Motor City Wolf

"Somebody is killing werewolves."

Greg Novak spoke calmly, though he was seething inside. He sat in the office of the bar he co-owned with his brother, George, and looked at his small pack. Four lupine shifters and two humans. As an alpha, he'd been unable to live under the hand of a more dominant wolf. He'd broken away from his family pack at adulthood, and the other three wolves had followed him. First they'd gone to California and formed a rock band, then when Greg and George had inherited the club from their maternal grandfather, they'd all come back home to Michigan. The humans had joined up more recently. It might not be much of a pack, but it was his. They were his family, by blood or affection, and his responsibility.

"It has to be Beowulf," George grumbled. His dark brown eyes were a mirror of Greg's own. Younger by less than a year, he was the fashionable one, with a sleek, expensive haircut, designer jeans and a glossy black leather jacket, while Greg preferred his own long hair, battered jeans and rock-band T-shirts. They also differed in outlook. Lacking the souped-up hormones that an alpha like Greg was stuck with, George often had the more level head of the two. "We just have to figure out who Beowulf is."

"Or why he's working with this Nightshade asshole to take out our people in Detroit." Lana, the Novaks' cousin, was perched atop a filing cabinet in the corner of the small basement room, since there weren't enough chairs. The room was simple, with exposed brick walls and a wooden floor, much like it had been when Greg's great-grandfather had owned it in the 20s, running with the Purple Gang to funnel Canadian alcohol into American bars.

"I talked to Meagan earlier today," offered Jase, George's lover, from where he sat on the edge of George's antique wooden desk. "The elves haven't found out anything more. All they're saying is that Underhill has gone quiet." Jase's lilting Jamaican accent was at odds with the others' Midwestern speech, and the silver beads in his black dreadlocks jingled as he spoke.

Greg smiled at Jase, a human pottery artist. Everyone nodded, aware of the recent trouble within the Fae. An elven racial purity movement had tried to seize control of Underhill. Nobody knew how the legendary werewolf-assassin, Beowulf, was connected to that now-dormant plot, but his name had come up during the Fae investigations and now someone was taking out lupines.

"So right now it's only werewolves under attack. Fucking great." Vince Martin, the fourth lupine in the room, had been a friend of both Greg and George's since they were all pups. He sat in the one guest armchair. "So what do we do?"

"Stay alert," Greg advised. "Watch each other's backs. Hell, take a long vacation if you want. That's probably the smartest thing to do."

"We could hire more staff to manage the club and take the band back on the road," George offered half-heartedly. All four lupines made up the band that played most weekends at the club. As the only one in a serious relationship, traveling would be hardest on George.

They all looked at each other. Everyone but Vince shook their heads.

"I'm staying," Greg said. "This bar is my territory and I'm not going to give up without a fight. The rest of you are free to do what you want."

"Staying," said George and Jase together, their fingers intertwined, George's dark tan and Jase's deep brown.