Page 36 of Shifters Reckoning

“Questions,” I said in a tone that discouraged them.

A raven in the third row unfolded his arms. “The raccoon in my house has filled the bathtub with gravel.”

“It’s a filtration bed,” one of the raccoons protested. “For washing⁠—”

“You each get half a bathroom,” I said. “Work it out like adults, or I’ll assign you a bear to mediate.”

Silence. Ravens and raccoons alike did the math on sharing a bathroom with a bear.

“Anything else?” I called.

Nothing else.

They filed out into the dark in a loose, wary shuffle that wasn’t a unit yet, wasn’t an army yet, wasn’t anything yet except three dozen strangers who all owed their grief to the same enemy. It was a start. My compound had turned into a boarding school for feral children, and gods help me, I was the headmaster.

A middle school, I thought, watching a squirrel shift and take the shortest route to the door directly over the heads of two affronted cats. It’s a damned middle school.

Olivia fell into step beside me on the walk back to the manor. “That went well.”

“Nobody bled.”

“Like I said.” She flipped through the notes on her clipboard. “Oh. The raccoon alpha followed up. He wants to host Thanksgiving here under the Beaver Moon. He has opinions about the menu, Logan. He submitted a menu.”

“Tell him…” I shoved my hand through my hair. Emma had opened that door herself at the conclave, and if I slammed it, I’d be the alphahole undermining her program in front of all the shifters. “Tell him we’d be honored, and that nothing on that menu gets washed after it’s cooked.”

Her mouth twisted in a half-grin. “You’re growing as a person.”

“Don’t tell anybody.”

We’d nearly reached the porch when a young bear found us. He came up the drive at a trot, still breathing hard from the run out of the east, and I smelled Bear Trees on him before he opened his mouth—old cypress, cold mud, and the particular musk of Torbin’s people. A messenger. My heart slammed once, hard, and Olivia’s hand landed on my forearm before I could take a step.

“The multimorph is well,” the boy said quickly, which meant Torbin had coached him, which meant Torbin knew exactly what my first question would always be. “Training began at first light this morning, and she worked the warriors until the sun quit. She is settled in the alpha’s own hollow, and the warding is strong.” He swallowed. “Also. The alpha of Ville Platte arrived at midday per the multimorph’s summons.”

The porch light buzzed. Somewhere out by the tiny homes, a raccoon laughed at something, high and chittering, but the sound came to me from a long way off, down a tunnel that had gone red at the edges. She hadn’t wanted me at the conclave.

“Marcus,” I said, “is in Bear Trees. With my mate.”

“At her summons, Alpha,” the boy repeated, backing up a step. “She, uh, she said to tell you…” He cleared his throat. “She said you’d make a face like that, and to tell you…” He screwed his eyes shut and recited. “‘All consequences with Logan are mine and mine alone. Four little words, love. Look them up. I am the multimorph.’ And,” the boy hurried on, clearly determined to empty himself of the whole message before anyone shifted or attacked, “the Ville Platte alpha brought word that Acheron’s trail runs south past his territory. The multimorph asks that your drone man turn his birds that way.”

Olivia made a strangled sound.

I stood there in the November dark, my jaw working, while my inner wolf paced a trench in the floor of my skull. Marcus Steele, blind, bitter, uncle-by-ambush, sitting in a rocking chair forty miles east, drinking coffee across the table from the only person I’d ever needed. And Emma, who could have asked me, who hadn’t asked me, because she didn’t answer to me, because that had been the deal since the night she’d stomped out of my study and driven home to Willow Creek with my heart in her backseat.

I am the multimorph.

Four little words. I could hear her saying them, her hip cocked, her eyebrow up, daring me.

“Alpha?” the young bear ventured. “Any reply?”

“Tell Torbin I hold him to his promise. Personally.” I forced my shoulders down out of my ears. “And tell the multimorph…” A hundred things lined up to be said, most of them growls. “Tell her the drones fly south. Tell her Six-Mile stands, and that I’m keeping score.”

The boy fled at a pace that did his clan credit.

Olivia waited until he was out of earshot before she said mildly, “You handled that better than I expected.”

“I’m going to go spray-paint more squares on the ground now.”

“That’s what I would do,” my beta said, straight-faced, and she went inside.