Page 55 of Hunter Moon

So driving Brook over to The Cider House, and taking a seat at one of the center tables among the people I’d grown up with?

That was life. It was the life I’d always wanted.

Even better, pack leadership was secure. The Grove pack had a leader who knew what he was doing, with an even temper and the ability to think before acting.

When we walked in, everyone turned to look at us for only a moment, more eyes lingering on Brook than on me, and then they turned back to a commercial for coffee.

Well, everyone except my father’s old second, Zeke, who met my eye steadily for a moment. Just when I thought maybe he was going to offer to take me outside and teach me some manners, he winked, and jerked his chin in the direction of the empty seats beside Linden. “Saved you two a spot. Junie said you’d be here.”

Juniper, at the bar with a pint of cider, lifted it in my direction.

When Lin turned to look at us, I fully expected the same freeze-out I’d been getting since returning to Grovetown. It was justified, and I wouldn’t hold it against him, but that didn’t make it sting less.

I glanced down at the chair next to him, but before I could make a decision or turn and look for another place to sit, he hooked a foot around the chair leg and used the leverage to swing it toward me. “Get over here and sit down before the commercial is over. No interrupting the interview.”

Brook tightened his grip on my hand and surged forward, no interest in my hesitation. When we got to the table, he plopped down into the next chair, leaving that one, between himself and Linden, open.

So I sat down at my brother’s right hand. I mean, sure, technically Claudia Wilson was his right hand, his second, but that didn’t change the implication of it.

Talin set two pints of cider in front of us just as the huge TV mounted on the wall broke from commercial, to the blandly attractive, smiling face of some news guy whose name I never remembered. Brian White? John Williams? Guy’s name was just like his face, generic and forgettable. “Tonight we’re talking to the ‘omega’ son of our only werewolf senator, Conroy Doherty, about his rather attention grabbing piece in theWashington Postthis month.”

The guy actually used little finger quotes on the word omega, like it was a foreign concept, or something so fantastical as to not be believed.

Zeke let out a frustrated, “Dammit.”

“You shouldn’t have taken that bet,” Shiloh said from the bar, laughing. “But I guess as an alpha, you’ve never been introduced as some nameless ‘child of’ the so much more important alpha in your life.”

On the screen, Colt gave the man a smile, showing off a perfect line of straight white teeth. It was an impressively predatory expression, and I figured Joe Smith was about to be sorry he’d ever been born. “It’s Colt, by the way,” he said. “I’ve been working at theWashington Postfor three years now, and I’ve been on this show six times, but somehow I always get introduced by my father’s name and my designation.”

The interviewer sputtered for a moment, trying to explain that he was trying to give the viewers context, but Colt just kept smiling at him knowingly. Everyone in the bar chuckled.

“Tried that shit on the wrong omega, smart guy,” Zeke muttered.

Linden absolutely glowed, and hell, who could blame him?

A moment later, Colt leaned forward, smile still set in place. “It’s all right, Tyler. Especially since the story you wanted to talk about is, in fact, about omega werewolves, and how we’re failing them as a society.”

“Well I hardly think—”

“No, I know,” Colt agreed smoothly, almost like he wasn’t interrupting the man. “Almost no one does think about it. About the fact that in the last twenty years, almost three hundred thousand omegas have died of the Condition in this country alone, and hardly anyone is even trying to find out why.”

The interviewer, clearly irritated but trying to keep his cool, nodded. “But you’re blaming the Sterling Corporation.”

Colt’s return smile was dazzling, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “If that’s what you got out of my article, you should have a chat with your lawyers. Trust me, I’ve spoken extensively to mine.” He leaned forward, putting weight on his elbows and looking hard at the man. “But I am saying that this is a solvable problem, and that we’re close to that solution. Processed foods have been a source of concern in human diets for as long as they’ve existed. If there’s a chance they’re killing werewolves now, I hate to imagine what they’re doing to you.”

In the most perfect moment of camera work ever, they cut to a shot of the interviewer just as he swallowed, hard. The guy looked seriously nervous. Probably thinking about the burger he’d eaten for lunch. The Cider House, on the other hand, cracked up. Beside me, even Brook was covering a smile.

Compliment Lin’s mate, they’d said. Well hell, that wasn’t even going to be hard.

“Little Jimmy Olsen wasn’t expecting the big bad wolf to have him for dinner, was he?” I asked aloud.

Everyone in the bar cracked up, just in time to cut back to a screen of Colt and his perfect predator’s smile, asking, “Haven’t humans been struggling with an enormous surge in heart disease rates over the last few decades?”

I leaned in to nudge Lin with my shoulder, lowering my voice so only he could hear it. “Nice pick, little brother.”

Lin tried to hide it, but he couldn’t quite stop a smile from turning the corners of his lips. “He’s good at what he does,” he agreed, just as quietly.

“Eating smug assholes for breakfast?”

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