Chapter 1 - Feels Like Home

Flint ignored the chime of his cellphone in his pocket, staring at the kitchen of Resperanza, his new home. He’d been there for exactly two days. Two days of domestic heaven that would never last, so he’d better get his fill of cooking and lounging and soft beds and hanging with his brother and his friends. Because nothing was forever, especially to a man with revenge on his mind.

He stood in the archway between the main living area and the kitchen, effectively blocking it completely with his 6-foot, 3-inch frame and his 250 pounds of solid bear muscle, glowering at what was on the counter. All the fixings for… for what? He catalogued the spices and the cuts of meat. Cajun Chicken. Flint knew his way around the kitchen, had been taking care of his brother, including cooking for him, since he had been nine and Bryce had been a baby. He knew the ingredients for Cajun Chicken. It was his favorite dish.

“Jameson?” he yelled back over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the chicken, as if it might up and walk away.

“Yeah?”

Jameson, Flint’s friend and boss in The Cause, and Cora, the first switch almost any of them had ever seen, were on the couch, curled up under a blanket, whispering to each other about getting married and where they would go on their honeymoon.

“Did you go shopping?”

“No.”

Huh. Flint didn’t ask Cora. The woman did not know her way around a kitchen, and that was the nicest way Flint could put it. “Do you think Riot did?” Flint ground his teeth at the question, hating even saying the ugly feline’s name. The fact that he and Riot were covenbound to the same coven burned his ass. He hated that he was fated with that shifty cat as one of the shifters best able to help the switches of Breath Coven kill vampires, while also keeping them from endangering the human population in the throes of vampire-induced rage. Breath coven was the house, or the group of switches and shifters who lived in the house, or maybe both. He wasn’t entirely sure how it all worked yet.

Jameson took a second before he called back. Flint knew he was kissing Cora, and Flint didn’t hurry him. The male had earned his time with his female. Finally, the answer came. “Riot hasn’t been here all day.” Flint glanced out the window. Almost dark out.

Okay. One more question. “What’s with all the chicken on the counter?”

Cora yelled back to him this time. “I was just in there, the counter was empty except for the pretty flowers. Are you messing with us?”

Flint didn’t answer. He didn’t even tell Cora there were no flowers anywhere. Instead, he went straight to the counter and did what seemed right. Began to make everyone Cajun Chicken. His was the best around for four counties, and if freaky shit was going to happen, he’d pick this freaky shit over vampires showing up at county fairs like had happened five days ago.

Still, Flint liked it here. Jameson and Cora had turned on the TV and were laughing in the other room. Windchimes tinkled in the courtyard breeze. The basement one level down was man-cave heaven, where he had his very own room. And this kitchen. It was a joy to cook in, with sturdy butcher block countertops for days and an industrial range on the oversized island, not to mention the biggest fridge and freezer Flint had ever seen. The walls were tiled in a fiesta of colors, the picture window over the sink lined with little clay pots of fresh herbs just begging to be pinched. And he was pretty sure the myriad of drawers held more gadgets and utensils than he could use in a lifetime, even if he stayed.

Flint stepped to the enormous stainless steel fridge to get a beer and took note of the three different brands, which were different than the ones in the fridge downstairs. All hearty craft brews he would love to try. He grabbed one, popped the top and took just one satisfying drink, then went back to his chicken.

Coming nearer, the sound of booted footsteps climbing stairs. That shifty cat. Flint put on his shit-eating grin and waited for Riot to come on in and get down. The cat had a smart mouth, and Flint figured if they sparred long enough with words, maybe he could get the cat to fight him for real. Not that it would be a fair fight. If I could get just one paw on that pussyc-

Riot strode through the archway into the kitchen, his attitude all fuck-you and you-suck. Even his dark hair, with its shaved sides and longer top, said it thought it was better than your haircut. That attitude was all Flint had seen from the guy in a year, since Riot had beaten the crap out of Flint’s friend at sparring for no reason, running the guy out of town. Do us all a favor and change it up every once in a while, would ya, kitty?

The dark puma’s shifter scent was bold, dangerous, dark, like all the big cats who thrived in shadows, but Flint thought this one was darker, bolder, more dangerous than any he had ever scented. The guy was a walking secret. Flint shot him a look. Riot’s tattooed arms were covered by a leather jacket, but his inked neck still showed beneath his scruffy jaw.

“Thought I smelled someone fixin’ to burn something,” Riot said, almost drawling.

Flint’s shoulders tightened and his jaw locked. Game on. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Don’t pop a seam, Teddy. I live here, remember?”

Flint nodded. “Yeah, but why?” You’re useless, is what Flint was trying to imply, but did he want to know, just a little bit, if Riot had felt the same pull he had? Yeah, maybe he did.

He’d been home, then felt something so strong he couldn’t ignore it. Not Instinct, but something bigger than Instinct. Something tied to The Cause in a more specific way. And when there was a chance of a bloodsucker dying a grisly death, Flint paid attention. Because all vampires must die.

Jameson had been holed up with Cora for three days, after the killing of that Garner vampire. Flint had been waiting for… something. He’d thought he’d been waiting to hear from Jameson. But then-

Flint bent over the sparring schedule at the kitchen table in the duplex he shared with his little brother, where they’d both lived for years. Sparring would be more important than ever, one of the places where the shifters coming to the the town would gather, where they could find the ones meant for The Cause.

He tried to keep thinking about… whatever he had been thinking about, but an image appeared in his mind, fuzzy at first. A brown splotch against a blue sky. A wild sky. Floaty clouds whipping in the distance, pulled into long lines.

He pushed the image away. Concentrate, you big dumb bear. You have work to do.

But the image would not fade. Instead it came into sharp relief. It was a wooden sign, more of an arrow, with Tsigule Cliffs burned into it. He recognized it immediately, had seen it a hundred times. It was the marker at the far end of the parking lot of the Tsigule Cliffs, one of his favorite places in the forest.

Flint frowned and tried to figure out what he was seeing in his mind. He blinked, and still the image from inside his brain was stronger to him than reality, and accompanied by strong emotion. Pulling, wanting, yearning emotion.

Flint closed his eyes, and the sign became stronger still, seeming to burn his eyes. He had to go to the cliffs.

Now.

Flint stood and lumbered out of the house, jumped in his ride, happy when his vision cleared enough that he could see the road. Something told him no one was in danger, but that he needed to be at the cliffs at that moment, and that he should stop and get some beer first. That it would be a beer moment. Whatever he was heading to.

So he got some beer. The good shit.

And he headed back up the mountain, zoomed around the curves, past the gorge, through the forest that was his home, and his home that was the forest. And he’d pulled into the driveway that had never existed before, where he almost knew what he was going to see.

Almost.

A mansion. A luxurious hacienda where one had never existed, and at its front door stood Cora and Jameson.

She’d been Claimed, that was obvious in every line of both their bodies, and Flint was glad to see it. He didn’t know what the fuck fate had in store for the future of The Cause, if shifters would win, or if vampires would win, and he didn’t know how many years they had to prepare for what was coming, how many shifters and switches would come together against how many vampires, like it used to be. In the old days.

But he didn’t need to know. Right there in front of him was all the proof he would ever need that war was coming. A switch paired with a shifter, her a delicate, modern thing, but deadly to any vampire that existed, him impossibly old, but hearty and strong, and the perfect calm but passionate leader. Exactly what The Cause needed as their figureheads. Not many shifters knew much of the cause, but Flint knew enough for all of them. The Cause was the ancient war that paired savage witches with shifters in the fight against vampires. It had been centered in the Nantahala Forest for as long as anyone knew. Centuries, at least.

Except these days, it was rare to find a shifter who did know of The Cause, and until a few weeks ago, even the ones who knew hadn’t believed switches still existed. But the bloodlines must have kept up somehow. Cora had been found when her instinctive hatred of vampires ran up against one who’d taken a spot on the city council and had the unfortunate idea to schmooze his constituents in public. That hadn’t ended well for the vampire. Cora had Undone him - another word for the magical killing of vampires - at the annual squash festival less than a week ago.

No matter. In Flint’s mind, The Cause boiled down to this.

All vampires must die.

However that had to happen. Flint thought he knew his part in it, but him and his brother Bryce being part of the first Undoing in over a century made him wonder what was next for him. His destiny had started to ramp up, and lucky thing, he was in the prime of his life, the strongest he’d ever been at thirty-four years old. Plus Bryce was taken care of, enough money in the bank for him that if Flint disappeared for good, Bryce would be okay.

Flint was ready for whatever came next. As long as it included dead vampires.

Flint parked his black Range Rover, his restored baby, in a pullout along the side of the terracotta driveway, ready to enter the house behind Cora and Jameson. It had to be a coven house. Magically appeared. Cool. Flint didn’t care how crazy it was, he was glad to be a part of it. Fate was responding to his pleas. Finally.

Flint had felt that same dreamy appreciation in the two days since then, thrilled in his growly-bear way to be part of something so big, to be one of three shifters pulled to the house, even if one of the others was Riot. Jameson was a great enough man to cancel out Riot’s immaturity, his irresponsibility.

Riot eyed Flint, refusing to answer the question about what the fuck he was doing there. Instead, he threw up that arrogant wall that fit him so well.

Flint growled over his shoulder at the cat, dismissing him. “Bite me, pussycat,” he said, just in case Riot wasn’t sure what the growl meant.

Riot acted like Flint hadn’t said a word. He crossed to the fridge and grabbed a brown paper sack with his name on it from inside, then peeked at the contents before tucking it into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. He growled back at Flint on his way back out the door. “Probably taste better than whatever that is you’re making.”

“So don’t eat it, fancy feast. It ain’t for felines, anyway. It’s real food. Maybe there’s some milk in your little bag you could warm up.”

Riot curled his lip again and snarled before turning his back and disappearing out the door.

Good. Perfect. All vampires must die and all shifty cats must stay the fuck away from me.