After draining the whiskey, I ordered a large draught of beer, then took the frosty glass to a corner table where I could drown my sorrows in peace. It didn’t take long for that plan to go out the window. The group of guys playing darts kept casting their eyes toward me. The three of them bent their heads together in whispered conversation. This was not going how I’d wanted it to. As I sat there, contemplating whether I should chug the beer and get out, one of them broke off and headed my way before I could make up my mind.
“You’re a lone wolf, right?” one of the men asked as he slid into the chair across from me.
I glared at him. He was a big guy with ham-sized arms, a long beard that nearly touched his stomach, and a braid of red hair going down his back. He looked like the prototypical chopper-style biker dude.
“Maybe,” I muttered, then took a drink, never taking my eyes off him.
If he had something against me, his face didn’t show it. He didn’t have that look of contempt or disgust a lot of shifters had toward lone wolves. At the back of their minds, they all thought we were only a step or two away from going feral.
He glanced over his shoulder at his friends, who’d resumed playing darts, then looked at me again. I braced myself forwhatever slur, condemnation, or threat was about to come out of his mouth.
“I heard you lone wolves sometimes do jobs for people. Stuff on the down-low, you know what I mean?”
I paused, beer halfway to my lips, and frowned at him. This was not how I’d anticipated this going.
“Excuse me?” I said, setting the glass down.
“Are you looking for work? I need some help, and a lone wolf would likely be the best for the job.” He fiddled nervously with a cocktail napkin that lay on the table.
“I’ll bite.” I kept my tone noncommittal. “What’s this job?”
His eyes snapped back to mine, and a hopeful gleam shimmered deep within. “It’s my cousin. He’s gone missing. I was wondering if I could hire you to try and track him down. Lone wolves are supposed to be the best trackers.”
That was more of an urban legend among shifters. True, the few lone wolves I’d come acrossweregood at tracking, but that was mostly because we had practiced at it. Iwasvery good at finding people. It was the entire reason Ollie had contacted me to find the feral killer in Toronto to begin with.
“Why aren’t you going to your own pack to help?” I asked.
“My pack is small,” he admitted. “We aren’t one of the big and powerful packs. The last word we got was that my cousin had ventured over into Toronto-Ottawa territory to the north. No way inhellmy alpha would want to go up there and step on toes. I’ve heard the T.O. alpha is pretty cool, but my pack doesn’t want to stir the pot. I need help.”
Something about the story tugged at the back of my mind, though I couldn’t quite place where. Too much had happened in the last three days for me to think straight. Plus, there was no way I’d be going back into the Toronto-Ottawa pack lands. Not with Cameron there. Not until I had my head on straight.
I took another swig of beer, then shook my head. “Nah. I don’t think so.”
The guy hung his head in defeat, but instead of looking upset, he pulled a card out of his jacket pocket and held it out to me. I didn’t move to take it. Instead, I simply stared at the little rectangle of paper.
“The fuck is that?” I asked.
“My card,” he said. “In case you change your mind. I can pay. Name your price. My name’s Mitch Gagnon.”
I stared at the card for a few more seconds before taking it. I wasn’t going to take the job, but I might need a contact in the future. If the guy was serious about paying good money, he might be a source for work later on.
“I’ll hang on to this,” I said, tucking the card into my jeans pocket without looking at it. “But I’m probably not your guy.”
Mitch leaned back, holding his hands up in surrender. “I get it, but think about it, okay? I’d really like to find him safe. Again, I’ll pay well.”
Ignoring him, I waved at the bartender, making sure he saw the money I slapped on the table. He nodded, and I stood, draining the last of my beer.
“You take it easy, pal,” I said to Mitch as I headed for the door.
That was not nearly as relaxing as I’d hoped it would be. Leaving the bar, I stepped out into the fresh air again. The rain had slackened to a light drizzle. Everything had a fresh, clean scent to it, the sky having washed the dirt and grime from every inch of the world. Too bad it couldn’t wash away my thoughts and regrets.
Halfway back to my motel room, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, though it had a Toronto area code. I stared at it for a few seconds, debating whether to answer it.Maybe it was Ollie calling to let me know he’d gotten Cameron safely delivered to the pack.
“Hello, Nate speaking,” I said as I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Nate Zane?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
A chill went up my spine. Who the hell was this?
