It was highly unusual to have Were packs mixing like this. Indeed, I could see it in the thinly veiled disdain that the Weres in fatigues showed the street Weres, and the belligerent why-should-I-care-what-you-think attitude of the colorfully dressed pack in response.

Chickadees called in the chill spring air, and the sun was dappled through the pale green leaves of the saplings. It was a nice spot, but something smelled rank. Literally. And it wasn’t the breath of the Were padding on four feet to my right.

My worried gaze followed Jenks’s to the lake. Logs were arranged in a circle around a large defunct bonfire, and I could faintly smell the acidic odor of hurt and pain over the scent of old ash. All of a sudden I did not want to go over there.

Jenks stiffened, nostrils flaring. He dug in his heels with a defiant clench to his jaw. Tension slammed into me, and every man with a weapon tightened his grip as we came to a collective halt. The Were on four feet growled, ears flat and his lip curled to show white teeth.

“Now y’all just ease down,” Brett said softly, cautiously evaluating Jenks’s resolve and rocking back. “We aren’t going to the pit. Mr. Vincent will want to see you.” He cocked his head at the driver. “Put them in the living room, get them a med kit, and back off.”

My eyebrows rose, and the men surrounding us with their matching fatigues and cute caps looked among themselves, their grips on their weapons shifting. “Sir?” the driver stammered, clearly not wanting to, and Brett’s eyes narrowed.

“You got a problem?” he said, his slow drawl making twice as many syllables as was warranted. “Or is security for a witch and a—whatever he is—beyond you?”

“I can’t leave them alone in Mr. Vincent’s living room,” the driver said, clearly worried.

A Jeep with a milky-white tank and coiled hose was leaving, and Brett smiled, squinting in the sun. “Deal with it,” he said. “And next time, don’t start to Were ’less I tell you. Besides, he looks smart,” he added, indicating Jenks, “and right quiet. A gentleman. So I’m willing to wager he won’t be doing anything rash.” His amiable demeanor fell away to leave a hardened will. “Capiche?” he said to Jenks, every drop of casual country boy gone.

Jenks nodded, his face both serious and scared. I didn’t care if this was their standard good cop/bad cop ploy as long as I didn’t have to go to the lake. Relieved, I smiled at Brett, not having to fake my gratitude. In the brighter light at the outskirts of the parking lot, I could tell that his hair was silver with age, not sunlight, putting him closer to forty than thirty. Brett’s answering smile made his face wrinkle, his eyes amused as he clearly realized I was playing the grateful captive and not as helpless as I let on.

“Randy?” he said, and the Were on four feet pricked his ears. “You’re with me.” Turning on a heel, he strode to the second largest building off the lot, the pony-sized Were trotting beside him. The driver watched them go, his lips moving in an unheard curse. With obvious anger he jerked his weapon, indicating we should take an alternate path. Jenks and I fell into step before they could touch us. Time for a little bad cop?