Flint, Stryker, Wilder and I rode through the forest on the outside edge of Cliffmoor. The lights of the town and the salty breeze from the coast faded away as we reached the location where time and dimension crisscrossed at an intersection of the worlds. Most beings stayed in one world or the other, but my pack mates and I always had a foot on each side of the intersection. Some people had to suffer working in a hot, noisy factory or a stuffy office building after a long commute. Some people had to suffer working for a shithole of a boss. We had to work in a place that was so fetid and soiled with death and decay sometimes it was hard to wash the stench off. And I was sure we could stand, Feenix, our shithole of a boss, up against any other shithole boss in the mortal world, and Feenix would still rise to the top just like foamy scum on a dirty pond.

Nevertheless, there we all were, the four of us, fresh from a twenty-four hour leave and ready to kick some wraith ass like always. Of course, we had no real choice. The only way out of working for Feenix, leader of the underworld, was to die or to, like Stryker, discover that you weren't supposed to be part of the pack at all. Stryker had had his neck under the executioner's ax for taking out Feenix's brother's eye, but Nessa, the awesome half witch, half mortal who raised us before we were thrown into training, discovered that Stryker had been a stolen baby. The man who had traded his firstborn son's life for power and wealth had stuck Stryker in his son's cradle. Stryker was given the opportunity to leave the Boys of Wynter, leave his pack mates and the love of his life, Willow, to live amongst the humans. Any memories of his former life would have been erased from his mind. But Stryker chose us, or more likely, he chose Willow. But we were all fucking relieved he'd decided to stay. The four of us had grown up together. We'd trained together and we rode together . . . in both worlds.

We slowed the bikes down as the terrain grew rough. I rode up next to Flint. Flint was the brains of the bunch. That didn't mean he wasn't a good warrior inside the underworld. He was just smarter when he hunted.

He pointed at the gnarly hickey on my chest. The flaming geysers and thick, hot steam of Wynter made the temperatures soar. Buckskin pants, gun holsters that crossed our chests and boots were all we wore when we crossed through to the underworld.

"Was that Kay?" He spoke loudly over the roar of our bike engines.

"Yep, she's psycho. I'm officially done with her. Which reminds me, have you ever heard of the Masters of Mayhem?"

"Masters of who?" We slowed the bikes to a crawl.

"Masters of Mayhem. Mirra said they are some MC that showed up at the Seven Sins last night, but Jemma wouldn't let them inside."

Flint shook his head. "Never heard of them, but I'm sure Jemma had a good reason to keep them out."

Stryker and Wilder were a good quarter mile ahead of us. The headlights on their bikes flashed like lightning as their front tires pushed through the plasma that separated the forest from Wynter. Wynter was the grimy, smoke-filled corridor between the mortal world and the underworld, the place where the souls of less than savory people headed for their harsh eternity. It was that oily, fetid corridor of Wynter where the beasts that lived and thrived in the underworld liked to linger, hoping for a chance to cross through to the mortal world. Once through, they could cause all kinds of trouble. Which was why we patrolled Wynter. We spent half our time in human form and half in wolf form chasing down the slippery assholes that wanted to escape to the mortal world.

Wilder's red roan stallion, Chino, let out a loud whinny as his motorcycle shifted to horse form. The taillight on Stryker's bike turned into long black strands of hair as Rogue's form took shape. And then they were gone.

I could taste the bitter smoke of Wynter that had seeped out as Stryker and Wilder entered. I needed to get my mind off these Masters of assholery and on to my work. For the next twenty-four hours, hunting wraiths and other slimy wretches like banshees and angry goblins would take all my focus.

Transitioning in and out of Wynter was different for all of us. Stryker suffered a lot of pain, something that we were sure had to do with the fact that he wasn't supposed to be there. I heard rock 'n' roll music, loud guitars, booming drums and fucking hot tunes. I figured that meant I was supposed to be part of the pack. And I was all right with that. I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

I twisted the throttle and took my last few breaths of clean, forest air before my face was slapped with a spray of greasy plasma. Jimmy Page's guitar twanged in my ears as the handlebar grips thinned to leather reins and my body was lifted high up onto Barq's back. The horse shook his head violently, like he always did after shifting.

I leaned into the horse as he reared straight up on his back legs and then arced forward into a run. Flint headed off after a wraith, and I turned Barq toward the river. I would be on all fours tonight, working alongside Stryker. Flint and Wilder were on horseback at the border. Our wolf forms allowed us to traverse the treacherous terrain deep inside Wynter's landscape. Sludge holes, flaming hot geysers and a thick foul air made it far too dangerous for horses. As wolves, our preternatural senses and light-footed run made the task a little less challenging.

Boys of Wynter hadn't always been shapeshifters, but when too many of our predecessors were killed chasing wraiths into Wynter's deep, dark interior, Feenix found a witch, a spell caster who gave the Boys who managed to survive the years of arduous training the ability to shapeshift. Some considered it a curse, but I fucking loved it. As powerful as I was in human form, I was five times that in wolf form. There was, of course, a strict law forbidding us to shapeshift in the human world unless absolutely necessary. But that didn't mean a little of my wolfishness didn't make an appearance now and then, especially with the right woman in my arms. Sometimes it was a natural, wild reaction that I just couldn't stifle.

Stryker's horse was already tied up, which meant he had already started his hunt in Wynter's interior. Barq twitched his gray ears back as I whistled for Catch. The crooked nosed goblin used his long arm to hop along the moss covered ground bordering the river. With his long nose and primitive gait, he always reminded me of a chimpanzee with a banana stuck in the center of his face. Most goblins were considered pests, and we'd spent plenty of work hours chasing down the ugly, useless suckers. But Catch was different. He was smart and he'd made himself indispensible in the underworld. Catch was the soul driver. He led the frightened, confused and sometimes downright belligerent newly arrived souls to their final destination, whether it was to Cashel's work fields or Vapour's realm, where only the worst motherfuckers spent eternity agonizing in fiery pits.

Catch was also in charge of the horses when we weren't riding. "Maximus," he muttered from his crooked mouth as he took hold of Barq's reins. His beady eyes shifted back and forth nervously, and his long, sharp nose swung around like the needle on a compass as he looked around.

"Why the hell are you acting so twitchy, Catch?"

"Huh? Oh nothing. Except." He waved his soot-filled nails in the air. "Nah, I'm just imagining it."

"Imagining what?"

"I could have sworn I saw a wraith dashing in and out of the pylons on the dock. But they never come down here, and they certainly never like to go near the River of Souls."

"Yeah, they don't—"

A scream shot up from the dock, and a chorus of moans and howls rolled up from the deck of the ferry. Trex, the ferryman, was just about to take a group of souls across to wait for Catch to lead them away, but the stern of the ferry rocked back and forth like a cradle hanging on a branch in the wind. The souls floating in the river, waiting for their ride across, were wailing in protest as the motion of the ferry's hull made the river's surface swell with waves.

The ferryman, himself, looked more than slightly perturbed at something. He flailed his black gloved hands around, swinging his tattered gray cloak like wings attached to his arms. His hood still stayed straight on his head, keeping the black gossamer veil that perpetually shielded his deformed face from view, securely in place. Still, it wasn't normal to see Trex doing a nervous dance. He ferried complaining, angry souls across the river all day and nothing irritated him, with the exception of me . . . at least in the past few months. I hadn't yet figured out what the hell I'd done to earn his sudden anger, but lately, Trex had made it clear that he just didn't like me. But that wasn't going to stop me from heading down to the dock to see just what the hell was going on.