Birthright (Pale Moonlight Book 1) Read online

  Those she held onto. When the urge came on, it was good to have contacts. Human males lacked the stamina she required, but they scratched an itch. Whatever need remained after their interlude, well…she had access to plenty of self-pleasuring devices. With an added bonus that she’d have more answers for Mrs. Higgins.

  A bachelorette party came in, giggling and snickering over the items they bought for the future bride. Those types had irritated Maggie at first, but she’d grown to truly enjoy them. Youthful, excited for the future, supporting each other…all things that had been taken away from her.

  While helping them, the door dinged with another customer. Maggie didn’t have to look up to know.

  He was here. The guy Maggie waited for.

  He wore slacks, a button-up striped shirt, and a crooked tie. His hair hung limp on his forehead. She had no idea what he did for a living, but she knew him for what he was as soon as he’d entered the shop a few weeks ago.

  In the back room, he picked through the videos available for rent. Like the other times he’d been in, he perused the selection but came out empty-handed.

  Scanning the traditional vibrators and cock rings, he made his way to the edible undergarments. He always bought those.

  His behavior wouldn’t be unusual—to a human. Normal dudes didn’t smell like him: seedy, dirty, wrong. It was the smell of a sexual predator. A scent Maggie had imprinted on her brain over a decade ago.

  What the man didn’t know was that he wasn’t the only predator in the room.

  She finished with a customer, acutely aware of the man. Last time he’d paid with cash and she’d missed the flash of his address on his license when he’d opened his wallet. He wouldn’t use a credit card. Too easy to track the purchase if his victim ever sought help, or if he ever went too far and the victim couldn’t seek aid.

  “How’s your Friday going?” She used a cheery tone as he approached to pay.

  His gaze rose from her cleavage. “Good.”

  He wasn’t a talker. Some of them were. Targeting her while chatting, evaluating if she was an easy catch. The Gift Shop was her best chance for hunting men like Edible Panties Guy. Sure, predators were everywhere, but at the store, they came to her often enough to keep her busy.

  “That’ll be twenty-nine, ninety-two.” Please hold your wallet open.

  The wallet opened, the slot holding his license faced away from her.

  Dammit.

  He pulled out a twenty and ten. Before he closed the wallet, she made her move.

  Grabbing the store’s business card, she tucked it into the middle slot, exerting enough force to tip the wallet back. “Here’s our online store information. There’s a wider variety available than what we carry in the store.” She leaned over, arching her back, her breasts nearly falling out to grab his attention. Her heightened eyesight picked out his address.

  She straightened, flashing a radiant smile. “Enjoy your night.” Fucker.

  Her bust stung from his leer.

  The rest of the night went so damn slow. Five minutes before close, a customer entered and took her sweet ass time—naturally. Finally, Maggie was done with work, the store was closed. Time to begin the hunt for Wally Donaldson, four-twenty-one Sycamore Lane.

  Chapter Two

  Nothing compared to the physical labor of carpentry. Once Porter donned his tool belt, he was in the zone—old school style. None of that shit with nail guns. Each swing of the hammer soothed his spirit, simmered the anger threatening to take over, allowed him time to think. And plan.

  He continued work on the library’s basement renovations because he needed to fucking hit something, motivated by memories of the vampire attack on their colony twenty-five years ago. The entire village remembered; no one spoke of it. Their beloved leader, Bane Troye, had been slain, along with his oldest son, Keve. In the aftermath, the widow had fled with her two younger kids, leaving Seamus the opening he’d sought for so long.

  If Porter could go back and throttle the widow he would. Seamus had caused problems for years, since Porter was old enough to understand pack politics. Then she left with the last Troye blood relatives. A brutal fight of prospective leaders had left only Seamus standing.

  Porter’s father was one of the slain.

  Slamming a two-by-six down, Porter yanked out his measuring tape. Framing a wall rested high on his pleasurable list. Any prospective female in the village paled against the satisfaction of a newly built wall measuring square after the first try.

  Means you haven’t found the right female, Porter, he heard his father’s rumble. One of the many pieces of sage advice he’d dispensed Porter over their projects, special father-son bonding.

  Sweet Mother Earth, he missed that guy. His mother had been killed in the vampire attack. Porter had been grief-stricken, but it was a drop in an ocean compared to her mate. His father had been emotionally flayed open, dying slowly with each passing minute, his soul yearning to seek peace with his eternal mate.

  If his father had won the challenge with Seamus, he might have found the will to go on, the responsibility of the village enough to keep him going. Instead, he’d held back, not fighting to his full potential, a form of suicide, really, and Porter witnessed how easily a shifter as brutal as Seamus could rip a heart out.

  Porter kicked another board into position, squatting down to nail it in place.

  How long had he been wracking his mind for a way to remove Seamus Meester from Lobo Springs future?

  An image of an aggressive, mulish, bad-tempered cocksucker popped into his head. Jace Stockwell.

  It had taken Porter forever to track down the oldest surviving child of Bane Troye. Until a few years ago when he’d heard about a Jace Stockwell who’d been made a Guardian, the law enforcement of their people.

  Porter had tracked Jace to the shifter nightclub, Pale Moonlight, where he’d worked before becoming a Guardian. He’d talked with Jace, his goal to persuade him to come home and claim his Great Moon lineage and boot Seamus the fuck out. Not even Seamus could argue with birthright, especially from as beloved a leader as Troye had been.

  Troye is my history. My mate and the Guardians are my future. Don’t ever come around asking me about it, or my family, again.

  Porter’s legendary level head had taken a vacation after he heard those words. The club’s owner hauled him out before he incited a riot from the emotions roiling off him.

  A growl escaped. His hammer slipped, the nail pinging away to skitter across the floor. A forty-degree bend in the rod-shaped metal ruled it out for being used again.

  Swearing under his breath, Porter reached for another nail only to find his pouch empty.

  Hell, it was lunchtime anyway.

  “Duuude, you fighting with yourself down here?” His best friend and fellow pack member, Sanders Claude stomped down the stairs.

  “Yeah, I kinda am. This remodel is going longer than planned.” Because I’m going slow as hell.

  “I understand. Heard there were some intense discussions during the Town Hall meeting.” Sanders leaned against the railing.

  Porter wouldn’t recommend it. His friend might find himself on his ass when the rickety screws gave out. The lower level of the library he renovated needed the update badly. It had been the easiest gutting he’d ever done; everything was already falling apart. “It was one discussion, and it was shut down too quick to be intense.”

  He hooked his hammer into his tool belt and unstrapped the entire contraption. Setting it by his tool box, he circled around to pick up the rest of his tools.

  “I stopped by to see if you needed some help. Or needed to talk where keen ears couldn’t hear.”

  Pushing his hair off his face, Porter realized that, yes, he had some things to run across Sanders. No one knew about his investigation into the Troye survivors, or his talk with Jace. His friend was the most grounded individual he knew, other than himself. He might have some insights into Porter’s next step.

  “Yeah, man.
I was just breaking for lunch. Did you bring your tools?”

  “I didn’t.” A jovial smile spread across Sanders face. “I can get them when you run home with me to grab a bite to eat. You know Betha always makes extra for you.”

  They were as close as family, but Porter sniffed an ulterior motive. “And you can run your inventory needs past me?”

  “The furniture you build is legit, dude.” Sanders ruffled his sandy blond hair. “I sold a few pieces to a Freemont retailor and they were snapped up. I have your share of the profits.”

  “Nah.” Porter waved away the offer. Sanders and Betha were expecting their first born, they’d have better use for the cash. “Keep supplying me with the raw materials and I’ll throw some shit together. It fuels my hobby.”

  “Betha’s not going to let you get away with that.”

  Sanders was probably right. Like most shifter females, she was a force.

  They chatted the entire way through the library. Leaving the building, Porter lifted his face to the warm spring sun. The breeze this time of year still held some of its winter bite, and today it carried a pungent odor. Sanders conversation died away, both males catching sight of the source of the ill smell.

  At his work pickup stood Seamus’ two favorite henchmen.

  Porter hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets, leveling them with a stare. His eyes were such a dark brown that their near blackness unnerved most people. “Can I help you two ladies?”

  Brutus, a male with a neck as thick as his skull, held up a sheet of paper. “I would work on that comedy routine. Cuz you may not be building shit anywhere around here in the near future.”

  Snatching the paper, Porter tuned out the taunts to read. Sanders peeked over his shoulder. And swore.

  No. Fucking. Way. “Why would I be issued a cease and desist?”

  “There’s been complaints on the quality of your work.” Brutus filled in, his tone turning snide.

  Porter barely heard, blood pounded too loudly between his ears. “Complaints about what?”

  Seamus’ other minion, Cletus, smiled, showing broad square teeth. “The roof on the bank addition you completed last month collapsed this morning. Sent two tellers home to heal. Closed the bank until further notice. Seamus was forced to deem your work unsafe and issue the order.”

  Crinkling the paper and tossing it back to Seamus’ lackeys, Porter sneered. “The roof didn’t collapse because of me and I can prove it.” Porter’s expertise would find the bull and the shit of Seamus’ claims.

  Cletus’ jeering grin told Porter that he would have no opportunity to do so. “You’ve already caused enough emotional trauma to the employees and customers of the bank. Seamus has banned you from the facility until further notice. Considering the trauma it caused, he’s been very generous…out of respect for your father, I’m sure.”

  Porter refused to take the bait; it was wedged in a bear trap. Brutus and Cletus vibrated with anticipation, waiting for him to react. “Thanks, gentlemen. Have a nice day and go fuck yourselves.”

  Cletus lunged forward, but Brutus yanked him back. “Leave the male alone,” he said, in a suspiciously placating manner. “He’s just lost his job and now he’s stuck here fixing a flat.”

  Porter’s gaze flew to the tires of his truck. The two he could see were normal.

  A blade glinted in Cletus’ hand as he slammed it into his rear tire.

  “Motherfuc—” A promising glare from the knife wielder silenced Porter.

  “What’s that, Denlan?” Brutus asked. “I don’t know if that’s the only tire you’re having trouble with. I certainly hope your spare is in good condition.”

  Porter lanced his tongue with a fang to refrain from lobbing more obscenities at the males. Sanders’ gaze flew between Porter and the two men. He’d have Porter’s back, but the best thing Porter could do for his friend was to keep him out of it.

  “That’s what I thought.” A smug glint passed through Brutus’ expression and he focused on Sanders. “How is Betha these days? Doing well?”

  Sanders glared back, the threat clearly registered.

  Porter’s fists clenched, Sanders flexed his fingers, a low growl growing in his chest. The brutes jumped into their ominous white work van and left.

  Those vans. They were like reverse animal control units. The animals who needed containment drove the damn things.

  If the last three challengers to the leadership position hadn’t mysteriously died before the event, Porter would throw the gauntlet down. Unfortunately, he couldn’t afford to die by accidental beheading working under his vehicle, be rendered to ash in a house fire, or nick himself with a silver blade and die of silver toxicity like the others. He’d serve his pack best, the whole village, if he outsmarted Seamus.

  One name came to mind; his last card to play. It had taken so long to find Jace Stockwell, because he’d grown up as Jace Miller after his mother had ghosted with them. He procrastinated approaching Jace’s younger sister because she’d been so young when over half their village had been slaughtered. No more dragging his feet.

  It was time for Plan B. B for birthright.

  ***

  Armana Miller scooped two more fudge brownies into the container she was sending home with Maggie. Ma’s leftovers. They’d be gone before the end of the night. Those brownies had a shelf life of ten minutes.

  “Settle with the chocolate, Ma. That’s a lot of stairs I’ll need to run.”

  Her mother dumped in three more. “You can handle it.”

  Totally. That’s why Maggie had egged her on. Her shifter metabolism burned through a nine-by-thirteen pan of gooey goodness in a day. She’d tested it—many times.

  Snatching the box, she tucked it under her arm. “I gotta get going. I said I’d help build the new nursery equipment the daycare purchased.”

  The suspicious expression her mother wore was nothing new. Maggie survived her mother with half-truths. Maybe she could smell it, but Maggie didn’t care. She had promised, only the furniture arrived Monday, during her shift, and she’d said if necessary she could stay late.

  It was never necessary, not for baby gear that arrived already assembled.

  “Be safe, Maggie,” Armana said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Always.” Maggie’s standard reply.

  Armana put human mothers to shame worrying about Maggie. She was nearing the big three-oh, but Ma treated her like an irresponsible teen. And Maggie let her, because all they had were each other. Like Maggie, Armana’s friends remained a tail’s length away.

  “I’m planning pork chops for our Sunday dinner tomorrow night,” her mom called as Maggie trotted to her car.

  Ah yes. Their standard Sunday dinner. The one day, every week, Maggie dedicated to Ma. Yet, Ma called almost every night to ask her over to eat with her. And some mornings for brunch.

  If her mom hadn’t sworn off their species, Maggie would try to find her a male. Armana attracted human men, ones who’d be a baby compared to her seventy-five years. To a human, Armana looked five or so years older than Maggie, her deep blue eyes bright and sharp, her sable hair always pulled back in a severe bun. Mother and daughter towered over most human women, both five-ten. At this stage in their lives, they pretended to be sisters while in the human world.

  Maggie steered into the Kwiki-Mart’s parking lot to pull a Superman in the bathroom. Obedient, unadventurous daughter walked into the bathroom, sex in heels walked out. She earned a few double-takes from the customers and employees of the convenience store. The attention more due to her sheer, slinky top providing no coverage for her lacey black bra and tight leather pants than to her change in appearance. Because she was in a hurry, she wore simple red gladiator sandals and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail.

  She tossed her clothing in the backseat and tore out of the parking lot, planning her after-shift activities. Her day, up until dinner with her mom, consisted of casing Wally’s home. When he’d left to run an errand, she’d broken
into the rundown mid-sized home. A quick search through her normal areas of interest—the garbage, the medicine cabinet, and the closet—revealed receipts from two of the popular college hangouts and even a coffee shop, an empty pill bottle, and clothing that smelled of drunk, desperate women.

  The desperation wasn’t from a girl who couldn’t wait to hit it with Wally. Laced with confusion and the sharp bite of despair, the scents were the unique mix of a girl who was helpless to what was happening to her.

  How men like Wally continually got away with drugging and raping women, she didn’t know. Wait, she did. But unlike the predator who’d torn apart her family, Wally didn’t have a ton of money or connections. He had the bland features of a man who blended anywhere, and the knack to pick women who’d be too ashamed or humiliated to seek help. Wally didn’t have to plan attacks, he just needed to be in the right spot at the right time. He orchestrated the right time. Innocuously drug unsuspecting girls, and if the poor things happened to wander into the parking alone and disoriented, Wally would be there to help.

  After Maggie was done with work, the tables were going to be turned on dear Wally.

  Chapter Three

  Porter followed the little car to a store on the edge of town. He’d hardly ever done more in Freemont than hit the hardware stores and lumber yards, but hunting Jace and his sister had familiarized him with the area. Still, he hadn’t heard of The Gift Shop.

  He was lucky his mind worked enough to read the words on the sign. With his tire changed, he’d flown to the address he had for Armana Miller in time to see Maggie pull away in her car. He stayed well behind, following her. Parking in an empty lot across from the Kwiki-Mart, he’d almost missed the tall female run into the store. All he saw was long, dark brown hair, and a lush ass filling out blue jeans.

  The glimpse was enough for his libido to remind him it’d been awhile. The tensions with Seamus and watching his back had put sex down on the priority list. If a shifter could die during sex, he wouldn’t put it past Seamus to figure out how and test it on him.