Chapter One
“Yo, Rory, make me a sammich, will ya?”
Rory threw half an onion at his fellow firefighter’s head, and missed. “You wanna cook instead, Ben?”
There was a chorus of dismay and the sound of someone mock-barfing.
From the Chief’s office, a deep voice called out, “I forbid it.”
“Thought so.” Rory shook his head sadly. “Man, those biscuits you made – could’ve used them for hockey pucks.”
Ben picked up the half onion and took a big, crunchy bite, then grinned while the rest of the shift groaned with disgust. He would famously eatanything, which meant that his cooking had to be tasted to be believed. Tunafish and jelly sandwiches, a substance he swore was oatmeal but they’d privately agreed was tile grout…he could even fuck up bacon. They’d unanimously voted him off the kitchen rota.
“That was my grandmother’s recipe,” he said with his mouth full, hand on his heart as though mortally offended.
Rory pointed his knife at him. “I won’t listen to you slander an innocent old lady,” he rumbled, and went back to chopping onions for the lasagne he was building for the next day.
The trick to cooking for the squad was to make something that could be abandoned halfway through if a call came in, and reheated without turning into rubber. And something that could be made in bulk, of course –bearenate a lot, and every man in Firehouse 206 near Serenity, Illinois was a bearshiften.
It had been a quiet shift. The ambulance had been dispatched a couple of hours before to a kid who had his head stuck in the park railings, and when a tub of Vaseline and a lot of pulling had failed to get him free, the truck had been sent out with a high-speed steel saw to cut through the wrought iron. There had been a call about a cat in a tree, but the Chief had got on the line and suggested that they open a can of tuna. Nothing else so far.
In fact the whole week had been quiet. Most of it had been spent up at the water tower, cleaning off the graffiti that kept reappearing there:They walk among us. Werewolves are real!
To clean it off, they had to use fire department equipment to either climb up or abseil down. They couldn’t work out how it was even getting up there, but it kept coming back.
Everyone on the squad knew, though, that a quiet shift could turn on a dime. It only took one call – one dropped match, one spark from faulty wiring, one tipsy smoker falling asleep with a lit cigarette, one building site collapse or industrial accident…
The squad were ready to drop everything and move out when the call came, their boots lined up next to the engine, their turnout pants and jackets ready to shrug on. Even when the station was quiet, they ran drills, and they could go from suppertime to sirens in less than a minute.
When the stove timer beeped, Rory abandoned his prep work and pulled out big pans of chicken stew, thick with vegetables and topped with golden-brown cheddar biscuits. Good, rich smells filled the air.
Ben inhaled deeply. “You’ll make somebody a lovely wife one day, princess,” he said.
The laughter in response was half-hearted, and Rory fought not to let the pain those words caused him show. “You’ll make someone a lovely rug one day,” he shot back as the guys helped themselves to platefuls of the fragrant stew and sat down to eat. But his heart wasn’t really in it.
The fact was, none of them were likely to find wives. Ever. Almost all the femaleshiftenhad been killed off years before, victims of the demon Khain. The demon’s plan was one final generation ofshiften, mateless and suffering, and then nobody to stand in his way; the human race completely at his mercy without its protectors.
Rory joined the others at the table, and they ate their food in silence, listening to the clink and scrape of silverware against plates. Mostly it was just becausebearenrarely let anything get in the way of filling their bellies – they were big and brawny, and since almost all of them worked as firefighters, they needed the fuel. Rory was quiet for a different reason, though. Their paramedic, Brady, always with an uncanny knack for knowing when one of the others was hurting, spoke up.
“They’re still out there, you know,” he said to Rory. “The women. The ones from the prophecy. The ones who’re meant for us. You shouldn’t give up hope.”
Rory shook his head. “They’re not meant for us,” he said. “They’re going to be for thewolven. They’re the humans’ protectors, not us.”
There was a sudden bang, and the table shuddered. Ben had slammed his fork down on the tabletop and was on his feet, glowering. His usual infuriating good humor was gone, and his face was dark with anger. “Bullshit,” he said furiously. “That’s bullshit. We’re their protectors too. We risk our lives every damn day to keep people safe. Fuck you, Rory. Fuck you.”
And he stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard it bounced back open again, which kind of ruined the effect.
Nobody laughed, though. The emotion in the room was too raw for that. Rory stared down at the table, fists clenched on either side of his plate, afraid to open his mouth in case he roared.
Brady was the first one to speak, always the peacemaker. “He’s just hurting,” he told Rory. “He wants a mate – we all want a mate – and he’s scared it’s never going to happen for him.”
“Yeah, well for once the meathead is right,” Rory growled.
“Don’t be so sure,” said the Chief, drawing looks of surprise from along the table. He rarely got involved in arguments between the men, intervening only if he thought words would escalate into blows, or a disagreement would get in the way of their duties. “Abearenin Serenity has found a mate, one of the half-angel pledged.”
A prophecy twenty-five years before had foretold the coming of hundreds of women, half human, half angel, who would be True Mates for theshiften, bearing them offspring that would save their race.
There was a murmur of interest from the guys, but Rory snorted. “Yeah, and he buddies up to thewolvencops, works with the KSRT. Do you really think it’s gonna be the same for us? Nah, we’ll never get a look-in. Get used to the idea of making sweet love to your right hands,bearen. It’s the best you’re gonna get.”
A brief, tense silence. Then, “I’ve bunked with you, Rory,” came a voice from down the table. “Good thing you’ve been getting some practice in.”
The laughter eased the tension, and that was good. The squad needed to have each other’s backs. They couldn’t afford to fight amongst themselves or be distracted by uncomfortable realities. You didn’t need a lovelornbearenwatching your six when the building was in flames and the roof was coming down.
Rory found it difficult to shake the conversation, though. He joined in with the banter, but it was half-hearted and automatic. Was it really possible he could find a mate? He didn’t think so. He thought he was going to spend the rest of his days on the job. Then one day there’d be a flashover, or a falling joist, or a tumble through a burning floor, and he’d be killed. And maybe that would be for the best.
