Untamed Mate (Feral Shifters 2)

Even runningat my fastest pace, and only resting for the briefest naps, it takes me two days to reach Red River, the small ski resort town where we parked our bikes. I’m not surprised to find the guys’ bikes gone. Their shadow wolf forms are annoyingly a lot faster than my normal wolf.

I’m even less surprised to find that my bike has been disabled. Someone took wire cutters to everything that could possibly be destroyed, just like I did to Kian’s Harley back in Oscura.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter, kicking the bike’s back tire. I’d bet every fucking penny I own that Kian was the one who did this.

As if mutilating my soul to remove the mate bond wasn’t enough, he had to cut me another way.

It’s the off-season, so the town is fairly quiet. I find a rental place that specializes in motor sports—mainly snowmobiles and dirt bikes meant for dicking around in the mountains. Lucky for me, they’ve also got a few motorcycles. I don’t go inside. I just walk by the facade of the store to check the closing time, and then continue down the street.

I grab a bite to eat at a local Mexican joint, waiting for the sun to go down. The food is fresh and delicious, and the margarita goes down like water. After the events of the past few days, I consider having a second drink, but I’ve got a plan, and I need to keep a steady head to get on the road.

After sundown, I return to the motor sports store. The windows are dark, and the Closed sign hangs at a lopsided angle on the door. I watch the place for an hour, gauging how much traffic passes, but it’s a sleepy town. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I jog across the road and onto the property to choose a bike.

The selection isn’t great. It’s mostly a bunch of shitty Kawasakis in bright colors, the kind of machines frat boys choose. Not bike enthusiasts. But beggars can’t be choosers.

There’s a lockbox on the side of the building next to where the bikes are parked. Not the most secure way to sell bikes, but keeping the keys close means nabbing those “maybe” sales. Lucky for me, the lock is dinky as fuck. I break it with a swift yank, thanking my innate shifter strength, then track down the key I need.

At least I won’t have to hotwire the damn thing.

I climb onto the bike, and it rumbles to life beneath me. Giving the blinking red security camera overhead a thumbs up, I peel out of the lot.

Wind whips my dark hair around my face, and I lean into it, allowing it to clear my head a little. I follow signs on the interstate for the next “big” city, although that word is relative given that mountains don’t let cities sprawl quite as much as the desert does.

I’ve learned over the years that although witches are usually social creatures like wolves, they don’t always stick with a coven. When they run off solo, many of them disappear into the wilderness for peace and solitude. Others, however, tend to find a town where they can practice their magic in peace without other witches impinging on their territory.

Taos looks like the kind of low-key place a witch would like to hide in.

Let’s hope I’m right about that.

I roll into Taos just shy of eight p.m. The city looks more like a movie set or a Disney theme park than a real town. It’s heavy on the adobe architecture, bright colors, string lights, and brick roads. Mexican culture permeates the whole town, giving it a warm, welcoming vibe. All of that, coupled with the fact that it’s cradled by vivid green mountains, makes it one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Not that I plan on staying long enough to savor it.

If all goes well, I’ll be in and out of this place quickly. I just have to ask the right questions.

After making my way into the heart of the city, I park my bike in a public lot near a strip of bars and restaurants. It’s party night in Taos, clearly, and dozens of people mill around on the sidewalks, smoking cigarettes and carrying drinks. The smell of fried food and stale beer hangs over the block.

The jeans and black tank top I pulled from my pack when I reached the base of the mountain and shifted back to human form are dusty, so I take a few moments to slap at my clothes. The last of the road rash on my thigh has healed thanks to the constant shifting on our way up to the Tree of Life, although the giant hole in my jeans looks a little ridiculous. Less “purposeful and bought off the rack like this” and more “hobo living on the streets.” Nothing I can do about it, though. Smoothing my hair down, I make a mental note to go buy some new jeans soon, then head toward the bar lights.

I stop a girl on the street with a smile. “Hi! Hey, I’m looking for someone who might help me with a, uh, a metaphysical problem. Any idea where I could go?”

Her red-tipped fingers are wrapped around a plastic cup of beer that I’m not entirely certain she’s old enough to be drinking. She wrinkles her thick black brows. “Um, I guess maybe try The Bruja’s Cauldron?”

“What’s that?”

“An occult shop. It’s, like, two blocks that way.” She waggles her fingers down the street, like I’m supposed to just magically know what the fuck she means. “Just look for the black cauldron dangling over the sidewalk. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” I say, then turn on my heel and blindly head in the direction she indicated.

Not all witches grow their own ingredients. Those who hide out in the mountains definitely do, but those who choose to live closer to civilization usually have a go-to store. Occult shops are usually run by hippie Wiccans who preach love and light, but those hippie Wiccans also know everyone in their community who comes to shop. If there’s a real witch to be found in Taos, the shop owner should know them.

I circle three blocks before I find the dangling metal cauldron the girl told me to look for. A light still burns inside. I glance at the hours posted on the window—not closed yet.

Lady luck, keep on smiling at me.

A bell jingles over my head as I shove open the door to the shop. Thick scented smoke rolls out to greet me, something earthy and sage-like. Scratched hardwood creaks beneath my boots as I cross the small lobby and venture further into the dim store.

The cash register sits in a central spot, with tall shelves radiating outward. Once I reach the register, I realize I can see down every aisle—a pretty clever arrangement for theft prevention.

A tall, willowy woman with thick black hair pulled back in a braid and a brightly colored dress wrapped around her lean form stands halfway down one of the aisles with an inventory cart. She’s sliding a book onto a shelf as I lock my gaze on her, and she stiffens, then slowly turns her head toward me.

She’s beautiful. Dark skin, pale brown eyes, a long face with regal features. Our gazes meet for a brief moment, then she turns back to the shelf and finishes sliding the book into place. “Not every day I see your kind in here.”

Her voice is smoky and deep. I lean on the counter and appraise her—it can’t be this simple. Did I really just walk into a real witch’s shop? A hippie Wiccan wouldn’t know at first glance that I’m not human.

“My kind?” I ask.

“Shifter. Wolf, right?” Her nose wrinkles, and she steps away from her inventory cart to glide toward me on silent feet. “The packs in our area tend to stay in the mountains.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” she says simply, circling around the counter to stand behind it. “If you’re looking for a love potion, we have them premade in aisle one.”

“And if I’m looking for something more potent than a dinky Wiccan spell?”