Page 32 of Hidden

When one shifter lost control, others struggled. Add enough beer and good times, and inhibitions were already low.

Izetta flexed her shoulders, testing how well she’d healed. She winced, but Henry was a friend. She’d help if she could.

While the werebear locked up the till, she pulled herself to her full five foot four and strode into the crowd, her steps in time to the loud, thudding music. Bodies formed a wall close to the table-dancing shifter, but Izetta had sharp elbows. Soon, she’d forced her way to the front. There, she had a full view of the wolf.

He’d changed a little more, growing into his teeth but losing the ability to balance on two legs. Now he seemed confused as what to do with his forelegs and alternated between grabbing at bystanders and scrabbling to stay on the table.

“Chuck!” a round man cried at the creature. “Chuck, knock it off!”

The speaker looked more like a pug than a wolf, and Izetta couldn’t pinpoint his species. There were too many scents in the room.

“Chuck, get a grip! You’re gonna be sorry in the morning.”

But Chuck’s human brain had left the building. He howled as his palms elongated, sliding into a sickening, bone-crunching stretch that made Izetta swallow hard. Claws sprouted with a meaty squelch. Images flashed through Izetta’s mind—carnage, remorse, execution. Scenes like this never ended well for the wolf.

“Chuck!” called his friend.

The half-wolf wheeled on the man, who was standing far too close. One paw lashed out, claws spread for maximum damage. Pug-face ducked in time, but his pint of beer went flying in a spray of lager.

A drum solo thundered through the sound system.

“Woohoo!” someone yelled, tossing his own beer at the wolf. At the touch of the liquid, the creature snarled and spun.

“Stop it!” Izetta yelled, but the words were lost in the chaos.

The music shifted to a fast, heavy beat. Izetta sensed the pulses around her quicken to keep time. If potential violence had a scent, the air thickened with it.

“Whoa,” another laughed as more drinks sprayed in the air.

The half-wolf snarled, drawing yips and growls from the raucous crowd. A crow shifter cawed a laugh. Izetta tensed, second-guessing her chances in a fight with so many stupid drunks. She was still healing, and her reflexes weren’t sharp enough to take on a crowd.

And not this bunch. Eyes glinted yellow in the gloomy bar. Customers shed jackets and sweaters as their temperature spiked right before a shift. Izetta glanced around to see other patrons hurrying outside, the staff holding the door and all but pushing them through. At least some folks had sense.

“What’s the matter?” a female shouted at the creature on the table. “Can’t get your wolf all the way up?”

Izetta grabbed her and pushed her toward the door. The woman stumbled, her balance drowned in house red. Others hooted and laughed.

Henry shouldered his way to Izetta’s side, the shillelagh braced against one massive shoulder. Someone pelted beer nuts at the half-shifted wolf.

“Give the lad some space,” the werebear boomed.

A few shuffled resentfully away, but most weren’t listening.

The creature spun in place, gnashing fangs at the taunts and jeers. Even Izetta could feel the crackle of energy passing from shifter to shifter. One customer sprouted fur and dashed for the exit, pausing to lift a leg against the bar. Two others began tussling in the spilled beer. The yips turned into howls, winding up the crowd. One—out of beer now—went to throw his mug.

Henry grabbed his wrist. “Enough!”

The suicidal idiot took a swing at Henry. The blow connected with the werebear’s jaw, splitting skin. With a roar, Henry hurled his attacker into the crowd, landing on two werecats scrapping on the beer-soaked floor. The sharp scent of blood ignited the mob. More shifted, baring claws and fangs. A bundle of black feathers—the crow shifter—exploded from the crowd and flew toward the safety of the bar.

The half-were leaped from the table into the crowd, limbs spreading as he plunged into the fray. Shorter than most, Izetta lost sight of him in the crush of bodies. Blood of Ancients! That was like losing a knife in dark water—nothing was safe until the blade was found. She hopped onto the table for a better view, her injured ankle throbbing a sharp protest.

She didn’t see the half-wolf leap from behind, sweeping her from the table and into the milling throng. Izetta twisted mid-flight, taking the brunt of the landing on her hip instead of her face. The beast pounced, fangs snapping a millimeter from her nose. She slammed the heel of her hand into his throat, forcing him off her aching ribs. She scrambled away on hands and knees just in time for Henry to bring his club down on the creature’s shoulder. The beast scrambled away, one arm dangling, to cower against the wall.

“Anyone else?” Henry roared, raising his weapon.

Noise and motion stopped as if a switch was thrown. Actual damage had been done, and now Izetta sensed each participant sizing up the stakes. Only the music played on, the aggressive beat echoing in her throbbing head.

Then the pug-faced man stumbled toward his friend, a worried frown wrinkling his face. The beast was nosing his useless arm and licking it.

---