Rejected Mate (Feral Shifters 1)

We park in a line outside the shack. Out here, you can’t get away with sneaking up on people when you’re traveling on four loud bikes. It’s too deadly quiet. Even an eagle’s cry seems loud in the desert.

So the witch is already on his porch staring at us as we cut our engines.

He’s… not what I expected. He’s abnormally tall with limbs so thin he looks overstretched, and long, dyed black hair that frames his face in scraggly lines. He has ridiculously pale white skin, the kind that looks as if it would turn lobster red in the desert sun, and huge green eyes. He wears a Metallica t-shirt, half a dozen beaded necklaces and even more bracelets, and carpenter jeans with giant legs.

I didn’t even know the latter still existed in modern fashion.

Malix grins as he knocks down his kickstand and swings a leg wide to dismount. “This’ll be interesting.”

Kian grunts, then speaks in a low voice. “Mind your manners.”

I fall into line with the feral shifters as we cross the yard. Dried grass crackles and breaks beneath my new boots, and the sun beats down mercilessly on my shoulders. I can’t imagine living out here at what seems like the unforgiving edge of the world, but clearly people do.

Including this weirdo.

Kian halts a few feet away from the shack’s lopsided front porch.

The witch crosses his skinny arms over his chest. His eyes are too large for his face, giving his features a strange, cartoonish slant. “You folks lost?”

Kian ignores his question. “You Erik?”

The witch drops his arms, and his fingers twitch at his sides. “Maybe. Who are you?”

“I’m in need of your special brand of assistance,” Kian replies. “Can we talk?”

Erik’s green gaze moves over all of us, one at a time. He knows we’re supernatural—I can tell, I just don’t know how. He’s on edge, standing on his tiptoes, ready to fight or flight. Something about him seems off. If my gaze slides away from him, he takes on a smoky, half-formed haze in my periphery, as if he’s cloaking himself in magic. But when I look at him head on, he looks like he’s about to hop in his car and head to Comic-Con. I’m not sure which view of him is the truth.

I don’t like him. Something about him feels strange enough that I think he’s dangerous.

Malix claps his hands together and says, “Hey, man. We’re not looking for handouts. We can pay.”

Erik’s eyes gleam. His green gaze slides over Kian’s torso in a look that—on someone else—might be a sexual leer. But I’m pretty sure Erik’s interest has nothing to do with Kian’s muscles. He’s looking at the tattoos.

“We can find someone else,” Kian says with a shrug.

The witch leaps into action, opening his door and holding it wide as he motions us inside with an overly dramatic flourish. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. By all means, come in.”

His house is small and cramped. I pass into the front foyer, bowing my head beneath a chandelier too large for the space. Herbs dangle from wire hangers lining the ceilings, and they brush like finger bones along my hairline as we follow Erik through the hallway and into the living room.

The television is on, playing an old nineties cartoon I only recognize from pop culture. There’s an open beer can on the table, condensing in the hot room. The air is heavy with incense, something strong and earthy that makes my head swim.

Erik picks up his beer. “I’d offer you one, but I’m broke and you’re strangers.”

Malix and Frost exchange amused looks, but Kian forges ahead, undeterred and gruff as ever. “We need an antidote to shadow venom.”

Erik laughs, clutching his beer can to his t-shirt. “Shadow venom? First time I’ve ever met someone who needed that. Why do you need it?”

“Does it matter?” Malix asks, his tone more serious than his usual amusement.

Erik shrugs nonchalantly and sits down on the couch, slouching against the overstuffed cushions. “If you want my help, it does.”

Kian’s expression turns thunderous, but he answers, “Two of our number have been poisoned. We require an antidote. Does that satisfy your question?”

Leaning forward, the witch sets his beer on the distressed coffee table with a smile. “It does indeed. I can make you a potion that will work as an antidote against shadow venom. And you mentioned payment?” He directs this question to Malix.

Malix nods. “We have money.”

“I don’t want money,” Erik murmurs. His gaze slides over Malix’s bare arms, alight with hunger and interest. “You have something else I want.”