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West put the protection of his pack ahead of everything else, including his personal life. I related to him more than he knew.
A familiar buff werewolf intercepted us as we approached the trailers on foot.
“Well, if it isn’t the lady of the big pile of blue stones and her demon pet.” The werewolf I’d dubbed Beefy Bert bowed in a sweeping gesture.
“Arise, Sir Bert,” I said.
Kane gritted his teeth. “If you need help arising, I’d be happy to assist you.”
I pictured Bert flying through the air and landing on the doorstep in a mangled heap. Not the outcome I wanted.
Before the interaction had time to escalate, Weston Davies rounded the corner of his trailer. He wore his trademark worn jeans paired with a long-sleeved black shirt beneath a black puffy vest. Black work boots and wraparound sunglasses made him look more like an off-duty Colorado ski instructor than a backwoods werewolf alpha. Still, the look suited him.
“Hey, West,” I greeted him. I couldn’t help but like him, regardless of his mixed feelings about me.
“Clay.” His gaze slid to Kane. “Sullivan, what brings you to pack territory?”
“One of your members,” Kane replied. “Anna.”
West’s brow furrowed. “What business do you have with Anna?”
“Have you seen her today?” I asked. “Or last night?”
West cast a quizzical look at Bert, who shrugged. “Is there a problem?”
“You know Anna,” Bert interjected. “She probably mouthed off to the wrong supernatural, and now she’s somewhere licking her wounds.”
“Oh, I definitely think she’s licking her wounds,” Kane said. “From what I understand, there are many of them.”
West growled. “And how’d she get these wounds?”
“I’d worry about that part later,” Kane suggested. “In your position, I’d be more concerned with her well-being.”
“It wasn’t us,” I added quickly. I wanted to make it clear that we were here to help, not apologize.
West flicked his chin at Bert, who made himself scarce.
“This way,” West said.
He ambled to a trailer farther along the horseshoe shape, three doors down from his own. The only decoration in the compact front garden was a small Bigfoot statue carrying three gnomes.
West noticed my gaze. “Anna has a mild obsession with Bigfoot. You’ll see.”
“Everybody needs a hobby,” I quipped.
He knocked on the front door, calling Anna’s name. No answer. He pivoted to face us. “Stay here until I tell you otherwise.” He turned back to the door. “Anna, this is West. I’m coming in.”
The door was unlocked. He slipped inside the trailer, leaving the door ajar. I didn’t pass up the opportunity to spy. I took a casual step closer to the inch-wide crack and leaned forward. The interior was too dark to see anything except the outline of furniture.
“Anything?” Kane prompted.
I shook my head.
“A blackbird can squeeze through that gap. Shall I sprout wings?”
I looked at him. “And have West fry you for lunch? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’d have to agree,” West said, startling both of us. “I don’t have a taste for blackbird.”
