Chapter One
Caleb surveyed the dusty space. With the cracks in the ceiling, stains all over the floor, and dead roaches, there was only one word that came to mind.
“Shit,” Malcolm said. “This place looks like shit.”
Caleb chuckled at his pack beta’s evaluation. He sniffed the air. Bile threatened to come up. His enhanced werewolf sense of smell could be great in a lot of situations, not so much in the disgusting building that April afternoon.
“You seriously want to buy this place?” Malcolm said. “We might as well buy a dump.”
Caleb shrugged. “It’s also cheap. If we spend a bunch of money on some fancy place, it’ll be harder to fix it up.” He pointed to a hallway in the back. “Plus, it’s got that apartment above. That saves me trouble.”
“Nice for you,” Malcolm grumbled. “But what about the rest of the pack?”
“The pack needs a home base, and this is as good as any. Glendale seems okay, too. With a little elbow-grease, we can make this place into a great bar. They already have hook-ups for gas grills, and so we can add some food, too. Maybe it won’t be like the original Devil’s Den, but it’ll be even better.”
He couldn’t help but imagine a cocktail waitress in tight leather pants or a short skirt, bending over. He could see her tucking some money into her ample cleavage.
He snorted to himself. The truth was that a bar that employed so many werewolves couldn’t risk hiring any random woman off the street. It’d probably be a long time before he could hire some cocktail waitress and charm her panties off.
Caleb grunted.
“Problem?” Malcolm asked.
No, I just need to get laid. He didn’t voice the thought. Instead, he shrugged.
Something scuttled out from the shadows, and Malcolm brought his boot down with a crunch on the roach. “I still think we should have stayed in LA. Not moved to a place that’s even more of a desert.”
“Whatever.” Caleb shrugged. “And fuck LA. The shifter politics were getting too annoying. We don’t have time for all that shit.”
“This place has got its own issues. Everyone says there are a lot of coyotes around here. And what about the packs to the east?”
“I got no problem with coyotes. They tend to mind their own business. If we do the same, there won’t be a problem with them. As for the packs to the east, we’re in the west.”
A familiar but unsettling scent drifted to Caleb’s nose. Slightly pungent. He narrowed his eyes, his shoulders tensing, and bit back a growl.
He spun toward the door. Malcolm did the same.
The door creaked open, and a man in a black suit and sunglasses entered. He spared a quick glance around the room, a disdainful expression on his face.
From the smell, Caleb already had a good idea of who the new visitor was, but there was no reason to rush things.
“Nice place,” the new arrival said. “I hope you’re giving them a high offer of fifty cents. It’s worth it. Maybe even sixty cents.” He smirked.
Like Caleb, the man was huge, brown-haired, and heavily muscled. Though the alpha would sooner swallow a cup of molten silver than wear a suit. There was nothing better than a good pair of jeans and a t-shirt.
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Nah, dollar seventy-five.”
Malcolm shot him an angry look. He didn’t care. He knew his beta thought he didn’t take a lot of situations seriously enough. It didn’t matter. He’d do what he wanted until he was no longer alpha.
The new arrival reached up and pulled off his glasses. Eyes with thin, vertical pupils set in yellow stared at Caleb. Reptilian eyes.
Just what the scent had told them, a weredragon.
“This place suits you, Mr. Drake,” the dragon said.
“We can’t all be as rich as dragons,” Caleb said. “Us wolves need to take what we can get. After all, we’re just a poor pack of working men making our way in this sad, brutal world.” He added all the mocking tone he could manage into the last sentence.
“Indeed,” the new arrival said, surveying the area. “Well, this is a good place for a poor pack of wolves.”
Caleb let out a low growl.
Even though the brown-haired weredragon looked like he was in his mid-twenties, Caleb knew he might be way older than that. The lizards aged slower than his kind after all. Damn unfair. Caleb looked every day his thirty-two years.
“You look tense, Mr. Drake,” the man said.
“Call me Caleb. Mr. Drake is my father.”
“Very well, Caleb.” The dragon narrowed his eyes. “You seem tense. You did expect me, right?”
“Yeah, we knew a dragon was coming,” Caleb said. “So you know who I am. Who are you?”
“Greg Thomas.” He offered Caleb and Malcolm a nod in turn. “I represent the King of Maricopa County, William Williamson, in most matters when dealing with other shifters.”
Caleb didn’t bother to hold back the snort. Damn dragons and their attitudes.
“You would do well to respect your King,” Greg said with a frown.
It was time to test the locals. If Caleb’s attitude was going to be a problem, then he didn’t want to move the pack there. The whole reason the pack was leaving LA was because of shifter politics after all. He didn’t want to step right back into that crap.
“He’s not my King,” Caleb said. “He’s just some weredragon who calls the shots around here.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ll listen to him, but that doesn’t mean he gets my respect until he’s earned it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Malcolm putting some space between them and moving so he had a different angle on Greg.
He only barely stopped himself from grinning. Even though he had no intention of attacking the dragon, it was good to know his beta was ready to back him in a nasty fight even without orders.
The corners of Greg’s mouth turned up as he stared at Caleb in an amused sneer. The werewolf stared right back. The dragon probably thought he could intimidate him with his damn eyes. Maybe a wolf couldn’t take out a dragon without a pack, but no alpha worth his pack would let himself get intimidated by only a stern look, dragon or not.
Greg would have to kill Caleb before he’d cower. And he was going to damn well make sure the dragon understood that.
“Touchy,” Greg said, his expression turning calm. He let out a bored sigh. “You’ll find King William is a pleasant enough man to call the shots as you put it. Indeed, he’s very tolerant of all shifters except those that draw attention to our kind and don’t clean up their own mistakes. Do you have a problem with that, Caleb?”
“I keep my pack in line,” Caleb growled. “And we clean up our own messes.”
“That’s good to hear, but we’ve been made aware of a few incidents back in LA.” Greg shrugged. “It does make one wonder. You are moving here as a group, after all. Thirteen new werewolves, a full pack. It speaks to your leadership as an alpha, but it’s also potentially a lot of trouble.”
“We don’t start trouble. We end it.”
“Oh?”
“Those incidents weren’t our fault,” Malcolm said.
Caleb glanced over at this beta and nodded. He took a step toward Greg. “We’re wolves. We defend ourselves when attacked.” He continued until he was standing right in front of the dragon and staring into his reptilian eyes. In most situations, Caleb towered over people, even many in his pack, but the other man matched his height. “Does the King have a problem with that? Are we supposed to sit there and let people screw with us and get away with it?”
Greg smiled, his eyes still locked with Caleb’s. “Presuming that you don’t reveal the existence of shifters and don’t kill unnecessarily. No.” The dragon stepped back and put his sunglasses back on. “I just wanted to make the King’s position clear. You’ll find that he’s otherwise very hands off. You’ll also find Maricopa County is an area of unusual freedom for our kind. After all, it is the Wild West.” He spun on his heel and walked toward the door.
Caleb let out a little snort but didn’t say anything else. They’d both made their positions clear. If the dragon didn’t try to blast fire in his face, then it meant the pack could tolerate living in Glendale.
Greg grabbed the door handle and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder, a smile on his face. “One last thing.”
“Yeah?” Caleb said.
“I was supposed to inform you that there’s a pack that sometimes travels around the West Valley, with a particular fondness for Glendale. They also fancy themselves a biker gang.” Greg made air quotes as he said the last two words then rolled his eyes. “They call themselves the True Sons. Their alpha is a wolf named Jake Silvestri.”
“Why should I care? It’s not my job to keep other packs in line.”
“No one is saying it is. I was telling you because the King tolerates them because they have been good about cleaning up after themselves, but he also suspects they will pay you a visit.”
“And cause trouble?”
Greg eyed Caleb and Malcolm in turn. “You wolves can be very territorial.”
“I don’t give a crap about them unless they come at us. If they do, they’ll regret it.”
“The King considers it a test to see if your pack can handle themselves.” Greg shrugged. “Wolves are violent, and they call violence on themselves. He has no time for rough men that need constant protection from their enemies. With your freedom comes a certain responsibility.”
“Don’t come bitching to me then if the True Sons end up with a few less members.”
Greg tapped his forehead. “As long as no humans learn about it, the King couldn’t care less. Have a good day, gentlemen.” He pulled open the door and stepped out into the warm central Arizona spring.
“What a douchebag,” Caleb mumbled.
“So much for avoiding trouble,” Malcolm said.
“I’m not worried about some other pack.” He scoffed. “Especially a pack that runs around as a biker gang. Trying too hard to prove how badass they are.”
Malcolm chuckled. “It’s not exactly like Devil’s Den isn’t going to be a biker-friendly place.”
“Humans need to prove they’re tough. Wolves don’t.”
“So what do we do?”
Caleb grinned. “Nothing. If they come at us, we make ‘em regret messing with the pack.” He looked over his shoulder. “Until then, we have a lot of work to do if we want this place open by June.”