Brothers of the Fang

  BROTHERS OF THE FANG

  By Sharon Joss

  BROTHERS OF THE FANG Copyright © 2013 by Sharon Joss

  All rights reserved.

  KINDLE EDITION

  Published 2013 by Aja Publishing

  www.ajapublishing.wordpress.com

  Copyright © 2013, 2014, 2016 by Aja Publishing

  Cover design by S. Roest / Aja Publishing

  Cover art © RTimages / Fotolia, © Tomasz Zajda / Fotolia

  Heraldic Griffin Design Copyright © by Buch / Dreamstime

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or incidents or events is coincidental and not intended by the author. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  We care about producing error-free books. If you find a typo or formatting problem, please send a note to ajapublishing@gmail.com so that it may be corrected.

  KINDLE EDITION

  ISBN: 978-0-9897828-2-1

  TABLE_OF_CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER1

  CHAPTER2

  CHAPTER3

  CHAPTER4

  CHAPTER5

  CHAPTER6

  CHAPTER7

  CHAPTER8

  CHAPTER9

  CHAPTER10

  CHAPTER11

  CHAPTER12

  CHAPTER13

  CHAPTER14

  CHAPTER15

  CHAPTER16

  CHAPTER17

  CHAPTER18

  CHAPTER19

  CHAPTER20

  CHAPTER21

  CHAPTER22

  CHAPTER23

  CHAPTER24

  CHAPTER25

  CHAPTER26

  CHAPTER27

  CHAPTER28

  CHAPTER29

  CHAPTER30

  CHAPTER31

  CHAPTER32

  CHAPTER33

  CHAPTER34

  CHAPTER35

  CHAPTER36

  CHAPTER37

  CHAPTER38

  CHAPTER39

  CHAPTER40

  CHAPTER41

  CHAPTER42

  CHAPTER43

  CHAPTER44

  CHAPTER45

  CHAPTER46

  CHAPTER47

  CHAPTER48

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT_THE_AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1 : OH BROTHER

  Justin Owsley stood in the open doorway, his eyes drawn to the cage sitting in the middle of the loft. His heart pained him as he met the glare of the dark-haired man who paced silently on the far side of the room. The cage fairly screamed that the owner was a werewolf, but this guy didn’t have any of the tells. His eyes were brown, not amber, like Justin’s. He appeared fit and well muscled, but lacked the massive neck and shoulders that made weres in human form so instantly identifiable. He didn’t smell like wolf, either.

  He glanced at his trip sheet. “You Mike Bane?” The guy looked tantalizingly familiar but the name didn’t ring a bell. He proffered his card. “I’m with Brothers of the Fang Charities. You called for a pickup? Says here you’re donating a leather sofa, dining room table, and some boxes of cooking utensils.”

  Bane nodded at the room in general as he padded toward the kitchen counter. “It all goes. Everything but the cage.” Justin directed Torres and Coop to start with the sofa, while he began stacking the first three of a pile of neatly taped boxes onto the dolly. Down four flights of stairs and into the donation truck, then back up for another load.

  “What do you think,” Torres asked, as he threw a padded blanket over the sofa. “Is the cage for his girlfriend?”

  “No way. He’s a lone wolf. There’s no bedroom. No bed.” Justin handed the boxes up to Coop on the truck. This stop was the first scheduled pickup of the day.

  They started back up the stairs for the next load. “You should say something,” Torres said. “That guy is burned out. He’s hurtin’.”

  Justin snorted. “Why me? You’ve been through it, too. Why do I always have to be the one to say something?”

  “Cause you can’t help yourself.”

  Justin felt the warmth of their pheromone-infused humor wash over him. “Shut up.”

  Two hours later, the loft was nearly empty. Bane stood at the built-in breakfast bar, checking his email, his posture rigid, his eyes glued to the screen. He hadn’t said a word to them the whole time. Torres gave Justin an eyebrow jerk in Bane’s direction as he and Coop left with the big screen television.

  “You’ve donated some real nice stuff here, Mr. Bane. The guys at the center are going to love that big screen. It looks brand new.”

  Bane eyed him with a wary look.

  Torres was right; the guy was on edge. Justin had seen enough Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Acquired Lycanthropy Virus Syndrome to recognize a guy in trouble. Most of the donors to Brothers of the Fang were either military veterans or had ALVS, or both. He looked too young to be a vet, but weres didn’t age like humans.

  “Glad to hear it. I can’t use this stuff anymore.” He smiled, but his eyes were hard—cop eyes.

  What would a cop be doing with a cage in the middle of his living room? Something clicked in Justin’s memory. Oh shit. His face had been all over the news for weeks. “Hey, I know you. I mean, I saw your picture.” The lurid headlines. “You’re that werewolf cop.”

  Bane froze. “I am not a werewolf.” A tic jumped at his right eyelid.

  Justin took a step back. “That’s right; were-cat. I mean, I heard all about you. You’re a hero. You got a bad deal, bro. Busted for eating that drug dealer-.” Justin stopped at the hunted expression on Bane’s face.

  “Are we about done here?”

  “Um, yeah. You just have to sign here.” Justin handed the clipboard to Bane. “Look pal, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, I was just surprised. You’re like some kind of celebrity here in Queens. A lot of the Brothers, and me too, we think you got a raw deal. One less dope dealer in this town ought to be celebrated. I can’t believe they fired you.”

  “I wasn’t fired.” Bane’s dark eyes glowered back at him. “I resigned.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Were those werecat eyes? The guy could pass for human, easy.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve still got a couple things left to do.”

  Justin looked around at the now empty loft, and the brittle appearance of the man standing before him. He had to try. “No, wait. Look, I know it’s none of my business and all, but I know what you’re thinking. I know you’re going through a bad time. Shit, man. You lost control of your beast in a bad situation. But that’s no reason to off yourself. It can take years to develop that kind of control. We can help you. That’s what Brothers of the Fang is here for. That’s our purpose. Trust me brother, suicide is not the cure for ALVS.”

  Bane shook his head. “I don’t have ALVS. And I’m not your brother.”

  The guy was in denial. “I don’t believe you. If it was me that got caught eating the brains of that Hector Clemente guy, I’d be pretty upset too. Sometimes the appetites of the beast can get a little out of control in the beginning.”

  A ghost of a grin flashed across Bane’s face. “It’s not what you think. I’ve got a little place on the lake near Canandaigua. I grew up there. It’s already furnished, so this stuff won’t fit.”

  “Ah, the Finger Lakes,” Justin said. “That’s werewolf country.” Between the curfews, restrictions, and lack of open spaces nearby, city living didn’t agree wit
h most weres. The job opportunities were a lot tougher in rural areas of the state, but the rules were looser, and the Finger Lakes region had unrestricted hunting privileges for werewolves in the High Tor Wilderness Management Area. Thirty thousand acres of backwoods paradise. You could even join a pack. In the city, everyone was a lone wolf.

  Bane shoved the clipboard back at him. “Like I said before, I’m no werewolf.”

  Justin bit back his response and reached into his hip pocket for his wallet. He thumbed through the cards inside until he found the one he wanted. “Here. This is a good friend of mine, Dr. Sarah Powers. Everybody down there knows Dr. Sarah. She’s good people. She can help you learn to control your beast.” He held out the card. “In whatever form it may take.”

  He hesitated, and Justin sent up a little prayer to the First Wolf. Take it.

  “Thanks.” Bane looked at the card briefly before slipping it into his shirt pocket.

  Justin nodded. “Good luck to you then, brother.”

  “Stop saying that. I didn’t ask for any of this. If it weren’t for you damn werewolves, I’d still have a job. I’m a shifter, not a were.” His voice was low and tight. “I’m nothing like you.”

  The heat rose in Justin’s face. “Nobody here but us carnivores, Bane.”

  CHAPTER 2 : THE JOLLEY MAN

  The tinkle of the bell announced a fresh customer. Tom Jolley glanced up, but it was old man McNabb. “Hey Gale,” Tom greeted him. “How’s it going? What can I do for you?”

  “The grandson borrowed my crankbait kit for the weekend and lost it overboard.”

  Tom winced. “Oh jeeze.” He noticed the twinkle in McNabb’s eyes as he neared the counter. Tom knew from long experience that fishing and his grandson were McNabb’s two favorite topics. “You bragging or complaining?”

  “Well, mebbe you can’t remember what it was like when you were seventeen, but I do. He took that pretty new girlfriend of his out on the lake, ifffin’ you know what I mean.” McNabb wiggled his bushy white eyebrows for emphasis.

  Tom led the way down the aisle to the lures section. “You’re lucky he didn’t sink more than the tackle box.”

  “Oh, it was an old box. Not any of my good stuff. But I think he’d appreciate having one of his own. Nothing too fancy, but he’s gonna need a couple a them crawdads and a good selection of shad and a nice chartreuse.”

  An hour later Tom had just finished ringing up McNabb’s purchases when Mike finally walked in, looking gaunt. “Hey, Pops,” he said, softly. “Wanna buy some nightcrawlers?”

  “Nah, I’ve got the best bait in the state right here.” Tom hurried around the counter and grabbed his godson in a bear hug. He fought back tears of emotion as Mike lifted him off the ground, nearly squeezing the breath right out of him.

  “Put me down, boy.” He gave a quick swipe across his eyes. He couldn’t stop smiling.

  McNabb, other hand, looked like he was going to come unglued any minute. Coming face-to-face with the ‘Were-Cop Cannibal of Queens’ wasn’t going over too well, even though McNabb had one of the few who’d asked him for the real story. Tom hurriedly made the introductions. “Gale, you remember my godson, don’t you? This is Mike Bane.”

  McNabb hesitated, then jutted his chin and shook the younger man’s hand. “A course I do. A course you’re taller’n I remember. Tom here has been borin’ me silly with the news that yer finally movin’ back here from the city. A man can’t hardly get a word in edgewise these days. What are your plans?”

  Mike ran his hand through his hair. “Ah, nothing, yet. Just a little fishing, I guess.” He flashed a grin at Tom. “If you’re up to it, old man.”

  Tom snorted, but his heart wasn’t in it. So damn good to see him. “I bag my limit every time I go out, boy.” Not really a boy anymore, but the beast and the Fae blood in him kept him looking half his age. He did a quick calculation in his head. God, he must be in his mid-forties by now. He looked so much like Mia. She’d always thought Mikey favored his dad, but damn, the boy had his mother’s eyes and cheekbones.

  He raised an eyebrow at McNabb, and the old geezer took the hint and made a hasty exit. About time. He wondered if this would be the last time he’d see McNabb in the shop. It didn’t matter all that much if it was. Mike was home and that was the important thing. He yelled out for the dog. “Farley, get in here, you mutt. Look who’s back.”

  “He’s still here?” Mike’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “See for yourself.” The tall, shaggy deerhound trotted around the corner and paused, his tail fanning the air, graceful as a question mark.

  “Hey boy. Remember me?”

  The black dog lowered his head and trotted slowly across the tile floor toward Mike. Tom’s heart caught in his throat as Mike kneeled down to rub the dog’s crinkled ears. Farley groaned with pleasure.

  “He does remember.” Mike’s voice was tight.

  “Stop it, you two. You’re going to have me bawling like a baby in a minute. Come on, boy. Let’s get you settled in.” He locked the front door and led the way toward the back of the tackle shop. “The renters moved out last week, and I had Taffy’s niece in to clean yesterday. Dinner’s at your place. I stocked your fridge with a stringer of fresh-caught brownies and a six pack. Figured we’d have ourselves a nice fry-up.”

  “Oh man, I haven’t had fresh trout in ages. We got any of those potatoes and onions?”

  He held the back door open for Mike and the deerhound. “Wouldn’t be a fry up without ‘em now, would it? Let’s get going, I want to have a beer in my hand as I watch the sunset from your Dad’s screen porch.”

  Farley stood at the passenger door of Mike’s truck and gave a soft woof.

  Mike opened the battered door of his truck. “Is there enough for the mutt?”

  The dog leapt inside without a backward glance. Figured. “Nah, the mutt gets dog food. Fish gives him gas. I got you a fresh forty-pound sack.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for Farley to stay with me, Pops.”

  “I’ve had him long enough. He’s your kin, not mine, anyway.”

  * * *

  Later, after dinner, they sat out on the screen porch at the back of the house, drinking beer and watching the light fade from the sky. The sailor’s delight of a sunset over the lake had been spectacular; like a welcome home banner. They’d both eaten too much and laughed too much, but it was good. Good for both of them. Like a snagged line, suddenly freed, Tom felt they were back on an even keel again.

  “This is nice. Most nights it’s just me and Farley, and Farley doesn’t talk much.” He wanted to ask more about the fiasco in Queens, but Mike had always been so secretive about the jaguar. Of course, the press had gotten it wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the mood by asking.

  They watched the deerhound twitch in his sleep, woofing in that weird way that dogs do when they’re dreaming. No doubt chasing rabbits out on the Tor.

  “I don’t want to hurt him, Pops. He can’t stay here. I don’t think you understand--”

  Tom could feel his godson’s growing anxiety itch like sand under his shirt. “Oh I know what you mean. Cats and dogs and all that.” Tom slapped at a mosquito. “It’ll work or it won’t. This isn’t the city, boy. This property sits right on the Tor boundary and there’s plenty of open space for the both of you. As long as you remember the rules, your beast and the mutt will figure it out.”

  Mike’s face tightened. “The cat stays in the cage at night. I can’t take the chance of him hurting anybody.” He shook his head. “Ever again.”

  The haunted look on the boy’s face said it all. He’s a grown man, Tom reminded himself. “Quit worrying about Farley. He can take care of himself. There’s plenty of Fae creatures and wild game out there on the Tor. As long as you remain in beast form, it’s the perfect place to let the cat out to hunt. All the local weres hunt there, even the Mythica pack. Just remember that the High Tor Fae won’t tolerate trespassers in human form. It’s beasts
only.” Tom gave a glance to the dog. “No exceptions.”

  Mike rubbed at a stain on the arm of the faded blue sofa. “I’m never going out on the Tor again.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy. You keep that beast of yours caged up too long he’ll drive you mad. Just like what happened up there in Queens. Isn’t that why you came running back here after all these years?” Easy. He’s going to have to come to terms with this thing in his own way.

  His godson’s locked jaw twitched as he stared out across the dusky lake. Whatever happened to that eager, clever lad who was never afraid of anything; who was just brimming with enthusiasm for life? He’d wanted to see the world. Couldn’t wait to leave this place. Well, the world pretty much chewed him up and spit him out. Now he’s lost his job and his citizenship. He’s all alone, living in a cage. I’d give anything to take that monkey off his back, but I just don’t know what to say to him.

  Tom sighed. Maybe Farley would help. Couldn’t hurt. Taking care of the dog would give Mike something to do, at least. Even if the dog didn’t need it.

  “I could use a hand at the store,” he lied.

  “No you don’t. I saw the look on McNabb’s face. It took real guts for him to shake my hand. I’m sure everybody in town knows about me by now. Or thinks they do.”

  “You know how fast gossip spreads around here. We’ve grown a bit, but Canandaigua is still the same small town it used to be.” And that was the bitch of it. It didn’t matter that Mike was a local boy, or that he wasn’t infected with ALVS, or that he didn’t even look like a lycan. They’d tarred him with the same brush anyway. “We’re a tourist town; lycans are bad for business. Finding a job here might be difficult.”

  Mike gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for the offer. I just don’t think I’m cut out for waiting on customers all day. You’re the one they come in to talk to. Having me around is bound to affect your business. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Don’t say that.” Tom couldn’t stand the thought. “I don’t care what McNabb or any of them think. You’ll never see a ‘No Lycans Served’ sign in the window of my shop. As far as I’m concerned, lycan money is as good as anyone’s, and I’m not the only one around here that thinks that way. You should stop in at Taffy’s place. He’ll be glad to help you out with a job.”