Chapter Two

Chapter One

C orbin Blande . He'd always hated the name, so he deleted it, quickly and thoroughly. Bank account, credit cards, social media; all of them gone.

Now he called himself Micah. Micah Jenkins. Wasn't his true name, but he liked it well enough. He'd ditched his true name when he left home, and to be honest, he didn't miss either.

Home was a memory he kept locked in a box that he never intended to open.

He hadn't been able to ditch his gift as easily.He was a polymorph, a therianthrope, a rare being who could shift into any form, human or animal.Because of his gift, he'd been stuck playing the role of Corbin Blande, in all his slick-haired, pretentious glory. Micah had done some shitty things in his past, but those months as Corbin were the worst.

Fortunately, his gift allowed him to walk away—with a clean slate, even.

Or a clean-adjacent slate. Nearly clean?

Something.

"Adios, asshole," he murmured, tossing a trash bag full of Corbin's hair product and grooming bullshit into a dumpster. He'd already bundled the suits – Boss, Tom Ford, and Armani, thank you very much – and dropped them at Goodwill. Donated the shoes and boots, too. Corbin Blande had been such a slimy fucker that Micah didn't want any traces of him left around.

Didn't want to be reminded of what he'd had to do while he'd lived as Corbin Blande.

He climbed into a glossy black Porsche, adjusted his shades, and pulled out into the midmorning traffic. Corbin's very last act would be to give his car to someone who needed it more—or at least needed the cash it would bring. Micah had the license and registration for an older CR-V, one he'd pick up later. The thought of driving that old Honda gave him an unexpected sense of coming home.

"Home? It's a car, you weird fucker." Hitting the gas, he grinned at no one because hell, maybe the car was his home. "I guess if I'm talking to myself, at least I know someone's listening."

He had a whole lot more chances to talk to himself than he ever did other people. As Corbin Blande, he'd had associates instead of friends. Even with his ex… aw no, not gonna think about Jessie right now .

Turning up the radio, he drove until a familiar structure loomed up on his right, and he pulled into the parking lot.

He hoisted the leather carryall stuffed with those few things that were worth keeping and headed into the self-storage building. No one else was around. The hallways were empty, echoing, ordinary, and the unit was rented under the name Peter Townsend.

Another name, one with a different face attached and a different bank account, but just as disposable.

The door to room 4507 opened when he entered the code. For a moment, he simply stared, taking stock of the contents.

There wasn't much.

Two moving boxes. A suitcase. A small end table that dated from the nineteenth century, his only link to his mother's family. Which was one more link than he had with his father's.

Someday he'd have a home, and he'd be able to close the door on this place for good. But not yet.

And when he had that home, he'd make sure there was a room for Anna.

Like that'll ever happen. Exhaustion was making him stupid.

Didn't take long for him to trade the butter-soft leather carryall for a canvas duffle bag. He'd gotten rid of Corbin, and now Micah needed to disappear.

After he made a couple more stops.

The Porsche was almost out of gas, and so was he. Didn't matter. The car didn't have far to go, and once he got someplace safe, he could sleep the rest of his life away. All this travel after months as Corbin was going to drain him to empty.

He headed north on Aurora, turning off into a familiar neighborhood. The overcast sky trapped the chilly air, holding it in place. Juneuary, the locals called it. No blossoms were left on the corner cherry tree but it still worked as a landmark. He was here. He pulled in the driveway, like he'd done hundreds of times before.

The house's windows stared blankly, the familiar linen drapes pulled tight. No one was home. Climbing out of the Porsche, he gave the cool chrome a final stroke and tapped the fob to lock it. Jessie would know where to find the key and the car was now registered in his name.

Micah was almost done. Carrying the duffle bag, he ducked around the side of the house.

Less than a minute later, a man came back around the corner. He looked nothing like the one who'd parked the Porsche. This version was taller and thinner, his jeans artfully distressed, and his hair teased up in a rockabilly pompadour. Micah strolled down the driveway, checking out the Porsche as if he'd never seen it before, then headed away from the house.

In about two blocks, he came to a school. Kids played outside, some on the playground equipment, others clustered together. Their shrieking laughter reassured him, and he spied a tumble of gold curls. Anna . She stood alone, dragging her toe through the dirt. Another little girl ran up to her, and he tensed, ready to fight dragons for his girl.

He shouldn't have worried. Both kids laughed, bouncing off each other and running through the grass. A weight grew in the center of his chest as he watched them go, a mix of sadness and fear combined with just enough hope to make it bearable.

It was going to be a while before he'd see his daughter again. Maybe years. It couldn't be helped. He kept walking, aiming for a large camellia shrub with a single crimson bloom. Ducking behind the glossy green leaves, he shifted again.

Anyone watching would have seen a large dog of an indeterminate breed trot out from behind the shrub. He had some ground to cover before he could rest. Fortunately, the rain would dampen his scent, the only thing that didn't change when his body did. Still, he was almost certain he hadn't been followed.

That was a small consolation. He'd head for his bolt hole, shifting shapes and personas until he reached the CR-V and could drive the rest of the way. No one—not the police, the paranormal FBI, or the Dark Lord himself—would be able to find him. Corbin Blande had done some seriously shitty stuff, but his final act had canceled Micah's debt, and now Anna was safe.

Unlike werewolves and other animal shifters who reorganized bone and muscle to take on their animal forms, Micah compared his shift to moving into and out of a room that existed outside of time. He requested entrance, visualized who he wanted to be, and came out with a new appearance. The biggest benefit was that he could leave his duffle bag in the room when he took on an animal shape. His form of shifting cost more in terms of energy and life force than other shifters expended, but he liked the flexibility. He liked shifting without having to strip naked first.

And he also liked having a place to stash stuff when he needed it.

By car, the trip from Seattle to the cabin was supposed to take around five hours, but first Micah had to get to his CR-V. Alternating between Metro and four legs, it took Micah most of the day to get from Jessie's house to Tacoma where he had the car stashed. There were a few hours of sunlight left, so he could have kept going, but exhaustion finally caught up to him. After tucking himself into a Travelodge right off the freeway, he requested a wake-up call, set his phone alarm, and gave in to it.

Once he got to the cabin, he could sleep for days.

And he would.

The next morning, the weak sunlight showed how badly the CR-V needed a wash. When he climbed in, it didn't feel like home—home didn't smell like stale pine tree air freshener and old cigarettes. He gassed up and hit the road, aiming for Highway 101.

One stop, at a general store outside of Port Angeles, didn't feel like home, either, but at least he'd been there before. Sidestepping the display of garish red geraniums spilling out along the front of the store, he stocked up on protein, carbohydrates, and vegetables. Beyond the macros, he didn't pay all that much attention to what went into his cart.

He was tired and hungry, and he needed to get out of sight before…well, before a certain demon figured out he was MIA.

The sun was hiding behind clouds when he pulled into the gravel driveway, a semicircle with a group of six small cabins surrounding it. A seventh cabin sat off to one side, and when Micah bought the place, he'd claimed that one for himself. They'd once been a destination for hunters; as a result, they were pretty bare-bones. A trickle of hikers and hippie tree-huggers came through once the weather warmed up, though he left it to a management company to handle their stays. As far as he knew, there were no other current tenants, but even if there were, they wouldn't have rented Cabin Seven.

That was his bolt hole.

He climbed out of the CR-V and stood for a moment, taking in the dense silence. Trees crowded around the cabins, closing them off from anything close to reality. Too tired to even bother with a shower, Micah let himself into Cabin Seven and with a hope and a prayer, locked the door.

Didn't come out for days.

Hunger finally prodded him out of bed. "Tuesday, June eighteenth?" he muttered to his phone, still exhausted. Shaking his head, he scrounged through his duffle bag, coming up with sweats and a pair of shorts that were cleaner than the ones he'd passed out in.

He made a sandwich with some of the roast beef and cheese he'd picked up at the general store, then crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over his head.

Slept for another twenty-four hours.

This time when Micah woke, he had enough mental energy to shower and shave and, once the hot water tank had refilled, start a load of laundry. The stacking washer and dryer backed up against the shower, on the other side of the wall. It was the only one; guests in the smaller cabins had to haul their dirty laundry to the laundromat north of Elwha or drag it back home.

Perks of ownership and all.

Feeling slightly more human, Micah made another roast beef sandwich and took it out front. His porch was just big enough for a couple chairs and, although the sun had dropped behind the trees, there was enough light to see the other cabins and the gravel drive. The birds had mostly settled down for the night, though as it grew darker, he caught the occasional flicker and whirr of a bat. He was a city boy through and through, but…. "I could get used to this."

Then he laughed like he'd told himself an actual joke.

Popping open his can of Coke, he took a long swallow. His CR-V was parked where he'd left it, and now it had a friend. A pickup truck was parked in front of Cabin Two, and that cabin's windows glowed in the dim light. The air was chilly, and the cold soda didn't help, but Micah needed fresh air more than he needed warmth. He ate and drank and watched Cabin Two, wondering who was in there and why.

The management company didn't let him know when they'd rented the place, and he probably could have checked. Maybe he should have, rather than risk bringing trouble to a bunch of strangers. This early in the season, though, who the hell would be out here?

With an audible click, Cabin Two's windows went dark. Micah stilled, guessing that something was about to happen. Cabin Two's front door opened several inches, and a four-footed form slipped out.

Shifting quickly, Micah took a two- or three-second refuge in his room-out-of-time, and when he returned to the porch, the creature had disappeared into the trees.

"Huh," he said. "Werewolf." That's who'd be out here in the middle of Juneuary .

Sharing his space with a supe didn't bother him, exactly, but it made him curious. It was a problem for another day, however. That brief shift set him back, and fatigue tugged at his muscles. He finished his sandwich with methodical intent, washing it down with the last of his Coke. The sugar and caffeine were no match for his body's need for rest, and soon he locked himself in his cabin and crawled back into bed.

When he woke again, the sun was directly overhead.

"Noon?"

No one answered him, but he hadn't expected a response. Pulling on a worn tee shirt, he peered through his bedroom window. The air was warm, as if Mother Nature had finally decided to give summer a chance, and there were two other cars parked next to the pickup truck.

"What the hell?" Unable to help himself, he cut through the small front room and came to a stop on the porch. The door to Cabin Three was open, and a young woman came out. She was fourteen, maybe a year or so older, and she gave him a curious smile. He couldn't quite manage a smile back, and she ducked back into the cabin.

He stood there for another minute, debating whether to call the management company and have them get rid of his guests. He came out here for the privacy; the more people who knew where he was, the greater the danger.

To them and to him.

Before he came to a decision, the guy from Cabin Two came out. He crossed his small porch and jogged down the steps, heading to Cabin Three. The door was still open, and he knocked on the door frame.

A woman came out, giving him a quick hug. She was short, barely reaching the man's shoulder, and her dark hair was pulled up in a sloppy knot. They chatted, keeping their voices low. This was one of the rare situations when he wished polymorphs had the enhanced senses of a werewolf. Regardless, he guessed they were talking about him by the way the woman kept glancing in his direction.

They were still conversing when a man came out of Cabin Four. He was older, stocky, with grizzled, close-cropped hair. They all greeted each other, still conversing in low tones.

What. The, Hell? He was definitely going to be giving the management company a call.

He knew he should go inside, leave them to their business. He didn't. He stayed on his porch, making no effort to pretend he wasn't watching them. Only when the man from Cabin Two turned away from the others and started coming in his direction did he realize he'd made a strategic error.

Because the man—the werewolf—was handsome as fuck. Deep mahogany curls with red highlights. Broad shoulders, slim hips, thick thighs.

The guy was obviously coming to talk to him, and here he was, sleep-sweaty, ragged sweatpants, and hair that had gone far too long without seeing a comb.

Why did he even care? He had too much going on for his dick to get into the act.

When the guy got close, he extended his hand. "Hey man, how's it going? My name's Anders."

Micah's hand came out on autopilot, but as he clasped Anders' hand, his mind was scrambling. "Hi." They shook hands, Anders giving him an expectant look. "Name's Micah." Way to think on your feet. "Micah Jenkins."

"Nice to meet you, Micah." Anders' mouth might've said "Nice," but his subtle once-over was way more eloquent. While Micah could have used a different name to better cover his tracks, he liked the way the word sounded coming from Anders.

"I'm just wondering how long you'll be staying here. We have all these cabins booked through the weekend, and—"

"You don't have this one booked." Micah straightened, wishing he could shake off the feel of the guy's hand in his.

"Yeah, we do." Anders crossed his arms, raising his chin. "We've booked this whole resort."

"I'm sorry, man." Micah managed to sound truly sorry because part of him wanted to do whatever he could to make Anders happy. And he wished he'd combed his hair. "But I own the whole place, and Cabin Seven is never rented out."

The guy's gaze narrowed. "Would it help if I showed you the contract?"

"Contract, birth certificate, band flyer; show me anything you want. Won't matter. This is my cabin, and if there's been an error, I'll make sure the management company reimburses you."

"Then you'll have to reimburse us the whole amount. We booked this place for a private retreat. No one else can be here."

Micah fought the urge to point out that the contract should have included a "no werewolves" clause. "Look, I'm happy for you to use the other cabins. I won't bother you. In fact"—he yawned—"I'm going to spend most of my time asleep."

Two cars turned off the road and into the gravel driveway. Anders watched them for a minute, then turned back to Micah. "I'm going to call the management company. We were promised privacy—"

"Dude…" With a sigh, Micah raked a hand through his tangled hair. "You shouldn't be here at all. If six cabins and my promise of silence aren't enough for you, then shove off."

Anders' glare turned angry. "Sure. Like I'm going to trust some vagrant who's squatting in a cabin I paid for."

Why were the pretty ones always such assholes? "Call the management company. Do your worst. I'm going back to bed."

He went inside, closed the door, and locked it. He needed to contact the management company, but that would take a couple of steps. "Damn it." With heavy eyelids, he dug out his burner phone and dialed a number he'd long ago memorized. That brought him to an answering service, where, after reciting a secret code, he reached the company. The call went straight to voicemail, and the message he left didn't contain most of the expletives in his head.

It did, however, threaten anyone stupid enough to rent out Cabin Seven and promise to dock the pay of anyone who did. That'll light a fire under their ass . Hanging up, he cursed out the management company, Anders, and werewolves in general.

Double-checking the front and back doors to make sure they were locked, he crawled back into bed.