Page 47 of Cold Foot Croc

“…‘and then you’re going to die a horrible death, and then be barbecued by the phoenix and served up on a platter for the other shifters there to eat, includingYOUR MAN-EATING GIRLFRIEND.’” Okay, the robot voice didn’t need to yell like that.

He turned his phone off completely. Double there.

Maybe Dylan was right. Maybe he was about to croak under the fire of the phoenix, but Wreck had brought him back to life last time, and when he’d met the Cold Foot Crew the night he’d died, they had been stressed and in crisis mode, yes, but they hadn’t been horrible to him.

He had to believe that they had good sides, just like he had a good side. Just like Raynah had a very good side.

Why was he headed straight for the heart of Cold Foot territory? Because this morning, before Raynah had dropped him off at his house after camping, she’d mentioned her baby shower again, and had seemed bummed that Garret wouldn’t be able to make it. The only one in this world who could change that for Raynah, was him. And also Wreck.

He probably could’ve tracked down his phone number, but he’d been raised to face things head-on. In-person was always better if a man needed to speak his mind, in his opinion.

He hadn’t known an exact address for the cluster of cabins the Cold Foot Crew dwelled in, but a simple roll-down of the window and he could smell his way to them just fine.

Wreck probably smelled normal to most people, but to Garret, who had been revived by his fire once, there was this metallic-smoke scent in the air that would probably always haunt him. The closer he got to the phoenix, the stronger the smoke.

He rested his forearm on the open window frame, and cracked the knuckles on that hand as he looked up at the enormous snowy owl that drifted on air currents above him. He’d been there on the night Garret had died. Cash, he thought his name was.

The bird was so big, he could probably swoop down and pick up Garret’s truck if he wanted to. He didn’t seem inclined though, and disappeared over the trees.

Over the last ridge, there was a clearing with a half-circle of loosely spread out, A-frame log cabins, each with shingles on the front painted in different colors. He hadn’t a guess which one was Raynah’s, but he knew which one was Wreck’s. How? Because the Alpha of the Cold Foot Crew stood on the front porch of the cabin on the very left. His arms were locked on the porch railing, and he had his eyes narrowed on him as Garret parked in front of it.

“What are you doing in my territory, bear?” Wreck asked.

Garret held his hand up out the window in a peaceful gesture. “I’m not here for any trouble.”

Wreck stood to his full height and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you here about?”

“Raynah.”

“She isn’t here.”

“I know. She’s at work for another couple of hours. I wanted to talk to you alone. Man to man.”

Wreck’s eyes had flames in them, and Garret would be lying if he said the fine hairs on his body weren’t all standing up right now.

“Come in,” he said at last.

“I appreciate it,” Garret said, pushing his door open. He jogged up the porch stairs and stomped the snow off his boots on the mat in front of the door as Wreck held it open, waiting.

The metallic-smoke smell nearly choked him as he walked past, but he figured out it was mostly mental. He could still breathe if he just told himself to.

“Beer?” Wreck asked, heading to the fridge across the room in a kitchen that was attached to the open living room.

“Sure, thanks. This place is nice,” he complimented him.

Wreck grunted and pulled out a pair of beer cans from the fridge, then tossed him one.

Garret popped the top and took a sip.

“Sit,” Wreck said, gesturing to a chair at the dining table.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the seat.

“Are you nervous? You feel nervous.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Wreck took a seat across the table from him. “Not to a normie. I brought you back from death though. We built a bond together, you and me.”

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