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He had. “We should name him Squeaker.”
Gummy chuckled, the sound warm as it mixed with the hum of the cicadas. And that told Yordan more than anything that Gummy wasn’t worried about the prank so much as the problem behind it.
“My shit’s clean,” he stressed.
“Talk to the shrink anyway.” Gummy’s eyes hardened, though there was an element of regret in the look. “Or you’re not coming back.”
It was the regret that made Yordan realize Gummy was serious. But what the hell shit did he have to work out?
He had plenty of time to mull that over as he drove the crap van up to Michigan. Wulf, Inc. had an estate there, complete with a huge mansion where the geeks had been based. All sorts of toys were available up there.
But work was his life—for the moment anyway—so he drove through the night and arrived midmorning to the one thing he hated worse than feelings.
Paperwork.
A huge damn stack of it on a clipboard held by the king of all paper pushers, Kit McNabb, aka The Scot. Not just A Scot. Not a Scotsman. No. He was The Scot because he was big enough, officious enough, and annoying enough to be labeled THE. As in The Biggest Pain in the Ass.
Technically, he was Gummy’s boss. He coordinated all seven combat packs and, by all appearances, was fairly good at it. The guy was objectively handsome with his blue-gray eyes and red hair. Some people called him charming with the way he turned on and off his brogue just to get the girls to go “oooh.” But what really made him a waste of space was the fact that he was a natural shifter from a whole line of Scottish werewolves. Some of their best fighters had come from the Highland McNabbs, but this guy—the heir to the clan chief—was nothing more than a bureaucrat. Right about when the shit hit the fan in Wisconsin, the great heir to the McNabbs requested a transfer from his combat team and turned into a paper pusher.
Coward.
Unfortunately, he was a coward with authority. And he was waiting for Yordan with the gift of several hours of bureaucratic bullshit.
Too bad Fuse wasn’t here. Yordan could use a few flying alligators right now. Especially if one landed right on top of The Scot.
CHAPTER 2
Don’t Meet Your Idols. They Remember Every Time Your Offering Sucked
Kit didn’t have time for this. He had seven different combat teams deployed throughout the country, all trying to clean up the mess left by Wisconsin’s black hole of death. The hole itself was gone, but paranormals were acting weird the world over, thanks to leftover voodoo from the black hole. No, it wasn’t actually voodoo, but that was what he called whatever was making ghosts start singing karaoke and ghouls take up knitting. Those two were harmless enough, but when the average Barbie doll started acting like Chucky, the mundane world went crazy and Wulf, Inc. had a problem.
He’d been working nonstop for months now, not just to clean up the residual mess but to train his replacement. Or that had been the plan. The last two “replacements” had burned out before they’d made it two weeks. A third hadn’t made it a day before flaming out with an “I’d rather live in the death hole than do your job.”
At this point, Kit was getting desperate. He had to get home to work his shit out. For eighteen months now, he’d been unable to shift like normal. It was horrible, and no one here could figure out why he was suddenly a freak. He hoped the answer lay in Scotland, but he couldn’t abandon seven combat teams without support. They needed someone to do his job ASAP. Which was why he was taking time he didn’t have to stand in the motor pool waiting for his secret idol.
Yup. Yordan Basch was his secret werewolf crush. The man was a true badass. He’d seen more field time, defeated more bad guys, and trained more recruits than their semi-mythical founder, Wulfric. But that wasn’t what impressed Kit so much. No, what really set Kit’s secret heart aflutter was that Yordan treated everyone exactly the same.
It didn’t matter how scary, how dangerous, or how stupid the being, Yordan was unfailingly blunt with them all. He said what he thought without holding back, and that was the mark of a true don’t-give-a-shit man. He had no need to look smart or prove himself. He did his job and had no patience for those who didn’t. He was so badass that his name was his own call sign. No nickname ever stuck. He was Yordan, werewolf legend.
Which, of course, was why he had no time for Kit.
Kit was the man who made him follow seemingly nonsensical protocols, fill out reams of paperwork, and report to their pseudo-shrink, the alien named Gelpack. And now Kit was here to offer the man a lifetime of setting policies, doing reports, and forcing others to check in on their own mental health.
But maybe there was a way Kit could pitch it so Yordan would be interested. There had to be some way to get through to the guy.
He began with a warm smile as Yordan’s van turned the corner into the large motor pool lot. The garage was separate from the regular estate, barely paved and treacherous in winter, but necessary given the extent of Wulf, Inc.’s operations. It had been on Kit’s list to get the whole area upgraded—potholes were the least of their problems—but life had been one long hop from crisis to crisis since the shit hit the fan in Wisconsin over a year ago.
The van looked like shit. He was used to salt-covered sludge on their cars. They lived in Michigan after all. But this looked like the van belonged in a Swamp Thing movie. Or it was the Swamp Thing.
Kit frowned, wondering what the hell had happened, when the daily slip and slide occurred. Yordan’s van hit a patch of black ice. They salted or sanded the lot daily, but some things were determined to go disastrous no matter what they did. Apparently, swamp muck and black ice did not go together safely.
In his defense, Yordan came in at a prudent speed, but he’d clearly forgotten that the lot was cursed for one accident a day, no matter the weather. They didn’t know the cause, but everyone suspected fairies. They just couldn’t figure out who had broken Wulf, Inc.’s prime directive. Don’t negotiate with fairies was burned into every new recruit’s mind, and yet somehow, people still did it. Everyone thought they could come out ahead with the fae, but the magical assholes always found a way to get you in the end.
And they got Yordan.
The van spun out on a patch of black ice that hadn’t been there two minutes ago. Kit saw Yordan try to adjust. The man could drive, that was for sure, but no one could maneuver on fairy ice. Not if it was determined to hurt you.
Like everyone else, Yordan turned the wheels into the spin. That was what you were supposed to do on normal ice. Unfortunately, the minute the wheels were going in the same direction as the spin, the van started spinning faster.
