“Why—“ Rory started, and then shook his head. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.” He raised his voice a little. “Here they are. The shifters I told you about.”
Nothing happened.
“There’s nobody here,” Cal said.
“There’s a spider,” Joe pointed out. His forehead wrinkled. “Do you get spider shifters?”
“I sincerely hope not,” Wystan murmured.
“It’s just a spider.” Cal folded his arms. “I’m a pegasus. Trust me. There’s no one here.”
“This is Wystan,” Rory said to thin air, ignoring the backchat. “The tall one is Joe, and the scowling one is Cal. It may be difficult to believe, but you can trust them. I trust them.”
“Awww. Thanks, Rory.” Joe paused. “Not entirely a ringing character endorsement, of course, given that it’s coming from someone who’s talking to a barrel of bitter.”
Rory rolled his eyes. “Will you all just be quiet for a moment? You’re scaring him.”
“Scaring who?” Wystan asked, a hint of annoyance breaking through his usual polite tones. “Rory, you’re being excessively mysterious.”
“Be. Quiet.” Alpha power echoed under Rory’s command, like a rumble of distant thunder.
Joe, who’d been about to say something, shut his mouth with a snap. Wystan’s lips thinned. Cal’s expression darkened even further.
But they all obeyed. Rory let out his breath, the silence ringing loud in his ears.
“It’s all right,” he said softly to the air. “They’re pack.”
The silence drew out for a long moment.
Then the air shimmered.
Joe yelped a expletive in sea dragon language. Wystan recoiled so hard he fell off the stairs. Cal raised an eyebrow.
The enormous, wolf-like creature stared at them all with burning red eyes. Thick, coal-black fur bristled.
*Pack?* The voice in Rory’s mind sounded distinctly dubious.
“Pack,” Rory confirmed out loud. “Guys, this is Fenrir. He’s a hellhound.”
“Rory.” Wystan was plastered against the far wall. “I know hellhounds. My aunts are hellhounds. That is not a hellhound.”
“Is it a hellpony?” Joe said, his voice rather higher than normal. “A hellbear, possibly? More importantly, is it hungry?”
“He’s a hellhound,” Rory repeated firmly. He put his hand on Fenrir’s head, which was about the same level as his own shoulder. “Just…a little bigger than average.”
“A little?” Cal muttered.
“Well.” Joe swallowed, recovering a little of his customary aplomb. He essayed a shaky grin, holding out his hand. “I take it we’ll be working together. Fenrir, was it?”
The hellhound cocked his head to one side, eying the sea dragon, then stood up. Joe paled a little as Fenrir padded forward, but held his ground.
“I, ah, was expecting a handshake,” Joe said, as Fenrir sniffed at his fingers. “Maybe a fist bump? No?”
“Fen doesn’t do handshakes,” Rory said. He grimaced. “Or, for that matter, hands.”
Joe yelped again as Fenrir transferred his attention to the sea dragon’s crotch. “Whoa, bro! At least buy me a drink first.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t do hands?” Wystan asked.