up, a pounding cadence in his chest. Nausea gathered in his stomach, a bitter, churning sensation which hinted at an approaching dizziness.

Not here. Not now. This is so important.

He opened his mouth, pulled in a breath until his lungs ached. Let it out, pulled another one in. Over and over, until he finally caught sight of the trailer where Isaac lived. One of the windows had clearly been broken at some point in the past, covered as it was now with sheets of cardboard. The cardboard was moldy and drooping, signaling that it had been there for quite some time. Months. Maybe an entire year.

Moody dropped his speed down, almost faint with relief at the way his heartbeat was also slowing. The nausea remained, though he no longer felt at danger of becoming dizzy. He parked right next to Isaac’s bike and dismounted. Grabbing the key from the ignition, he shoved it in his pocket so no prospective thieves would get a lucky break today. Then, he turned to walk up to the front door of the trailer. The only door, probably.

A glimmer of metal out of the corner of his eye stopped him. He turned, a little puzzled. Motorcycles were at least partly made of some metal. They naturally glittered. He didn’t know why this caught his attention except that it did.

The glittering metal wasn’t naturally part of the motorcycle. It was a key. Isaac’s key, still stuck in the ignition.

Moody stared, dread nibbling at the base of his spine with needle-sharp teeth. He imagined one of those deep ocean fish emerging from the frozen dark with the sole purpose of gnawing on him.

Isaac would never, ever leave the key in his bike. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it would be stolen if he did that, especially in a place like this.

Reaching out, Moody gripped the key fob and twisted it. At least, he tried. The key was already turned as far to the right as it would go.

So, not only had Isaac left his bike out here for anyone to steal, but he’d also left the engine running?

Holding his breath, Moody turned the key all the way to the left, paused, then twisted back to the right.

Absolutely nothing. The engine didn’t even cough, didn’t try to start. Hell, it didn’t so much as turn over. There was no gas left inside, and on top of that the battery was dead.

Moody took Isaac’s key and stuck it in his pocket with his own. Then, he turned and ran towards the front door. He mounted a series of five rotting wood steps, each one curving so far down under his weight that he wondered how they weren’t already snapped. Isaac went down these often, didn’t he? And he weighed much more.

Oh, well. Puzzles with no solution. Unimportant.

Lifting up his fist, Moody pounded hard on the door. That, at least, was solid. Heavy, muted thumps resulted from his knocking. He stopped, waited, straining his ears.

No sound. Nothing.

He knocked harder this time, then called, “Isaac? It’s Moody. Are you home?”

No answer.

Moody stared down at the doorknob, contemplated a third attempt, and then he said, “Oh, fuck it,” and grabbed for the knob. It twisted easily in his hand, having not been locked.

His heart fluttered uneasily in his chest. Leaving his bike out there to run itself down completely, and now not locking his front door? Isaac was never so lax as to miss even one of these details, but two? Something terrible had to have happened.

Moody pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The door opened directly into a living room, which was rather sparse. An armchair, an end table, a few shelves with books, and that was about it. No TV, no wall decorations, nothing.

To the left of the front door was a kitchen, which at a glance already had considerably more personality than the living room. A coffee pot, microwave, toaster, and several other typical devices lined up along the length of one short counter, like soldiers awaiting orders. Little motorcycle figurines stood on the windowsill, keeping watch over the sink. Magnets studded the fridge, each one appearing to have come from a different city. Moody supposed Isaac collected them in the past, when he’d gone on business to other places.

A hallway led from the living room, deeper into the trailer. Moody started for it, then stopped and looked back at the kitchen.

Bikers were indulgent creatures by nature. They had to be, when their main mode of transportation was all about desire, rather than need. Moody knew very few of his pack members who didn’t smoke or drink.

Isaac was one of those who didn’t drink. At least, that was what he said a few years ago. He liked to be clear-headed. If he had to drink at a business dinner or something, if it was absolutely necessary, he limited himself to one. One shot, one glass, one of whatever was being served.

Even if he had changed his opinions in the time they were apart, what Moody was seeing on the kitchen counter was extremely worrying.

Someone—presumably Isaac, though Moody still had difficulty associating this with his ex-lover—had purchased a case of beer and then tore into it, like a bear smelling food inside a campground tent. Empty or half-empty bottles surrounded the case, intermingled with torn strips of cardboard packaging. One of the bottles had tipped over, leaving a sizable puddle.

In addition to the beer was a bottle of whiskey. The cap was on the floor. Moody couldn’t see a shot glass anywhere, so he could only assume that Isaac had drunk directly from the bottle. Several fingers of whiskey were missing, putting the level of the alcohol well below the neck of the bottle.

Last, but certainly not least, was a bottle of Grey Goose. The vodka was on the floor for some reason, and looked to be unopened as of yet.

“Isaac?” Moody called. He went over to the hallway. Three doors, two closed, and one open in the middle.

He yanked open the first door and found a central air-conditioning unit. He didn’t bother closing it and moved on to the second door, the open one. Poking his head in, he discovered a bathroom. Though cluttered by the addition of a washing machine and dryer, the space was tidy, with a sense of orderliness about it.

Dread was no longer just nibbling at his spine. He was being bitten, savaged by the sense that something was terribly wrong.

Backing out of the bathroom, Moody went over to the last door, at the very end of the trailer. That was where he found Isaac, in his bedroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed.

Isaac held a beer bottle in one hand. He didn’t even seem to notice Moody was there. Lifting the bottle, he held it up to his mouth. Nothing came out, the contents clearly having been drained some time ago, but Isaac swallowed and wiped his mouth anyway.

He looked like shit. His blond hair looked like it hadn’t been washed and it was standing on end, as if he’d been running his hands through it in the wrong direction. His nose was red and so were his eyes, threaded with bloodshot veins.

“Isaac?” Moody said, uncertain, afraid. He looked around the bedroom, half-expecting to see some sort of assailant waiting to spring out at him. There was nothing to see. What sparse furniture and decorations Isaac had in here were all neatly in their designated spots. Really, only Isaac and the alcohol were out of place.

Isaac’s eyes slid over in his direction. He blinked a lot, his gaze skittering and jumping like he was having a hard time focusing on anything. “Moody? What’re you doing in my house?” He slurred when he spoke, house turning into houshe. He lifted one hand in greeting, the answer to his question apparently of no particular concern to him. His wrist was limp and floppy, and he seemed to forget what he was doing halfway through actually doing it.

It would have been funny, had Moody not been so damn worried.

Moody crouched down in front of Isaac, staring hard into his pale eyes. Isaac looked at him with blank curiosity.

Suddenly angry, knowing that he was really more scared than anything, Moody lashed out and knocked the bottle away. It went rolling across the floor, then clinked against the wall and was still.

Isaac squinted, looking as if he was trying to be offended. “What’d you do that for?”

“Why are you drunk?” Moody demanded. “You left your bike outside, your door unlocked. And no one’s seen you for days. What the hell have you been doing? And who was that strange wolf you were seen talking to?”

“Who wants to know?” More slurring, delivered in an accusatory, pouty tone. “Aren’t we all strange wolves? Not normal to be able to turn into an animal, you knows. Nose? Know.”

Moody leaned back a little, stunned. Of course it was normal. They were shifters. That was what they did. To suggest their natural ability was strange was like saying that it was weird for birds to fly. That was just what happened.

Whatever had happened between Isaac and that other wolf, it must have been bad.

He tried another tactic. “Cain said he wanted to talk to you. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“And you?” Isaac glared at him. At least, he tried to. He didn’t seem to be much up to it, struggling with his own facial features. “Cain coulda come here on his own. Why you?”

“Because I was the last one to be seen with you,” Moody said, speaking slowly, like he was talking to a toddler. “And because I know something was wrong when you chased me away. What were you so scared of?”

“Ain’t scared of nothin’,” Isaac huffed. “Anyone who told you that is a fucking liar. You’re the one who should be scared. I’m a troublemaker. It’s the reason I’m back here. I didn’t know where else to go when I left, ‘cept for here. Because of you. Didn’t know anywhere else.”

All of this was too confusing. Frustrated, Moody shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean. How are you a troublemaker?”

Isaac suddenly shifted positions, trying to stand up. Moody rose with him, alarmed, wondering how he would be able to catch the alpha if he fell over. Luckily, Isaac didn’t have much of a journey planned. He just flopped gracelessly down on the edge of his bed, sinking deep into the mattress.

Regarding his hands as if they held some secret, Isaac started speaking again. He went slower than before, clearly making an effort to be coherent. There was nothing he could do for the slurring though, so Moody listened to him more intently than he ever had in his entire life.

“Where I live, Daphne, there was an arsonist. No one knew who was doin’ it. Vacant lots burned up. Stuff like that. Then, buildings. No one could catch the fuck.”

Are you the arsonist? The troublemaker?

“Someone in my pack got their house burned down. Then, someone else’s apartment caught on fire. No damage to their place. Fuckin’ close call, though. It went on for a while. More of my pack were bein’ affected. We started to think we had an enemy out there.”

“Then, the place where I worked burned down. Hundreds of people without a job. The firm was just gone, Moody.”

Moody pulled in a surprised breath, horrified at the news. Already, he could see where this was going.

“My pack thought it was me. I was the only one working there from my pack. An’ I was also in my pack. I was the only one with that connection. They kicked me out.” Isaac sighed, very deeply. “They went to the cops, tried to get ‘em to arrest me. I got questioned and protested…No. Processed. I got processed. But there wasn’t enough to convict me, so they had to let me go.”

“My pack didn’t like that. They said they knew it was me, said it had to be me. Couldn’t be a coincidence. They chased me out of the city.”

“I didn’t know where to go, Moody. I didn’t know what to do. I came here because all I could think about was going somewhere where I knew someone, but I was so sure you were going to hate me. Then I realized you was…were…in a biker gang and I joined the opposite one. I don’t know why. I wanted to be somewhere near you. Except I knew you were going to hate me. So I never did anything.”

All of this made sense now, at least what he could piece together.

Everyone in Shadow Claws had heard about how Isaac was the only one who had given any support to Markus Tremors, Destiny’s mate. If not for Isaac, if not for his single opinion amidst a sea of argumentative wolves, Markus might not have gone on to locate the third pack that was killing everyone. So many more people might have died, if not for Isaac.

No one had known why Isaac gave his support, why his was the voice that was raised.

But Moody knew now. It was because Isaac understood what it was like to be accused, to have no one come to his defense.

And maybe he had also done it because Moody might be hurt if the fighting between their packs continued on.

“That wolf who you’ve been talking to,” Moody said. He wanted to reach out to comfort the other wolf, and was very aware that he shouldn’t. This didn’t change anything about what had happened between them. No reason to cause Isaac more pain.

“What about him?” Isaac rubbed his eyes. He looked very tired, very childlike, and Moody’s heart ached with a sudden protectiveness. No one should have to hold on to such memories as this, not all on their own.

“Who is he?”

Isaac sighed softly. “He’s a member of my old pack. From Daphne. He says it’s started again. The fires. Except I’m over here now. It’s not me. I’m not doing it. I didn’t do it in the first place. It’s not me!”

Alarmed at the way Isaac’s voice rose up as he spoke, reaching a crescendo, Moody held up both hands. He didn’t know exactly what it was he was going to do with those hands, though. He made calm-down motions with them, feeling completely stupid.

However, it seemed to be working. Isaac pulled in a deep breath and then let it out again, then repeated the process.

It either worked or it’s just a coincidence. Either way, I’ll take it.

“I believe you,” Moody said. He kept making those dumb motions, wondering now at what point he would be allowed to stop. “All right? I really do. You aren’t that kind of person.”

“Thank you, Moody. I should never have left you. You’re right about that. We could have worked something out.”

“Let’s just talk about you right now,” Moody said, as gently as he could. He wasn’t going to take advantage of this situation, dammit. He wasn’t even sure that Isaac was telling the truth about what he’d just said. Being drunk made a person do all sorts of weird things. What if Isaac lied, instead of dancing or singing or getting angry? “What did this guy want you to do?”

“He wants me to come back to the pack. I don’t wanna.”

“To stay?”

“No.” Isaac growled a little, although right now it came out as more of an ineffectual warble. “To help figure out what’s going on. Like they think I know somethin’ about this. Fucking idiots.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t have a choice. I don’t think Arlo is gonna leave until I go with him.”

“We could chase him away,” Moody suggested. He was getting tired of standing around awkwardly. Maybe he would be able to bring this conversation to a close right here and now. “If he’s just here alone, he wouldn’t have much of a choice. There’s dozens of us and only one of him.”

“Then I’d look guilty.”

Isaac abruptly went silent.

Moody finally put his hands down, though now, they just dangled uselessly at his side and that didn’t feel much better. “Okay. Then, we don’t do that. But I’m going to support you through this, okay? Just like you supported Markus. You won’t be alone.”

He hadn’t known that he was going to say that until he said it, and by then it was too late to change his mind.

For all their difficulties, for all the bad things that had happened between them, Moody understood being misunderstood. He knew what it was like to be judged. Of course, he’d brought that upon himself, but he still understood. His status as a social outcast had been a choice he made after his mother died, because he knew he would never feel as close to anyone as that ever again. No point having friends, having fun, when the shadow of what he had lost would always be there to remind him about what he would never have again.

His mother was his fan club, his best friend. Without her, everything else sort of lost its purpose.

Isaac had lost something, too. And he hadn’t had a choice about it. He’d been wronged. Betrayed by the ones who should have stood by him.

Thinking of his father, Moody realized he could understand that, too.

And he knew he was going to follow through with his words.

“I’ll be here for you.”

He looked over at Isaac, feeling shy and uncertain about how the alpha would react, despite his conviction to go through this no matter what.

Isaac wasn’t responding because he had passed out at some point, his head tossed back against the wall. His mouth was open, a faint trail of drool trickling from between his parted lips.

Something happened inside Moody, then. Something he didn’t want to happen, not that he had much of a choice. His heart gave a twinge in his chest, a twisting sensation that could only properly be described as tenderness.

Old feelings were hard to banish, that was all. Nothing more.

If he moved Isaac to make him lie down, he figured he ran the risk of waking him up. He needed his sleep to recuperate from his depression-fueled bender. Instead, Moody just shifted the covers and draped them over Isaac’s shoulders.

Then, there was nothing else for him to do.

He left. Isaac knew where to find him in the future, if he needed him.

Returning to the garage, Moody stopped by his room to make sure that all his poems had been returned. All of his various papers sat neatly on his makeshift desk, exactly where they belonged.

There was also a new scrap of paper which looked to have come from his supply, which he kept under his bed. Something had been written on the scrap in an unfamiliar hand, the letters neat and blocky.

Bending down, he lifted the paper and read the note.

It said, “I tried not to, but I couldn’t help but see some of your poems as I was picking them up. You have a lot of talent. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Cujo had signed her name at the bottom.

Moody set the scrap back down on his desk. There was a very odd feeling inside him right now, something light and fluttery, and he had no idea what to do with it. Rather than sit there and question it, he went in search of Cain and Destiny to tell them about what he’d learned.

It wasn’t until he’d found them and was walking in their direction that he realized what he’d been feeling was called happiness.