Chapter One

There was no such thing as rest for the weary or sleeping in late at the Darque and Knight Rodeo because you’d had a rough night or drank a bit too much, not when Rodney Randall Cogburn decided it was time to rise and shine. Rodney, who knew he appeared in his bird-form as an ugly, scraggly rooster with one eye and an attitude belonging to a much bigger, fiercer creature—and cared not—began crowing at the first sign of sunrise. Just a hint of lightness in the sky was all it took, a barely discernable color shift from black to midnight blue and his call of cock-a-doodle-doo raucously rang out across the rodeo grounds.

He believed it was his sworn duty to wake everyone within a one square mile radius—at least every magical creature within hearing, which accounted for everyone living and traveling with the rodeo. Such was the meaning of life for a rooster, and especially—in Rodney’s opinion—for a rooster-shifter, such as himself. And, although he would never admit it out loud even if someone had thought to ask him—it gave him a bit of devilish delight to hear the groans and grumbles of the ones woken against their will. Serves ’em right. Doesn’t hurt most of ’em to get took down a peg or two. Thinking they’re all high and mighty because they don’t look like roadkill warmed over, like me, he thought.

Rodney usually didn’t think long on his looks. There’d been a time in his life when he’d been cock-of-the-walk, a randy, proud rooster with fine plumage and a bright red comb and wattle in his poultry-form, and a wide-shouldered, slim-hipped handsome man with a rock-hard ass that never quit, but that was years ago, before life had beaten the pretty out of him. Now he knew he was ugly, but at least he had a purpose.

In addition to waking everything with a heartbeat at the crack of dawn, it was also his belief that it was his duty to patrol the rodeo grounds, to keep things in order and everyone on their toes. He would hide beneath a trailer in the parking lot, for example, and just as someone walked by, happily munching on their corndog, he would appear in a furious flutter of feathers, scratching, squawking, and beating his wings, usually startling the person so much they dropped the corndog.

Which he promptly ate, dust, grass, and all, as soon as they hurried past.

Judging by the sun, it was already past noon, and the rodeo was open for business. People poured in through the main gates, some heading for the midway, others for the arena, still others for the food tents. He needed to do his patrol, and maybe grab some lunch while he was at it.

He hid under the flap of a tent that sold souvenirs and waited patiently for a likely victim. “Squawk! Squawk!” he screamed and jumped out into the path of two men, Loki, a corgi-shifter, and his husband Bailey, a fainting goat shifter.

True to his nature, as soon as Rodney unexpectedly jumped out and squawked, Bailey fainted, shifting into his goat-form and lying motionless on the ground, all four legs sticking straight out, as stiff as boards.

Sadly, neither Bailey nor Loki was eating anything at the moment. Rodney cursed under his breath. Damn it. Not even a freaking peanut. Don’t these two ever eat? He’d need to seek out his lunch farther on in his travels. Still, at least he’d reminded these two men who the boss of the rodeo was, at least in Rodney’s view.

“Goddamn it, Randall!” Loki bellowed, using Rodney’s middle name just to annoy Rodney, and kicked dirt at him, trying to shoo the rooster away. “Look what you did!” Loki knelt beside Bailey and stroked his neck and side, trying to calm him so he would shift back into his man-form. “Get out of here, Rodney, before you end up in a fucking stew pot, stringy as you are, you hell-sent, demonic chicken!”

Rodney clucked and made huffy oo-oo sounds under his breath. Demonic chicken, indeed! If only these rubes knew that it was him, Rodney, who kept the fairgrounds safe! Sure, he liked to startle the bejebus out of rodeo folk from time to time, but a guy had to let off a little steam now and then, didn’t he? And where did these rodeo folk get off using his middle name? So many did it, even he began to get confused over which was his first name—Rodney or Randall. Ugh. Stupid rodeo people. He squawked at Loki again before running away and losing himself between the rows of trailers in the parking area.

He ducked under one trailer, and out the other side, shaking a cobweb off his head. Nobody ever cleaned under their trailers. Not one person ever thought to give the underside of their Winnebago or Airstream a quick hosing off, and then they wondered why he always looked so scruffy. They’d look ratty too if they had to spend their days running from under one vehicle to another, pushing through sticky webs and ducking spiders the size of puppies.

Spiders. Ew. He despised them. He wasn’t afraid of much, but those creepy, eight-legged monstrosities were at the top of his very short list. Even thinking about them gave him the shivers. Wolf spiders were the worst of the lot, as far as he was concerned. They carried their babies on their backs, and there were always about a bajillion little ones ready to fall off if the mama was jostled. It looked like a scene from a horror movie when that happened, babies swarming everywhere, and it was one he’d much rather not be the star of, thank you very much.

Pushing all thoughts of arachnids out of his mind, he headed toward the midway, where he was sure to find food of some sort. One could always scrounge something good to eat in the food court section. The lions who ran the food tents were excellent cooks, and him finding freebies was a sure thing, because people were, as a whole, in his opinion, slobs. Bits and pieces of corndogs, kernels of popcorn, chunks of those big soft, salty pretzels he adored, and abandoned pizza crusts were liberally sprinkled all over the ground near the food tents and picnic tables, and all free for the taking if one didn’t mind a bit of sawdust or grass or an ant or two stuck to them. Which he didn’t. He had his pride, but not at the expense of his stomach.

Finding a half a piece of corn on the cob with only a few kernels missing and a single ant strolling along between the golden nubs was like finding treasure. He pecked at it, enjoying the sweet flavor and the ghostly taste of butter that still lingered on it. It was delicious, and he ate every sunshine-yellow bit of it, including the ant.

Half an ear of corn didn’t fill the gaping maw of his stomach, though, and he went on, turning his beak up at a few pieces of caramel corn, since they were sticky and had collected too much dirt, even for him. Then, near one of the food tents run by the lion-shifters, he found an almost full bag of chips. It had been discarded next to the trash barrel. Someone probably tried to toss it out, but missed, and was too lazy to pick it up and dispose of it properly—luckily for Rodney.

Oh, the salty goodness! The crunchy deliciousness! He made soft cooing noises in his throat as he ate, pecking at the chips with relish, but even when so absorbed by the experience of eating the potato chips, he was careful to keep his one remaining eye sharp, watching for anyone trying to sneak up on him. Too often a boot would swing out in his direction when one of the rodeo people spotted him, or someone would try to take a broom to him. Those times never ended well—for the person holding the broom or wearing the boot—but still, he’d much rather eat his chips in peace and quiet than fight.

Happily, no one noticed him hidden in the shadow of the trash barrel, and he was able to finish his chips without being harassed. Once his stomach was finally filled, for the moment at least, it was time to continue his rounds.

The rodeo was protected by a powerful spell that was supposed to make sure no humans saw the bright lights or tents of the show, or breach the entry, but he was not convinced the spell was foolproof. Warlocks were not perfect, after all. They could make a mistake, leave a hole in the spell, or a weak spot so thin even a human could see through it. So, every day, rain or shine, he patrolled the rodeo grounds, covering every inch of it from the big arena where they did the bronco busting and bull riding and barrel racing among other events, to the gaudy tents of the freakshow, to the pens where they kept the demon bulls and other critters, and of course, to the food court. No human would get into the rodeo undetected, not on his watch.

Just as Rodney was about to turn the corner and head toward the pens where they kept the demon bulls, he spotted something unusual. Or rather, some one acting in a suspicious manner. He bwack-bwacked to himself, muttering. Who is this guy? Why does he look so out of place? I don’t recognize him, so he’s not a worker with the show, but he doesn’t have the look of the usual rodeo mark, neither. He ain’t human, but there’s something just not right about him. I’d bet my tailfeathers on it.

The man looked north of forty, was tall and broad chested, with thick thighs and arm muscles that strained the fabric of his button-down shirt. It wasn’t how the man looked that set off Rodney’s radar—although he looked damn fine, even Rodney was forced to admit that much—it was the fact that the man was walking in a straight line down the center of the midway, looking neither to the left nor the right, eyes glazed as if seeing nothing.

It was weird, and in Rodney’s book, weird equated to dangerous, which in turn, demanded a closer look. Rodney clucked quietly, then slipped between the tents, keeping pace with the man while trying not to be seen himself.

A boot swung dangerously close to his head. “Get out of here, you raunchy rooster!”

One of the lion-shifters, Rodney thought it might be Big Rich, roared at him, and tried to kick him out from between the food tents. Rodney squawked and flew up, pecking at Big Rich’s legs. He knew enough not to tangle with a lion-shifter, though, and hurried away, crossing the midway to the other side.

Staying in rooster-form was obviously not going to work for this particular mission. He needed to be able to move freely between the people, and there was only one way to do that. Squeezing between the backsides of two tents where he knew no one could see him, Rodney shifted into his man-form. He had no choice.

He stepped out on to the main path again, walking swiftly to catch up with the stranger. A second, closer look at the odd man sent a chill up his spine. Not the man himself—although handsome, the outsider appeared to be docile enough. It was the small, embroidered patch Rodney spied on the man’s vest that had set his nerves on edge.

The emblem was a red rooster comb on a purple background, and there was no mistaking it. More importantly, it told Rodney the docility the man exuded must only be a ruse, a coverup.

The patch was the symbol of the Red Wattle Clan, and this man must be a bona fide member, which meant big trouble had come to the Darque and Knight Rodeo.