Page 51 of Hex and the Kitty

The directness of the observation struck too close to the truth. Heat crawled up Warrick’s neck despite centuries of practiced control.

“The tiger’s chosen,” Falkor observed quietly, ancient eyes seeing too much. “The man still deliberates.”

Before Warrick could formulate a response, the brewery door slammed open with deliberate force. Conversation throughout the establishment faltered as Gus Niles swaggered in, flanked by three other shifters Warrick recognized as station volunteers who’d supported Gus’s failed bid for chief.

The jovial atmosphere crystallized into something sharper. Reed straightened imperceptibly, sheriff’s instincts alert. Kade’s nostrils flared, scenting for aggression. Roarke’s fingers stilled against his glass, panther-quick reflexes prepared to respond. Even Bram’s typical good humor evaporated, bear shifter protectiveness rising to the surface.

Gus made a show of surveying the room before his gaze landed on their table, predatory satisfaction gleaming in eyes a muddy brownish-gold—similar to Warrick’s but lacking the royal lineage’s distinctive clarity and depth. Despite being younger by shifter standards, stress lines crinkled the corners of his eyes and mouth, evidence of a perpetual scowl.

“Well, if it isn’t Whispering Pines’s finest,” Gus announced, loud enough to carry through the now-quieter brewery. He sauntered toward a nearby table, pulling out a chair with unnecessary scraping against the wooden floor. “Don’t let me interrupt the mutual admiration society.”

THIRTY-NINE

Warrick’s tiger bristled at the territorial challenge, but centuries of discipline kept his expression neutral. The younger tiger shifter had never accepted Warrick’s appointment, viewing it as his birthright usurped by an outsider.

“Planning to attend the Fireman’s Ball, Niles?” Warrick asked evenly, refusing to be baited into hostility.

Gus settled into his chair with deliberate casualness, one arm draped over the back. “Wouldn’t miss it. Heard it’s going to be quite the spectacle this year.” His emphasis on “spectacle” carried unmistakable menace. “The whole town’s buzzing about your recent... demonstrations. Pink foam, phantom fires—very festive. Not exactly what I’d call serious firefighting, but the children seem entertained.”

Warrick’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping visibly. Beneath the table, his claws extended partially before he forced them back.

“Our response metrics are the best they’ve been in a decade,” David said, loyalty evident in his defense. “Prevention and community education matter as much as firefighting.”

Gus laughed without humor. “Right. I’m sure that’s what impresses your little witch baker. Women love a man who plays with glitter foam instead of battling real danger.”

The direct reference to Molly sent a surge of protective rage through Warrick. His vision sharpened, tiger senses enhancing as anger spiked his adrenaline. One of Gus’s companions shifted uncomfortably, sensing the dangerous edge in Warrick’s controlled stillness.

Reed caught Warrick’s eye, a silent command to maintain discipline.

“Strange comment from someone whose biggest emergency response was retrieving Mrs. Henderson’s cat from a tree,” Roarke observed, deceptive lightness masking the panther shifter’s readiness to pounce.

Gus’s expression darkened. “Some of us respect traditional approaches rather than relying on witch magic to solve problems. This town managed its safety for generations before outsiders brought their foreign methods.”

“Traditional approaches?” Kade snorted. “Like when the Morrison barn burned to the ground in ’98 because the ‘traditional’ bucket brigade couldn’t contain it?”

“A regrettable incident before modern equipment arrived,” Gus dismissed. “But at least pure shifter strength was applied, not dependency on spells that could fail when most needed.”

Bram’s massive hands flattened against the table. “Careful, Niles. Many of us have witch mates we deeply respect.”

“No disrespect intended toward the local witches,” Gus smiled thinly. “They’re charming additions to our community. But emergency services require reliability. Consistency. Leadership born and bred in Whispering Pines, not exotic imports with questionable loyalties.”

Every word dripped with calculated insult. Warrick’s royal lineage—once respected throughout shifter communities—reframed as “exotic.” His dedication to the town—proven repeatedly through service—dismissed as “questionable loyalty.”

“Is there a point to this interruption?” Reed asked, sheriff’s authority edging his tone.

“Just sharing concerns about the upcoming Fireman’s Ball,” Gus shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “Such an important town event. So many things could go wrong—especially with all those magical decorations planned. I’ve heard even the strongest illusions can falter under pressure, leaving everyone exposed to... unfortunate consequences.”

The thinly veiled threat hung in the air. Beneath the table, Warrick’s claws extended fully, digging into his palm until blood welled in crescent-shaped cuts. The pain anchored him, preventing his tiger from responding to the challenge as it desperately desired.

“A toast, then,” Gus raised his freshly delivered beer, “to real heroes. Those born and bred in Whispering Pines, protecting it from... unwanted influences.”

He drained his glass in one long swallow, slammed it down with unnecessary force, and departed with his followers trailing behind. The door banged shut with finality, leaving behind a charged silence.

“That,” Lark muttered, “was about as subtle as a dragon in a glass shop.”

“He’s targeting the ball,” Reed confirmed, eyes still on the door. “And you, Warrick. Personally.”

Warrick uncurled his fingers slowly, willing his claws to retract. Blood smeared his palm—evidence of how close his control had come to shattering. The scent of Gus lingered in the air, acrid with jealousy and something darker that stirred Warrick’s deepest protective instincts.

---