Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

MEGAN

M egan Reeves stepped out of the small, rustic cabin she was renting on the Alaska Peninsula. The crisp Alaskan air bit her cheeks. The sun had just begun its descent, casting a golden hue over the vast, untamed landscape. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of pine and snow. She was here for her job, but this place had offered her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the complexities of her human life and embrace her true nature.

She scanned the horizon, her keen eyes spotting a narrow trail winding through the dense forest. The path seemed to beckon her, promising solitude and freedom. She stripped off her clothes, folded them neatly, and placed them back inside the cabin. The familiar tingling of the shift rippled through her as she called her snow leopard forward, closing her eyes and surrendering to the change.

The air around Megan began to shimmer, the first sign of the transformation taking hold. The swirling mist that allowed for a shift appeared, rising from the ground and spiraling around her feet. It moved with a life of its own, wrapping around her legs and slowly climbing higher. The mist was thick and vibrant, shifting through an array of colors—blues, purples, and silvers blending in an otherworldly dance.

As the mist enveloped her, thunder rumbled softly, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to come from within the vortex itself. Lightning crackled through the mist, brief flashes illuminating Megan's form. The electricity danced along her skin—like St. Elmo's Fire along the mast of a ship—not painful but exhilarating, a herald of the change occurring within her.

The colors in the mist grew more intense, swirling faster and faster, merging and separating in a hypnotic display. The thunder grew louder, and the lightning more frequent, casting stark shadows and brilliant highlights across the misty cocoon. It was as if the very elements were conspiring to reshape her, to reveal her true nature.

With a final burst of lightning, the mist tightened around Megan, the colors reaching a blinding crescendo. The thunder roared, and then, just as suddenly, the mist began to dissipate. It fell away in wisps and tendrils, sinking back into the earth from which it had risen.

In the aftermath of the elemental storm, Megan was no longer human. Where she had stood, now crouched a magnificent snow leopard, her fur glistening in the remnants of the mist. Her eyes, once human, now gleamed with the sharp, intelligent gaze of the great cat. She stretched her new form, muscles rippling under her thick, spotted coat.

The transformation was complete, the swirling mist of thunder, lightning, and colors having unveiled her true essence. The forest seemed to recognize the change, the night air carried the scent of her wild, untamed spirit. She was ready to embrace the freedom and power of her snow leopard once more. She stretched, flexing her claws and feeling the strength coiled within her lithe frame.

With a final glance back at the cabin, Megan bounded off the porch and down the trail, her paws silent on the snow-covered ground. The forest, with its towering trees, formed a canopy high above enveloped her. She moved with grace and agility while her heightened senses, made every sound and scent vividly clear. The thrill of the run surged through her, a primal joy she could only experience in this form.

The trail led her to a frozen stream, its surface glistening in the fading light. She leaped onto the ice, her paws finding purchase with ease. The cold seeped through her fur, invigorating her further. She ran along the river, her reflection a ghostly shadow on the ice. The vast expanse of wilderness that was an endless playground for her snow leopard stretched out before her.

Megan slowed as she approached a clearing, the trees parting to reveal a breathtaking vista. The mountains loomed in the distance; their peaks dusted with snow. She paused, her chest heaving, and gazed out at the landscape. Here, she felt truly alive, connected to the wild in a way that transcended her human existence.

She crouched low, her eyes narrowing as she spotted movement in the distance. A herd of caribou grazed, unaware of her presence. Megan watched them for a moment, her predatory instincts stirring, but she had no desire to hunt. Tonight was about freedom, about embracing the wildness within her.

As the sky darkened, stars began to appear, twinkling against the velvet backdrop. Megan let out a low, contented growl, her breath misting in the cold air. She turned back toward the forest, ready to continue her run. The night was young, and the wilderness awaited.

Megan wove through the trees with effortless speed. The forest was alive with nocturnal sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, and the faint scurrying of small creatures beneath the snow. Each noise was a symphony, blending into the background of her rhythmic breathing and the soft thud of her paws on the ground.

She followed the trail deeper into the woods, relishing the sensation of freedom. Time seemed to lose meaning as she moved, her body attuned to the primal rhythms of the wild. She ran until her muscles ached pleasantly, her energy ebbing but her spirit soaring.

Eventually, she found herself at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a frozen lake that shimmered in the starlight. Megan sat on her haunches, her tail curling around her feet as she gazed at the breathtaking view. This place, so remote and untouched, felt like a secret world all her own.

The cold night air nipped at her, and she knew it was time to head back. Reluctantly, she turned away from the cliff and retraced her steps, her paws leaving faint imprints in the snow. The forest seemed to welcome her back, the path familiar and reassuring.

As she neared the cabin, she slowed to a walk, her breaths coming in steady puffs of mist. She approached the porch and paused, savoring the last moments of her time in her snow leopard form. The transformation back to her human shape was always bittersweet, but she knew it was part of who she was.

With a deep breath, Megan allowed the change to take her. Once the mist of the shift had receded, she stood, naked and human, her skin tingling from the cold and the residual energy of her run. She quickly went inside and dressed, the warmth of her clothes a stark contrast to the chill outside.

She closed the door behind her, enjoying the cozy feel of the cabin, and moved to the window, gazing out at the forest. The stars still twinkled brightly, the night still holding its tranquil beauty. Overhead, a shadow caught her eye, but when she tried to focus, it was no longer there. Perhaps it had been nothing, but with it, a feeling of disorientation had swept over her. She dismissed both the sighting and the feeling as nothing more than manifestations of the stress of being undercover.

She made herself a cup of tea and sat by the fire, the flames casting a soft glow around the room. As she sipped the hot liquid, she felt a profound sense of peace. The run had invigorated her, grounding her in a way that only the wild could. Tomorrow she would resume her investigation. She had managed to snag a ticket to one of the most highly coveted bourbon tasting events.

Northern Lights Distillery hosted an annual event, and she'd been granted an invitation by Magnus McAllister himself. He seemed to have figured out her ruse and had said he had information to share. Now Magnus was dead, having died in a car accident. Rumor was his son, a decorated SEAL, had resigned his commission and returned home to take his father's place. Megan wondered if Drake McAllister might prove to be as useful as his father.

The following day was bright and clear in the way Megan had only found in Alaska. She hailed from Chicago and had raised strenuous objections when she'd been reassigned to the Anchorage Field Office. She had feared that she was being unofficially demoted, but that hadn't proved to be the case. There was far more smuggling in, out, and around Alaska than there had ever been in the lower forty-eight.

She dressed in pressed jeans, mukluks, a cowl-neck sweater, and a down vest. She knew cowl-necks were out of style, but she loved this sweater, and it was warm. She tossed her Canada Goose expedition parka onto the seat of her rented SUV. She would have preferred her own vehicle, but it was the small things—like not having rented a vehicle—that could trip you up when you went undercover.

Megan drove to the Northern Lights Distillery and had to show her invitation and identification before the guards would open the gates. The massive iron gates swung open slowly to allow her to enter, and she was asked to park in the designated area until the sleigh returned to take her and several others up to the actual distillery.

She didn't have long to wait before a large sleigh pulled by four reindeer stopped by her vehicle. Grabbing her parka, she got out of the SUV and climbed aboard. Sometimes being an ATF agent had the coolest perks.

"Welcome to Northern Lights Distillery, Ms. Reynolds."

Being undercover meant people addressed you by a name that was not your own. She liked using her true first name as it made it easier to slip in and out of her undercover role. Her undercover last name—Reynolds—was close enough to her real last name—Reeves—that it, too, had the feel of familiarity and made it easier to answer to.

Megan's enhanced sense of smell told her the driver was a shifter of some sort, but the caribou were not.

"Thank you for inviting me. I have been a huge fan of your bourbon from the very first time I tasted it." It was also helpful when working undercover to stay as close to the truth as possible.

They picked up three more invitees and then headed toward the distillery, which they could see in the distance. It was set amongst what looked to be a compound of sorts. If all of Northern Lights Distillery's people lived within the massive compound, Megan was pretty sure that they were all shifters, but what kind remained an unanswered question. Megan didn't like unanswered questions.

The sleigh let them off at the distillery's main building, which encompassed a store and a museum. They were greeted by employees who kept them occupied until the opening ceremonies.

"I wasn't sure the event would happen as planned, considering the death of Magnus McAllister," said Megan, as she and several others wandered through the museum with one of Northern Lights' people.

"Magnus's death has left a big hole for all of us, but Drake has resigned from the Navy and come home. We all feel there will be minimal disruption in any of the distillery's plans. He was born and raised here and there's been a McAllister leading our community since it was first built more than two hundred years ago."

It was becoming clear that Northern Lights Distillery was owned and run by some sort of shifter clan. For Megan, that added a degree of difficulty to her official investigation: how to expose whatever illegal activity was going on without exposing the shifters themselves.

"Can I get you all to follow me? Drake McAllister would like to welcome you all in our central gathering hall."

The young woman reminded Megan of the docents who worked in museums or historical buildings shepherding tourists to keep them out of places they weren't supposed to wander.

They left the building they were in and walked a short distance to an enormous building from which the most amazing aromas were coming. As she inhaled deeply, once again she was assailed by a feeling of nausea and dizziness. She stopped for a moment, shook herself mentally, and then made her way inside. The hall was enormous, and the open-beamed ceiling was impressive.

"Welcome to Northern Lights Distillery," said a tall, muscular, well-built man in the center of the room.

He had short, dark hair and a closely trimmed beard. It contributed to his rugged appearance. He had on a shawl-collared sweater, which appeared handmade, and a pair of distressed blue jeans that fit snugly, highlighting his muscular legs. He appeared both coolly confident and heatedly intense, with a focused expression on his face that he was trying to cover with the thin veneer of a smile of welcome. In his left hand, he held up a glass of bourbon. He was quite simply the most attractive man Megan had ever seen and her visceral reaction to his presence was extreme.

The nausea and dizziness had returned in full force. Oh hell to the no! She was old enough to know the physical symptoms of finding your fated mate. She didn't need a fated mate. She didn't want a fated mate. She wasn't having a fated mate. Whoever he was, he could just bloody well do without her.

Megan found herself a place by the back wall where she could view the entirety of the room with relative ease. She stood scanning the crowd, watching to see if anything or anyone—other than the hunky Drake McAllister—caught her attention. The soft hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Her gaze settled on Drake, who stood across the room, engaged in a hushed conversation with a woman she didn't know. Given McAllister's military connections, she wondered if the woman might not be Jasmine Chen. McAllister's usual confident demeanor was absent, replaced by a distracted air that piqued Megan's curiosity.

She noted the way Drake's eyes darted around the room, his hands gesturing agitatedly as he spoke. Jasmine's face was a mask of concern, her lips moving quickly as she replied. Megan made a mental note of their interaction, filing it away for later consideration.

As she began to move through the room, Megan mingled effortlessly with the other guests. Her professional smile and polite small talk masked her true purpose. She caught snippets of conversation, weaving together a tapestry of whispered concerns about quality control issues and market pressures. There was a rumor that the distillery's latest batch, and some of its very expensive reserve labels, had not met the high standards expected by their clientele. From those rumors had sprung a concern for the financial stability of the distillery.

Megan's ears pricked up at a mention of the distillery's supply chain. She edged closer to a group of executives, pretending to admire a display of vintage whiskey bottles.

"If we can't sort out the supply issues, the entire operation could be compromised," one of them muttered.

Another nodded in agreement, adding, "It's the worst possible time for this to happen, with the market being as volatile as it is."

Filing away these potential leads for her smuggling investigation, Megan's attention was suddenly drawn to Michael O'Brien. The charismatic Irish businessman stood near the bar, a glass of amber liquid in hand. He was in the midst of a group, regaling them with a story that had everyone laughing heartily.

Megan's practiced eye saw beyond Michael's charm and easy demeanor. There was something about the way he carried himself, a subtle tension that belied his outward confidence. His eyes, though warm and inviting, seemed to hold a depth that spoke of secrets kept carefully hidden.

She approached the group, slipping into the edge of the conversation. Michael glanced her way, his eyes meeting hers with a spark of interest. "Megan, isn't it?" he said, his voice rich with an Irish lilt. "Join us, we're just sharing a bit of craic."

"Thank you, Michael," Megan replied, her smile genuine but guarded. "I've heard you have quite a talent for storytelling."

Michael chuckled, a sound that seemed to put everyone at ease. "Oh, I have a few tales up my sleeve. But tell me, what brings you to our little corner of the world tonight?"

"Like everyone else here, I was able to buy a ticket to this event."

Michael nodded. "You've become quite the bourbon enthusiast of late. You and I seem to keep showing up at the same events, but I don't recall your name on the bourbon auction I'm holding. If you'd like to attend, I'd be happy to add your name to the list of invited guests."

"That would be very nice. Thank you, Michael."

"My pleasure."

Megan had to wonder if it was just a small talk kind of question or if he knew, or suspected, her true identity and motivation. Deciding to play it as though she was unaware of any hidden agenda Michael might have, Megan engaged him in conversation, but remained acutely aware of the undercurrents swirling around the room.

The Northern Lights Distillery was more than just a business; it was a microcosm of power dynamics and hidden agendas. And she intended to uncover as many of those secrets as she could.