Firefighter Phoenix (Fire & Rescue Shifters 7)
“He’s…stuck.” Rory blew out his breath, as Fenrir went to sniff the unicorn. “He can’t shift. Claims he never has.”
Wystan tried to shove Fenrir’s enormous muzzle away from h
is groin. He might as well have tried to deflect a bulldozer. “But no hellhound is born that way. They’re always bitten.”
Fenrir growled, the sound echoing in the confines of the cellar. *Not a two-leg. No soft-skin inside.* He glanced sidelong at Rory, ears flattening. *No matter what birdcat says.*
“You are a shifter,” Rory told him. “And don’t call me that.”
“Call you what?” Joe asked. “Wait, can he talk to you telepathically? But hellhounds aren’t mythic shifters.”
“I can talk to him because he’s decided I’m pack. I found him in the wilderness, or rather, he found me. It’s a long story.” Rory shrugged. “In any event, he saved my life, and I saved his. So here we are.”
Fenrir tried to sniff Cal, and was met by a flat stare. The hellhound paused for a moment, then backed away. He sank to his haunches again, sweeping them all with his burning eyes. One ear flicked.
“Well?” Rory asked him.
Fenrir’s lips wrinkled back, exposing finger-long fangs. *Not pack.*
“I know they’re not pack yet.” Rory scratched the hellhound behind the ear. “But they will be. Trust me.”
Cal’s frown deepened. “He’s on the squad?”
“The hellhound who can’t shift is a firefighter?” Joe looked delighted. “Oh, please, please tell me he has a little doggy uniform. And a hat. I demand that he has a hat.”
Fenrir growled again…but his tail thumped twice against the floor in a reluctant wag.
“He’s on the squad,” Rory confirmed. “Hellhounds need a pack, or they go…unstable. I think that’s why he can’t shift. He’s been alone too long.”
*Birdcat promised pack,* Fenrir rumbled in his mind. *Proper pack. Not this.*
“What’s he saying?” Wystan asked.
“That we’re still missing an essential part of a real pack.” Giving Fenrir a last pat, Rory headed for the stairs. “And that’s why we need one more person.”
The sounds of the party drifted up to her room, even through closed doors. As a child, she’d always fallen asleep to the warm, comforting sounds of the pub below. She could remember lying in the dark, listening to that low susurration of half-heard laughter and muffled voices, a fierce hunger burning in her own heart.
She’d been so impatient to grow up. So eager to be allowed into that mysterious adult world, to be part of the conversation rather than straining her ears to catch the occasional word. She’d lain awake night after night, planning, dreaming, mapping out her life. The future had seemed a broad, shining path, leading inevitably to her destiny.
And now, here she was. All her dreams in ashes.
Soft, familiar footsteps echoed down the hall. She barely had time to crumple the uniform shirt in her lap into an anonymous ball of fabric before the door opened.
“Sweetheart,” her mother started…and then paused, her gaze flicking down to the shirt briefly.
No hope that she hadn’t recognized it, or course. Her own cheeks heated as her mother’s eyes softened.
“Oh, my love.” Her mother sat down on the bed next to her, putting a hand on hers. “None of this is your fault.”
It was a lie. It was her fault, all of it. Every clink of glasses, every laugh from the party below cut her like a razor. If it wasn’t for her, none of them would be here. They wouldn’t have been having to pretend to celebrate…
Her mother’s fingers tightened on hers. “It is not your fault,” she repeated, more firmly. “What happened was a blessing in disguise. An overdue wake-up call.”
“But he nearly died.” She swallowed, and forced herself to say the truth out loud. “I nearly killed him.”
“Which made him take stock of his life, rather than continuing on in familiar channels. Your father is retiring because he wants to, sweetheart.” Her mother’s smile was as warm as summer sunlight. “At last. I’ve been badgering him for years. You’ve given me a gift, not taken anything away from him. You mustn’t throw away your own dreams out of misplaced guilt.”
She looked away, down at the shirt in her hands. Her fingertips traced the embroidered crest on the sleeve.