As Reaghan walked into the “wolves’ den” — a bar that catered exclusively to weres, primarily wolves — she glanced around the room, well aware of how much she stood out. The clientele, and even employees, were mostly wolves, but there was a smattering of bears and cats — mostly cougars, lynxes, and the normal local fare, but there were even a few lions, tigers, and leopards. She’d long ago trained herself to see the aura — an ever-so-slight reflection of the body’s unique energy signature — given off by every living thing, and had learned to recognize the subtle differences each species displayed. It had always served her well, allowing her to know ahead of time just which buttons to press to get what she needed.
Finally, her eyes alighted on just the person she was looking for. A man — a wolf — sat at the back of the bar, leaning back in his chair with his head resting against the wall, calmly regarding her and sizing her up. His aura was brighter than any other’s, but she wouldn’t have even needed that to tell her he was an alpha — he simply exuded an air of authority.
Despite the dim lighting, she could already see that his eyes were a deep golden-brown, nearly glowing in the murky yellow beams. He had dark hair, the color right on the border between brown and black, and his skin was a subtle olive-bronze tone, indicating a Mediterranean heritage. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she moved across the floor towards him, ignoring the gaping stares from the other patrons. When she finally reached his table, she made the bold move of grabbing a nearby chair and, turning it backwards, sat down to face him.
A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You are a slayer,” he observed. His voice was low and even, but with just a touch of a raspy edge, and he spoke with an Eastern Bloc accent.
She willed herself to ignore the pleasant shiver she felt building, refusing to allow it to show, or to acknowledge it — there had always been something about those accents that just sent her melting into a puddle of pure desire. You’re here for a hunt, she reminded herself, not to get laid. Composing herself, she gave him a slight smirk in return. “I prefer to think of myself as a mortician,” she replied. “I put the dead back where they belong.” Raising her voice slightly to ensure the others could hear her, she continued, “I have no problem with weres. As long as they follow the rules and don’t get in my way.”
His smile broadened. “Fair enough,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Mikhael Kasun."
Mmmm. Bosnian. She mentally shook herself, then shook his hand, a little surprised by the gentleness in his grip. What is it with wolves and the name Michael? she mused distractedly. She forced herself to focus. “Reaghan Hanover,” she said genially. “I’m here because I need your help.” He cocked a dark eyebrow in curiosity. “There’s a rouge vampire clan on the loose, and I need a hand tracking them.” She saw the predatory gleam in his eyes and knew he wouldn’t turn her down, but continued anyway. “Will your pack assist me?”
He paused, refusing to allow her see his eagerness, but she knew. No one knew why, but the vampires and weres hated each other, and had for as long as anyone could remember. “Of course,” he finally answered, keeping his tone slow and nonchalant.
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