Page 35 of Shifters Reckoning

She snickered. “He’d be hella good at that, and he’d probably ensure a few repeat customers. Good sex and all. Not sure whether his ass would qualify as an amenity or not.”

I sighed. “Maybe we table that as a discussion for later. Joint venture options. Might be able to get some of the Port Orleans shifters or the Alaskan shifters to visit.” I took a deep breath. “If you’re that worried about it, we can cash in a few of our investments.”

She shrugged. “Only matters if—no, when—we survive Acheron.”

“I’ll risk it all for the cause. Cost doesn’t matter. Personal or otherwise.” I turned toward her. “Let’s have a meeting in the training gym tonight at seven o’clock. Call it orientation and set up training for twelve hours later. Seven a.m. sharp. Rain, shine, or late nights. Send an invitation to Sophia for breakfast tomorrow. If she declines, offer the other days of the week.”

“Yes, Alpha,” she murmured. “You worried about her?”

“Emma? Or her mom?”

“Yes.”

I shoved a hand through my hair. “I’m always worried about Emma. I’m only marginally worried about Sophia, but I promised to take care of her.”

Six Not-Nude Hours Later

Olivia arrived in my study and stopped at the desk. “Dr. Wise asked if she could tag along for breakfast tomorrow morning. I already told her yes. Guess she’s besties with Sophia now.”

“At least Emma’s mom has that.”

“You ready for dinner?” She frowned and tipped her head to the side. “Not sure I’ve seen you eat anything today. You feeling okay?”

“Haven’t had time to eat,” I admitted. My stomach chose that moment to roar and make a liar out of me if I said I wasn’t hungry.

“Thought so.” Olivia smirked. “Barbecue on the patio. Phil’s working his shifter magic on the grill. Come eat before your orientation, or your growling is going to scare the newbies.”

We left the manor and made quick work of the distance between the headquarters and the patio near the gym. The smell of burgers and hot dogs permeated the air in outdoorsy deliciousness and inspired more complaints from my stomach.

Phil manned the grill with a beer in one hand and a spatula in the other, flipping burgers for a collection of cliques. The Six-Mile wolves clustered near the food table like they owned it, which they did. The Ville Platte cats had claimed the picnic tables at the edge of the patio, close enough to be present, far enough to be unmistakably separate. Four ravens perched in a row along the ridgeline of the frame of my brand-new mess hall like the world’s worst weather vanes, and two raccoon warriors stood at the water spigot, methodically washing their hamburger buns.

Washing. Their buns.

“Don’t say anything,” Olivia murmured beside me.

“The bread is dissolving.”

“It’s their way, Logan.”

“It’s soup. It’s burger soup.”

The East Nuttal squirrels kept to themselves at another far table, quieter than any other squirrel I’d yet met. Grief rolled off them in a scent-wave every time the wind shifted, and I let them keep their distance. Their alpha had betrayed us all, and then they’d had to execute her and bury her without clan attendance or a Death Rite.

The Cold Moon would give them a new alpha. Until then, they ate my burgers and watched everything with black, careful eyes, and I made sure Phil kept their end of the table stocked.

Emma had asked me to make her mixed-clan experiment work, so it was going to work, even if we had to grill a thousand burgers and referee every food-washing weirdo in Louisiana to do it. Still, I’d be glad when this shit was over.

At seven o’clock, I called them all into the training gym and stood on the mats where, a lifetime ago, my mate had nearly burned through a circle of nine linked shifters, a stone’s throw from where a traitor had later met her sentence. If any of them were thinking about that, they had the good sense not to smell like it.

“Welcome to Six-Mile,” I said. “Here’s how this works.”

It took twenty minutes to lay it all out. Housing assignments came first. No more than one of any kind of shifter to a tiny home, per the multimorph’s orders, which produced the cacophony of complaint I’d expected and zero challenges once I showed my teeth and let my eyes go wolf-bright and sweep the room.

Training at 7:00 a.m. No challenge fights outside the ring. No hunting another clan’s preferred game in my woods. The mess hall opened at six, and anyone with a food custom that required plumbing could speak to Phil, who was more patient than I was and often armed with a spatula.

“By the time we’re finished, if you work hard, you’ll have learned the art of partial shifting,” I promised.

A murmur ran through the assembled group.