Rory couldn’t help grinning as he turned the last corner. As always, the sight of the Full Moon pub filled his chest with warmth—the solid, comfortable instincts of den and safe and friends.

In a way, the old, whitewashed stone building was more home than any of the places he’d lived as a child. He’d grown up in a succession of different, ever-expanding houses—a necessity, given his parents’ irritating habit of continually presenting him with new siblings—but the Full Moon had always been a constant in his life.

“So many firsts here,” he said out loud, to thin air. “First drink. First kiss. Even my first flight. See up there?” He pointed up at one of the top-floor windows. “Conleth pretended to fall out, so I leaped after him. Didn’t cross my mind that he’d been flying for a year while I was barely fledged. He got grounded for that. Literally. Took months for his clipped feathers to grow back in. Good times, good times.”

The empty space next to him said nothing in response. Not that he’d expected it to.

Rory started to head for the front of the pub, but checked himself. The oak door stood ajar, a narrow beam of yellow light striping the street. Even from a distance, he could hear the mingled laughter and chatter of a party in full swing. The evening was still young, but from the sound of things, the pub was already packed with celebrating shifters.

“Let’s go round the back,” he said, switching direction. “It’ll be less crowded.”

A narrow alleyway ran round the side of the pub, barred at the end by a high wooden wall. Rory’s grin stretched wider as he threaded his way round the dumpsters.

“Used to come this way all the time when we were kids,” he said, looking up fondly at the numerous claw-marks scoring the top of the fence. “We were only allowed into the pub itself on special occasions. Naturally that just made us more determined to sneak in at every opportunity.”

Backing away a few steps, he let his animal surge up from the depths of his soul. Golden fur and feathers swept away his skin. The alleyway was too narrow for flight; furling his wings close to his body, he crouched down on his haunches. The claws on his back paws dug into the worn cobblestones.

With a single fluid leap, he cleared the fence. His front talons didn’t even clip the top of it. He frowned as he pulled his griffin back into his human body.

“Huh.” He glanced back at the fence wryly. “I remembered that as taller.”

Nobody replied out loud, but his griffin abruptly sat up in his soul. It tugged at his mind, feathers bristling in anticipation.

Rory laughed at his animal’s eagerness. “Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?”

He didn’t need his griffin’s urging to hurry round the building, to the wide courtyard behind the old pub. With the cold of winter not yet giving way to spring, the picnic tables and benches were empty, umbrellas tightly furled. The rose bushes in the decorative stone planters were just bare, thorny sticks. Stacks of empty beer barrels lined one wall, waiting to be shipped out.

One of his earliest memories was playing hide-and-seek in this courtyard garden. Ducking behind barrels, stifling giggles, yelling at the pegasus triplets when they inevitably used their powers to cheat. Everything was just as he recalled. The only thing that had changed was himself.

Well, and one other thing. Rory touched one of the casks in passing, smiling at the bold yellow logo. The stenciled letters underneath proudly proclaimed: Lionbird Brewery.

The outer door to the cellar was open. Succumbing to a sense of mischief, Rory slowed down, padding as softly as he could down the steps.

Inside it was cool, the air thick with the scents of malt and hops. A single small light bulb illuminated the racks of casks. In the dimness, Rory’s eagle eyes picked out a stocky form kneeling next to one of the fermenting beers.

The man didn’t show any sign of having noticed Rory’s presence, completely focused on his work. The sleeves of his checked flannel shirt were rolled up, exposing heavily tattooed arms. His strong, square hands caressed the oak barrel as if it was a lover’s body. As Rory watched, the other man frowned, rubbing his bearded chin in thought.

Rory folded his arms, fighting down the sappy grin that wanted to spread over his face. “You look like a damn hipster, you know.”

His twin didn’t even glance up, let alone jump. “I am a damn hipster.”

“Since when does running a microbrewery means you have to embrace every cliché?” Without warning, Rory lunged, managing to ruffle Ross’s hair before his twin ducked away. “What is that, a man-bun?”

“I make artisanal craft beer. Customers expect me to look the part.” With dignity, Ross straightened his mussed hairdo. One tawny eyebrow cocked as he looked Rory up and down. “What happened to your mane?”

Rory grimaced, running a hand self-consciously over his own short, golden hair. “Had to cut it. Health and safety regs.”

“You have safety regulations?” Ross chuckled. “I thought you ran into burning forests?”

“That’s why we have safety regulations.” Abandoning the banter, Rory pulled his brother into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you.” Ross hugged him back, nearly cracking Rory’s ribs. His brother might not cut firebreaks for up to sixteen hours a day, but he did wrestle massive oak barrels for a living. “We were starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this party if I’d had to fly across the Atlantic on my own two wings.”

“Ross!” Rose’s voice called from up above. “We’re out of Swanfire!”

“On it!” Ross yelled back, releasing Rory. His amber gaze raked over the stacked casks. He hesitated between a couple—both of which looked identical even to Rory’s equally sharp eyesight—before hefting one under an arm. “Come on. Everyone’s been asking after you.”

Rory started to follow his brother up the stairs, then realized the silence behind him had changed slightly. He paused in mid-step, waiting.

Nothing happened.

“Okay,” he said out loud. “I’ll be back soon.”

From the top of the stairs, Ross gave him a peculiar look. “What?”

“Never mind.” Rory took the stairs three at a time to catch up. “So the whole gang is here?”

“Everyone except Morwenna and Danny. The baby’s due any day now, so they couldn’t risk flying out of Valtyra.”

Rory shook his head. “I still can’t believe we’re going to be uncles.”

“I still can’t believe those two really did turn out to be mates. You remember how annoyed he used to get about her following us everywhere?”

“Morwenna knew a long time before he did. It just took her a while to get him to stop seeing her as a little kid.” Rory sighed. “Our brother is one lucky man.”

“May we all find our mates so easily.” Ross shouldered open the door to the main room of the pub. “Rose, look who’s here!”

“Rory!” Rose hurried from behind the bar to enfold him in her soft, strong arms. “When did you get in?”

“Just now.” Rory hugged her back. “I came straight from the airport.”

Like the Full Moon, Rose never changed. Oh, he supposed there had to be a few more laughter-lines around her eyes and a few more silver threads in her hair these days…but she was still Rose, as warm and welcoming as ever. He let out his breath, relaxing into her air of deep, wise peace as much as her embrace.

“If you’ve got time later,” he murmured in her ear, “I could really do with some advice.”

“I’ve always got time for my honorary nephews.” She drew back, pursing her lips ruefully as she looked around the crowded bar. “Though not literally at this moment. Come talk to me when this quietens down?”

“Thanks, aunt Rose.” With a last squeeze, he let her go. “But shouldn’t this be your party as much as anyone else’s? What are you doing serving drinks?”

“What I love doing,” she said, smiling. She bustled off, raising her voice. “All right, all right, I’m coming! Keep your fur on, I won’t let you perish of thirst!”

Ross was busy tapping the new cask of beer, with the degree of concentration usually reserved for brain surgery or defusing bombs. Leaving him to it, Rory scanned the crowd. He picked out John Doe instantly—the indigo-haired firefighter towered over everyone else, even the other sea dragons. And where he was, you could be sure to find…

“Excuse me. Pardon. Coming through.” Rory cut his way through the crowd. Grinning wider than ever, he cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Fire Commander.”

The Commander turned. His golden eyes—exactly the same shade as Rory’s—crinkled as he glanced down at the rank insignia on his formal uniform.

“One day I’ll stop looking around for someone else when people call me that,” Griff said ruefully. “Maybe. Hello, son.”

Rory hugged him too, rubbing cheeks in the way that lions greeted other members of the pride. The familiar, comforting scent of Alpha wrapped around him. His griffin purred in contentment.

“When you called to say Ash was retiring, I honestly thought you were joking,” Rory said, releasing his dad again.

“So did the rest of us,” said Hugh. The white-haired paramedic was leaning against the wall nearby, a drink in his hand and a slightly bemused look on his face. “I still think this is all just an elaborate way of saving the department from having to pay the cost of his salary. I have a bet on with Ivy that he turns up to work tomorrow morning anyway.”

Rory glanced around for Hugh’s mate, and found her a little way off, chatting to a circle of wary-looking teens. Rory guessed they had to be her latest group of protégées from her charity for disadvantaged shifters. He made a mental note to find her later. He could do with her insight into his current problem too.

“If anyone deserves to enjoy a time of peace at last, it is our former leader,” John rumbled. He was wearing gold-inlayed steel bracers and a sword harness over his formal dress uniform. On anyone else, it would have been a bizarre combination, but John pulled it off with ease. The blend of firefighter and sea dragon Knight was just him. “He had earned honor enough for a dozen lifetimes.”

“Yes, but…” Rory spread his hands, palm-up. “Hugh’s got a point. Ash is still the Phoenix. He can’t retire from that. What’s he going to do all day, if not fight fires?”

Beside John, Chase chuckled. There was a little more gray at his temples than the last time Rory had seen him. It gave the pegasus shifter a dignified, statesmanlike air—at least until he opened his mouth. “Oh, I’m fairly certain Sparky will find something to fill his time.”

Rory followed the direction of Chase’s dancing eyes. He was so used to seeing Fire Commander Ash—no, former Fire Commander Ash—in uniform, it took him a second to recognize the Phoenix in civilian clothes. Ash stood surrounded by well-wishers, accepting hugs and handshakes with quiet grace. His slight but real smile shone through his reserve like a glimmer of sunlight through clouds.

As Rory watched, Ash lifted his gaze slightly above the heads of the crowd. Across the room, his eyes met Rose’s. Just a moment, a glance.

But that look…

Rory looked away, blinking, feeling as though he’d stared directly into the sun. It was the same way his parents looked at each other, even after twenty-five years and five children.

Intense yearning hollowed out his heart. He’d grown up around mated couples, true mated couples. Having seen the real thing, he could never settle for anything less for himself.

One day, whispered his griffin, with utter certainty. We will meet our mate. And we will claim her, to treasure and protect, always.

“Though maybe we can still change his mind,” Chase continued, with a wicked sideways glance at Griff. “If we told him our deep and terrible concerns about this new guy who’s meant to be replacing him. Anyone want to sign a petition of no confidence?”

“Me,” Griff said dryly, as everyone else grinned and shook their heads. “I still think Dai should have got it.”

“Not on your life.” Dai’s amused Welsh voice floated over Rory’s shoulder. The dragon shifter came up to the group, mouth crooked in a smile, his arm draped over his mate. “I like charging into burning buildings, not paperwork. You are more than welcome to the boring job of standing back and ordering everyone else around. Hello, Rory. How’s life out in the wilderness?”

“Hot,” Rory said, clasping his arm in greeting. “You should come join us next season, uncle Dai. Our last big one covered eight thousand acres. Took us three weeks to get it under control.”

“Don’t let your mother hear you,” his dad advised. “She worries enough about you as it is. The less she knows about your work, the better.”

“Well, I’ll have to tell her a few things.” Rory cleared his throat, his face heating. “It’s nothing like your promotion, but…I made squad boss.”

He’d expected smiles and congratulations. He hadn’t counted on Chase whooping loud enough to make half the heads in the pub turn, then seizing him in a fierce hug. What little breath he had left after that was knocked out by John and Dai pounding on his back. Even Hugh joined in, clapping him on the shoulder.

And as for his dad…

His shining eyes said everything. His father’s pride wrapped round him like golden wings.

“Like father, like son,” Chase said, releasing him at last. “Congratulations! So you’ll be leading your own team now?”

Rory nodded, still flushed with mingled pride and self-consciousness. “My superintendent found out what I am. When I told him about Alpha Team, well…” He grinned round at them all. “That’s the other reason I’m here.”

“An all-shifter hotshot crew?” Wystan said.

As expected, Rory had found him lurking in one of the Full Moon’s back corridors, away from the crush. From the faint, tight lines of stress across his forehead, he’d needed a few minutes away from the party to regroup and recover. Few people would guess from his unfailingly polite manner, but Wystan was intensely introverted. A large crowd drained his energy rapidly.

“A squad,” Rory corrected. “Six people in a squad, three squads to a crew. I’m just a squad boss, not the superintendent.”

The corner of Wystan’s mouth turned up. “Yet. Evidently leadership runs in the family.”

Rory’s griffin preened itself at the comparison. Yes. We will be Alpha of our own pride, just like our sire. It fell silent for a moment, then added, thoughtfully, And our territory will be bigger.

Rory suppressed a snort. The State Parks aren’t our personal territory, you know. It’s just our job to protect them.

Yes, his griffin agreed, serenely unruffled. That is what an Alpha does.

Wystan was waiting politely, pretending not to notice Rory’s distraction. Any shifter could recognize the signs of someone conversing with their inner beast. Rory shook himself, pushing his griffin back down.

“Sorry,” he said, with an apologetic grimace. “Nothing important. So, what do you think?”

“About your idea?” Wystan smiled, his green eyes warm. “It’s got a lot of potential. Many shifter talents are more suited for wildland firefighting than urban. But where are you going to find your recruits? You’ll never persuade Connor to swap smokejumping for mere ground crew.”

“Wasn’t planning to. Smokejumpers are reckless. I want shifters with more sense.” Rory pointed a finger at Wystan. “So what do you say?”

Wystan’s white eyebrows shot up so far, they nearly met his hairline. “Me?”

“Why not? From what I hear, you passed fire academy with flying colors.”

Wystan shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on actually joining a crew. It was just a stepping-stone to get onto a degree course. I’m thinking of going into fire forensics.”

“Come on, you can’t just retreat into books and study theory. You need to get some experience of what it’s actually like to attack a ten thousand acre forest fire with nothing but a chainsaw and a shovel.”

“You make it sound so appealing,” Wystan murmured.

“You’ll love it. Trust me.” Rory leaned forward, his own voice dropping into warm, persuasive tones. “We get deployed all over America, to some of the most beautiful and remote areas. Just picture it. Open skies…soaring mountains…magnificent forests…”

“Which are on fire,” Wystan finished for him, dryly. He folded his arms, for a moment looking remarkably like his father. “And don’t do the voice.”

Wystan hadn’t been joking about leadership running in the family. Rory cleared his throat, withdrawing that unconscious flex of alpha power as though sheathing his claws. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Honestly, you would enjoy the job. It’s a real chance to make a difference, saving not only human lives but animals and their habitats as well. And we spend weeks on end deep in the wilderness. Just the squads. No other people around for miles. Come and try it out, at least. Just for one season.”

“Hmmm.” Rory could tell that Wystan was tempted, despite his self-doubt. The other shifter rubbed his chin. “Even if I say yes…you hotshots are meant to be elites. I haven’t even worked on an engine crew. Why would your superintendent agree to hire a rookie?”

“Are you kidding? With your qualifications? I already talked to him, and he’s as eager to have you as I am. We always need good paramedics.”

Wystan’s shoulders tensed. “Then you need my father. Not me.”

“You are a good paramedic,” Rory said firmly. “And I’m not going to let you abandon all your training just because you didn’t meet your own impossible expectations. You can’t keep measuring yourself against your dad, Wys. Nobody can do what he does.”

“But I should be able to.” Wystan rubbed his forehead absently, a brief, habitual gesture that made Rory’s heart hurt for his friend. “You said your superintendent knows about shifters. Did you tell him about…me?”

“He knows what you are.” Deliberately, Rory put his hand on Wystan’s shoulder. The unicorn shifter stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “And he knows you aren’t…like your dad. That’s a strength, Wys. Not a weakness. At least you don’t get crippling headaches around non-virgins.”

“You sound like my parents. They think my pathetic animal is a blessing in disguise too.” Wystan let out a long sigh. “Well, as long as you’re not counting on me actually being able to heal anyone…I’m in.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” The Emperor-in-Waiting, Heir to the Pearl Throne, Crown Prince of the Sea—more commonly known as Joe—leaned back in his seat. He ticked off items on his dark, elegant hands as he spoke. “Glorious untouched forests and sweeping, breathtaking mountains. A close, elite band of brothers, isolated and alone, totally reliant on each other in the wilderness. Honor and glory, protecting both humanity and Mother Nature from devastating elemental forces.”

“I don’t think I was quite that poetic,” Rory said, raising an eyebrow. “But that about sums it up.”

Joe stared at him as if he’d invited him on a delightful tour of the local sewers. “And you think I would be interested…why?”

“I told you so,” Wystan murmured to Rory. “You should have opened with, ‘Chicks dig firefighters.’”

“My bro, the last thing I need is to become even more attractive to women.” Joe waved at himself, encompassing everything from his curling blue-black hair to the slim-cut silk shirt that clung to his lean, hard torso. “All this, and royalty too? If I add ‘firefighter’ to my excessively long…list of sterling qualities, I’m going to get crushed to death by a hormonal mob.”

Rory opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by his twin coming up to their corner booth. Ross had a pint of beer in one hand, a shotglass in the other, and an expression of resigned disgust.

“The beer’s from the blonde lioness over there,” he said, plunking the drinks down in front of Joe. “The whiskey is from her red-headed vixen friend. Apparently whichever one you drink first indicates who gets to take you home tonight.”

As one, the three men leaned forward, peering round Ross’s stocky form. At the bar, two women whispered, eying their table avidly. There was something remarkably predatory about their expressions, like cats staring at a bird feeder through a window. Rory would not have been surprised if they’d started wiggling their butts in the air.

Joe, for his part, seemed to have no objection to being stalked. Flashing a roguish grin, he gave the two a little wave. The pair waved back, fighting down giggles.

“I hate your life,” Ross informed the sea dragon prince.

“Console yourself with the thought of how much your profits go up every time I’m here,” Joe replied. “Honestly, I should start charging you a commission.”

“Does this happen a lot?” Rory asked Wystan.

The unicorn shifter let out a long-suffering sigh. “You have no idea.”

Joe looked thoughtfully at the women at the bar, then contemplated the drinks in front of him. “Hmmm. Decisions, decisions…”

With a flourish, he picked up the shot glass. The red-head clutched her friend’s arm so hard, they both nearly fell off their bar stools. Joe saluted her with the glass…and then dropped the whole thing into the beer.

Ross drew in a sharp breath, muscles bunching in outrage. Joe was already lifting the concoction. Never breaking eye-contact with the women, he drained it in long, smooth swallows.

Rory glanced back at the women. They…did not appear to regard the sea dragon’s wordless suggestion at all disfavorably.

He shook his head, caught somewhere between amusement and aggravation. “How do you do that?”

“With panache.” Joe set the empty glass back down on the table. “Thanks for the offer, Rory, but I believe I have just received a better one.”

“You.” Ross barely seemed able to get words out through his clenched teeth. “Shot bombed. My beer.”

“In the pursuit of love, no sacrifice is too great,” Joe declaimed. He patted Ross’s rigid arm, which proved that he was either extraordinarily brave or remarkably stupid. “Now if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”

A shadow fell over the table. They all looked up into the impassive face of John Doe.

Joe sank back into his seat, grimacing. “Or, apparently, duty wants me to stay exactly where I am.”

“Forgive the intrusion, but I could not help overhearing.” John’s indigo gaze switched from Joe to Rory. “You offer my son a place of honor at your side?”

“Well, he’d have to get through a few months of fire academy first, sir, but he should be able to pass that with ease,” Rory said. He flung Joe a meaningful look. “If he actually tries.”

“I try things,” Joe protested. “I am famed for trying things.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘infamous’,” Wystan murmured.

“You do indeed try things.” John folded his massive arms, light flashing from his bracers. “There was your time with the Seers. Then you decided you had a passion for Smithing, which, if I recall, lasted approximately six months. After that it was the Poets, the Dancers, the Pearl-workers, and a succession of foreign exchange visits with half a dozen different sea-shifter nations.”

“Those were educational.” Joe let out a wistful sigh, gazing at some fond memory. “In the case of the selkies, extremely educational.”

John’s fingers tapped against his armored forearm, snapping his son out of his reverie. “You have dabbled in practically every art under the sea, and none have kept your attention for more than a year. The Pearl Emperor-“

“-Must be devoted to his people,” Joe finished with him, in the weary tones of someone who had heard this lecture a thousand times already. “Strong-willed but subtle, serving with unswerving dedication. But I’m not going to be the Pearl Emperor for a very long time. At least, I sincerely hope I’m not.”

“As do we all,” John said, a touch dryly. “But you are the Emperor-in-Waiting. Enough flitting. It is time to prove yourself.”

Joe stared at his father, his walnut skin going a little gray. “Are you actually serious about this? You want me to be a firefighter?”

“If you prefer, you may join the novices entering their first year of knightly training.” John’s blue eyes glinted. “With your little sister.”

Smirking, Rory clapped Joe on the shoulder. “Welcome to the squad.”

Rory’s next target was simultaneously the easiest to find, and the hardest.

Spotting a telltale shock of copper-red hair through the crowd was the easy part. Rory narrowed his eyes, staring at the back of the man’s head. He had a one in three chance of getting this right…

As if sensing his scrutiny, the man turned. His mouth curved in an easy, brilliant smile.

Well, that improved the odds to fifty-fifty. “Connor?” Rory guessed.

The pegasus shifter flung up both arms in triumph. “Ten points!” he declaimed to the room in general.

Rory groaned. “Conleth, why the hell can’t you three get different haircuts?”

“Ah now, where would be the fun in that?” Even though they’d all grown up together in Brighton, Conleth’s voice held a faint lilt of an Irish accent. He’d inherited his father’s lanky build and boundless energy too, though his red hair and sparkling green eyes were all Connie. “And now I’m ahead of Connor. It’s double points for fooling a griffin shifter.”

Rory shook his head, but accepted Conleth’s enthusiastic hug of greeting. “I’ve been away too long. I used to be able to tell you three apart without thinking.”

“Well, you only have to be able to spot bloody great forest fires, out there in the arse-end of America.” Conleth held him out at arm’s-length, grin widening. “No wonder your eyesight is atrophying. You were looking for Connor?”

“Cal, actually.” Rory glanced around the pub. “He is here, right?”

“Oh, he’ll have found somewhere to lurk and scowl disapprovingly. Hang on, I’ll get him for you.” Conleth tilted his head, his eyes going vague for a moment.

Rory concentrated, but could only catch the edges of the pegasus shifters’ mental conversation, like overhearing voices three rooms away. It generally took close familiarity to be able to talk telepathically to another mythic shifter when out of eyeshot. He had been away too long.

“He says he’ll join us in a moment,” Conleth reported. His mouth quirked. “And he said to tell you that he’s in uniform, so you can be sure to recognize him.”

Sure enough, the tall, red-headed figure that stepped out of the crowd a few minutes later wore charcoal-gray dress slacks and shirt, the insignia of the East Sussex Fire & Rescue Service embroidered on his sleeve. Even without that clue, Rory wouldn’t have mistaken him for either of his brothers.

Whereas Conleth slouched at ease, Callum’s back was ramrod-straight, like a soldier facing a court-martial. His face was as closed and set as his brother’s was open and affable.

Rory had been about to clap him on the shoulder in greeting, but the impulse withered in the face of those cold green eyes. Rather awkwardly, he offered his hand instead. “Hey Cal. Good to see you again.”

Callum’s chin dipped in a fractional nod. He made no move to shake his hand. “Conleth said you wished to speak with me.”

Cal had always been reserved, compared to his brothers…but then, a full three-ring circus was quiet compared to those two. Now, he was positively glacial. All of Rory’s instincts screamed at him that something wasn’t right with his old friend.

“I did. Do. Yes.” Concern swamped his pre-planned speech. “Cal, are you okay?”

“Yes.”

And apparently that was all Callum had to say on that topic. Rory cast a glance at Conleth, who didn’t look the slightest bit fazed that his identical brother appeared to have been replaced by a robot sometime in the past eighteen months.

“So what’s on your mind, Rory?” Conleth said cheerfully. He draped an arm over Cal’s rigid shoulders. “Not going to try to tempt my brother away to the wilderness again, are you?”

“Actually, yes.” With an effort, Rory hauled himself back on track. “I’m setting up an all-shifter squad…”

Callum listened impassively as Rory went through his pitch. For all the emotion Cal showed, Rory might as well have been reciting his shopping list. In Hindi.

“I see,” was all he said when Rory wound down.

“I don’t know, Rory,” Conleth said. He was still leaning against his brother, which Cal was tolerating with the silent stoicism of a lamp-post. “Connor’s been bugging Cal to switch to smokejumping for months. I don’t think you’re going to persuade him to join a hotshot crew.”

“They’re not at all the same thing.” Rory couldn’t help his lip curling a little. “We are disciplined and efficient. Those maniacs are all reckless thrill-seekers. Uh, no insult intended to Connor.”

“It’s an accurate description,” Cal said, completely straight-faced. “My brother is right, Rory. I’m not a risk-taker.”

Rory blinked at him. “You may be in the wrong profession, then.”

“You know what I mean. Wilderness work isn’t like urban firefighting. I’ve heard Connor’s stories.”

“Connor literally jumps out of airplanes into forest fires. What we do isn’t nearly as insane.”

Cal’s eyebrows rose, ever so slightly. “So you admit that smokejumping is more dangerous?”

“Yes-“ Rory started to say—and then the penny dropped at last. “Oh, for the love of—Connor!”

“Cal’s” face broke into a broad, wicked grin, exactly mirroring Conleth’s. In perfect unison, the pair high-fived each other.

“You admitted it!” Connor chortled. He pulled a phone out of his pocket, waggling it tauntingly. “And I recorded it.”

A rumbling growl reverberated through Rory’s chest. His hands fisted, but there was no way he could wrestle the device off Connor without causing an embarrassing scene. “I just said that it was more dangerous. That’s not the same as saying you damn idiots are braver.”

“It’s close enough,” Connor said, smirking. “I’m sure the rest of my crew will agree.”

Rory pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “Do I even want to ask how you got hold of Cal’s shirt?”

“That’s not my shirt,” a third voice snarled from behind him.

Rory turned. Callum—the real Callum—stalked up, his curling red hair mussed and his jaw clenched. A couple of grinning firefighters that Rory didn’t know trailed him. One of the men was shirtless.

Cal’s glare swept over his brothers and fellow firefighters alike. “For the last time, this is not funny.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Conleth said solemnly.

“It definitely isn’t,” Connor agreed.

There was a beat. A muscle ticked in Cal’s jaw.

“It’s bloody hilarious,” his brothers said together, and collapsed into laughter.

Cal’s shoulders fell in a long, heartfelt sigh as his colleagues roared with mirth as well. He turned to Rory, ignoring the whole lot of them with icy dignity. “You wanted to talk to me?”

With a twinge of unease, Rory realized that Connor’s impersonation of his brother had only been slightly exaggerated. There was a stiffness to Callum’s posture that hadn’t been there the last time Rory had seen him. Some joshing and teasing was inevitable on any fire crew…but there was a cruel edge to the laughter that had his griffin snarling in protective fury. He wanted to wade in with both fists, just like he had years ago: Leave him alone! Stop picking on him!

But Cal hadn’t appreciated it when he’d been nine. He really wouldn’t appreciate Rory trying to play the white knight now. Rory drew in a ragged breath, forcing his hands to uncurl.

Wystan appearing at his shoulder was a welcome distraction. The unicorn shifter cast a glance over the scene, not looking the least surprised by either the still-chortling Connor or any of the smirking firefighters. He turned to Cal. “So, are you in?”

Cal’s eyes narrowed. “In what?”

“Run while you can, Cal,” Joe said from behind Wystan. Even slouching disconsolately, he was still a good six inches taller than the rest of them. “Rory wants to offer you a job.”

Cal digested this. “Somewhere that isn’t here?”

“A very long way from here,” Rory said. “It’s-“

“Yes,” Cal interrupted.

“But I haven’t told you-“

“Yes,” Cal repeated, in tones of utter finality.

“All right then.” Rory clapped him on the shoulder, which the pegasus shifter bore with stoic resignation. “Three down, one to go.”

“One more?” Wystan raised an eyebrow. “But that would only make five. I thought you said there were six on a squad.”

“There are.” Rory beckoned them all to follow him. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Wystan looked around the cellar. “You want us to meet…beer barrels?”

“I like this plan.” Joe clapped his hands together, beaming. “Never met a beer barrel that wasn’t excellent company. Are we here to get staggeringly drunk and bond in manly fashion? Can I build a sweat lodge?”

Cal shot him a sardonic look. “Do you know how to build a sweat lodge?”

“Actually, yes,” Joe said cheerfully. “I’m also good at blanket forts. And igloos.”

“Why—“ Rory started, and then shook his head. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.” He raised his voice a little. “Here they are. The shifters I told you about.”

Nothing happened.

“There’s nobody here,” Cal said.

“There’s a spider,” Joe pointed out. His forehead wrinkled. “Do you get spider shifters?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Wystan murmured.

“It’s just a spider.” Cal folded his arms. “I’m a pegasus. Trust me. There’s no one here.”

“This is Wystan,” Rory said to thin air, ignoring the backchat. “The tall one is Joe, and the scowling one is Cal. It may be difficult to believe, but you can trust them. I trust them.”

“Awww. Thanks, Rory.” Joe paused. “Not entirely a ringing character endorsement, of course, given that it’s coming from someone who’s talking to a barrel of bitter.”

Rory rolled his eyes. “Will you all just be quiet for a moment? You’re scaring him.”

“Scaring who?” Wystan asked, a hint of annoyance breaking through his usual polite tones. “Rory, you’re being excessively mysterious.”

“Be. Quiet.” Alpha power echoed under Rory’s command, like a rumble of distant thunder.

Joe, who’d been about to say something, shut his mouth with a snap. Wystan’s lips thinned. Cal’s expression darkened even further.

But they all obeyed. Rory let out his breath, the silence ringing loud in his ears.

“It’s all right,” he said softly to the air. “They’re pack.”

The silence drew out for a long moment.

Then the air shimmered.

Joe yelped a expletive in sea dragon language. Wystan recoiled so hard he fell off the stairs. Cal raised an eyebrow.

The enormous, wolf-like creature stared at them all with burning red eyes. Thick, coal-black fur bristled.

*Pack?* The voice in Rory’s mind sounded distinctly dubious.

“Pack,” Rory confirmed out loud. “Guys, this is Fenrir. He’s a hellhound.”

“Rory.” Wystan was plastered against the far wall. “I know hellhounds. My aunts are hellhounds. That is not a hellhound.”

“Is it a hellpony?” Joe said, his voice rather higher than normal. “A hellbear, possibly? More importantly, is it hungry?”

“He’s a hellhound,” Rory repeated firmly. He put his hand on Fenrir’s head, which was about the same level as his own shoulder. “Just…a little bigger than average.”

“A little?” Cal muttered.

“Well.” Joe swallowed, recovering a little of his customary aplomb. He essayed a shaky grin, holding out his hand. “I take it we’ll be working together. Fenrir, was it?”

The hellhound cocked his head to one side, eying the sea dragon, then stood up. Joe paled a little as Fenrir padded forward, but held his ground.

“I, ah, was expecting a handshake,” Joe said, as Fenrir sniffed at his fingers. “Maybe a fist bump? No?”

“Fen doesn’t do handshakes,” Rory said. He grimaced. “Or, for that matter, hands.”

Joe yelped again as Fenrir transferred his attention to the sea dragon’s crotch. “Whoa, bro! At least buy me a drink first.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t do hands?” Wystan asked.

“He’s…stuck.” Rory blew out his breath, as Fenrir went to sniff the unicorn. “He can’t shift. Claims he never has.”

Wystan tried to shove Fenrir’s enormous muzzle away from his groin. He might as well have tried to deflect a bulldozer. “But no hellhound is born that way. They’re always bitten.”

Fenrir growled, the sound echoing in the confines of the cellar. *Not a two-leg. No soft-skin inside.* He glanced sidelong at Rory, ears flattening. *No matter what birdcat says.*

“You are a shifter,” Rory told him. “And don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?” Joe asked. “Wait, can he talk to you telepathically? But hellhounds aren’t mythic shifters.”

“I can talk to him because he’s decided I’m pack. I found him in the wilderness, or rather, he found me. It’s a long story.” Rory shrugged. “In any event, he saved my life, and I saved his. So here we are.”

Fenrir tried to sniff Cal, and was met by a flat stare. The hellhound paused for a moment, then backed away. He sank to his haunches again, sweeping them all with his burning eyes. One ear flicked.

“Well?” Rory asked him.

Fenrir’s lips wrinkled back, exposing finger-long fangs. *Not pack.*

“I know they’re not pack yet.” Rory scratched the hellhound behind the ear. “But they will be. Trust me.”

Cal’s frown deepened. “He’s on the squad?”

“The hellhound who can’t shift is a firefighter?” Joe looked delighted. “Oh, please, please tell me he has a little doggy uniform. And a hat. I demand that he has a hat.”

Fenrir growled again…but his tail thumped twice against the floor in a reluctant wag.

“He’s on the squad,” Rory confirmed. “Hellhounds need a pack, or they go…unstable. I think that’s why he can’t shift. He’s been alone too long.”

*Birdcat promised pack,* Fenrir rumbled in his mind. *Proper pack. Not this.*

“What’s he saying?” Wystan asked.

“That we’re still missing an essential part of a real pack.” Giving Fenrir a last pat, Rory headed for the stairs. “And that’s why we need one more person.”

The sounds of the party drifted up to her room, even through closed doors. As a child, she’d always fallen asleep to the warm, comforting sounds of the pub below. She could remember lying in the dark, listening to that low susurration of half-heard laughter and muffled voices, a fierce hunger burning in her own heart.

She’d been so impatient to grow up. So eager to be allowed into that mysterious adult world, to be part of the conversation rather than straining her ears to catch the occasional word. She’d lain awake night after night, planning, dreaming, mapping out her life. The future had seemed a broad, shining path, leading inevitably to her destiny.

And now, here she was. All her dreams in ashes.

Soft, familiar footsteps echoed down the hall. She barely had time to crumple the uniform shirt in her lap into an anonymous ball of fabric before the door opened.

“Sweetheart,” her mother started…and then paused, her gaze flicking down to the shirt briefly.

No hope that she hadn’t recognized it, or course. Her own cheeks heated as her mother’s eyes softened.

“Oh, my love.” Her mother sat down on the bed next to her, putting a hand on hers. “None of this is your fault.”

It was a lie. It was her fault, all of it. Every clink of glasses, every laugh from the party below cut her like a razor. If it wasn’t for her, none of them would be here. They wouldn’t have been having to pretend to celebrate…

Her mother’s fingers tightened on hers. “It is not your fault,” she repeated, more firmly. “What happened was a blessing in disguise. An overdue wake-up call.”

“But he nearly died.” She swallowed, and forced herself to say the truth out loud. “I nearly killed him.”

“Which made him take stock of his life, rather than continuing on in familiar channels. Your father is retiring because he wants to, sweetheart.” Her mother’s smile was as warm as summer sunlight. “At last. I’ve been badgering him for years. You’ve given me a gift, not taken anything away from him. You mustn’t throw away your own dreams out of misplaced guilt.”

She looked away, down at the shirt in her hands. Her fingertips traced the embroidered crest on the sleeve.

East Sussex Fire and Rescue Service.

She stuffed her former uniform into the bag next to her on the bed. “I was just packing up the last of my old work gear. Can you ask someone to take them back to the station for me?”

Her mother was silent for a long moment.

“You can’t hide up here forever, love,” her mother said at last, very gently. “You should go yourself.”

Just the thought of facing everyone again—the stares, the whispers, the pity—made her throat tighten. Every shifter in the fire service was down there. They all knew what she’d done.

What they didn’t know was how easily she could do it again.

“I can’t.” She pushed the bag into her mother’s hands. “Please?”

Her mother blew out her breath, but accepted the sack. “Your friends are asking after you. Are you sure you won’t come down to the party?”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Her mother went to the door again, opening it. “Which is why I told them to come up.”

Her heart lurched sideways in her chest. Rory stood there, broad and stocky, with that familiar big-brother look of concern in his golden eyes. Others crowded behind him—Wystan, Joe, even Cal. All her old childhood friends.

She only had an instant to gape at them before the biggest dog she’d ever seen knocked them all aside. Before she knew what was happening, a cold wet nose shoved under her hand. The dog whined low in his throat, thick black tail wagging hopefully.

Her mother smiled at her. “I think you should listen to what they have to say.”

She stared at Rory. “You can’t be serious.”

“Utterly.” His mouth quirked. “Apparently a proper pack needs an alpha female. And you’re the most alpha female I know.”

“Uh.” Joe raised a tentative hand, something clearly preying on his mind. “Rory, if you’re the alpha male, does that mean…?”

She spluttered in knee-jerk disgust. To her relief, Rory looked equally appalled.

“Joe, she’s like a little sister to me,” he said, in scandalized tones. “I’d rather screw you.”

“Well, obviously.” Joe smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. “Who wouldn’t?”

Despite everything, the familiar banter brought a smile to her face. Fenrir, evidently noticing, wagged his tail harder. His nose was still firmly planted under her hand.

A little tentatively, she stroked his pointed, wolf-like ears. The enormous hellhound wriggled like a puppy, tail thumping hard against the ground.

*Pack?* The voice in her mind was so faint, she might have been imagining it. *We are pack?*

Her smile faded.

“I can’t,” she said, dropping her hand from the hellhound’s head. “Rory, didn’t you hear what happened? I can’t be a firefighter. Not ever again.”

“Yes, you can.” A hint of a growl entered his voice. “You were born to be a firefighter. You can’t throw that away, just because of one…incident. I know you’re scared. I’ve been there myself. But if you run and hide, you’ll lose who you are. You have to accept the fear, and use it to make yourself stronger.”

Those deep, rumbling words seemed to pass straight through her ears and grab hold of her spine, forcing it to stiffen. She found that her shoulders had straightened, without any conscious thought.

She remembered that voice. From when she’d been little, and the three years between them had made him seem like a vast, golden god, delivering commandments from on high: Of course you can climb that tree. Of course you can pass that exam. You can do anything. I believe in you.

“You just have to trust yourself,” Rory said, in those unshakable, unarguable tones. He leaned forward, his golden eyes intent. “Like we trust you.”

She looked round at them all. Joe, utterly serious for once, looking oddly like his father as he gave her a slight, solemn nod. Wystan’s kind, intelligent face, quiet understanding in his eyes. Cal, scowling, affecting indifference, but there.

They were all there. All her childhood friends. And they still trusted her.

They wouldn’t, if they knew the aching, yearning cold inside her. How even now—despite everything—a tiny, traitorous voice still whispered:

Burn.

Rory held out a hand to her. “We need you. So will you join us?”

She crushed that unwanted presence back into the deepest, darkest depths of her mind. She imagined ice freezing around her soul, locking her animal away in an impenetrable glacier.

She took Rory’s hand.

“Yes,” said Blaise, the Black Phoenix.