Motor City Wolf
Authors: Cindy Spencer Pape
Motor City Wolf
By Cindy Spencer Pape
Less than a year ago, Fianna Meadows was a pampered noble in the Faerie court. Then she was exiled, turned mortal and forced to work for a living—in a werewolf bar in Detroit, no less! Still, Fianna has to admit her new life isn’t so bad…particularly when it comes to Greg Novak, the bar’s sexy owner.
For Greg, keeping his hands off Fianna has been a challenge. But his sense of honor won’t let him get involved with a woman put in his care, even if Fianna is eager to explore her new feelings of lust. Resisting the temptation to claim her gets even harder when Greg’s grandfather, the region’s Alpha, orders him to marry and Fianna agrees to pretend to be his chosen mate.
Fighting his attraction to Fianna isn’t Greg’s only problem. Someone is killing werewolves and attacking other paranormal beings in Detroit. He vows to do whatever it takes protect both his pack and Fianna—even if that means giving her up…
64,000 words
Dear Reader,
I feel as though it was just last week I was attending 2010 conferences and telling authors and readers who were wondering what was next for Carina Press, “we’ve only been publishing books for four months, give us time” and now, here it is, a year later. Carina Press has been bringing you quality romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy and more for over twelve months. This just boggles my mind.
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So whether you’re reading this in the middle of a summer heat wave, looking to escape from the hot summer nights and sultry afternoons, or whether you’re reading this in the dead of winter, searching for a respite from the cold, months after I’ve written it, you can be assured that our promise to take you on new adventures, bring you great stories and discover new talent remains the same.
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Thanks to Atwater Brewing and The Kreellers, a fabulous Detroit brewer and a kick-butt Detroit Celtic punk band, for giving me permission to use their names to add depth to the local flavor. As always my thanks to the people of Detroit and its suburbs for letting me mess around with their hometown, and apologies for any liberties I’ve taken. Thanks also to my editor Melissa and my agent Denise for all their help and to my family for their unending support.
For my grandparents, Mark and Jane Spencer, among the many immigrants who came to Detroit in the 1920s, and my other grandparents, Lester and Theresa Rook, who like thousands of others, moved north in search of work. That flow of working-class people from all over the world has helped make the area one of the most diverse in the country.
“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.
“Ditto,” Lana chimed in. She fluffed her long, wavy hair and looked at Greg with her lighter, amber brown eyes. She was a computer-engineering grad student. Not only was she as proud and stubborn as the rest of them, but leaving town would mean she’d have to further delay her education. Greg didn’t want her to have to do that.
“Me, too.” Vince crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. His hazel eyes made the ladies swoon and his medium brown, shaggy haircut had been highlighted with blue streaks.
“Not that anyone asked, but I’m not going anywhere either.” The clipped accent was not quite English, not quite Irish, but something older than both.
Greg looked over at the sixth person in the room, who sat primly in a corner on a barstool she’d dragged in for this meeting. Tall, slender and blonde, Fianna Meadows could have been a model. As a member of the Seelie Court, she’d been drawn into her uncle’s racial purity movement, and when the movement had been routed out, the queen had turned her human as a punishment. Her sentence included work in a menial capacity, in this case being a waitress at the New Moon.
“You could go stay with Meagan or Elise. I’m sure under the circumstances, the queen would—”
“No.” She gazed back at him, her pale aqua eyes steady and determined.
Looking at Fianna fired up all of Greg’s hormones, but since he’d essentially been assigned to be her jailer, she was off-limits. Greg might have a slightly skewed moral code, but he did have some honor.
He couldn’t take advantage of a woman forced to work for him as an alternative to death. Much as he wanted to.
“So we’ve agreed that we’ll stay.” Greg made eye contact with each of the others. “And we’ll watch one another’s backs.”
George nodded. “We’ll keep working with the
Wyndewin
and Fae to see if we can identify any of the players, particularly to get any whiff of Beowulf’s identity.”
“Or more importantly, who hired him,” Lana added pointedly. “According to the legends, Beowulf has always been a killer for hire, not someone with his own agenda.”
“True. Whatever is going on, we’re pretty sure Nightshade was only using the purity movement to unsettle the Fae. He may be doing the same with Beowulf and the wolves.” George, again, was the most rational sometimes. “Whatever the reason for the killings, it may well be something bigger than either the lupines or Fae combined.”
Lana nodded. “I can get with some hacker friends, see if we can find a money trail, or some sort of pattern to the hits.”
“Good.” Greg nodded. Though part of his instincts wanted to keep the females out of it, he knew Lana too well to believe she’d sit on her hands and be protected. She was an in-your-face kind of werewolf.
Vince thought a moment and tipped his head. “I can hang out at some other werewolf joints around town, see what information I can pick up.” The only one of the band with a job outside the bar, Vince was the morning DJ for a popular radio station and only came in when they were playing.
“Meanwhile,” Fianna noted, “the dinner rush is about to begin. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to work. I might not be much use in a werewolf investigation, but after three months, I think I can handle getting things ready in the bar.”
“You’re doing a great job, Fee.” Greg gave her an approving nod. “And don’t doubt for a moment that we’re glad to have you on our side.”
The smile she gave him as she left was so stunning it made his stomach hurt.
Well, even if he couldn’t have her, he’d damn sure keep her safe.
“Hey, baby, what time do you get off?”
Fianna resisted the urge to smack the drunken college student over the head with her tray. Why would someone be killing werewolves, and were the Novaks on the list? Still reeling from Greg’s announcement, Fianna had less patience than usual with the unruly patrons. She still had bruises on her backside from the same customer the night before. Why did human men automatically think waitresses in a bar were fair game? Well, to be fair, their elven counterparts hadn’t been much better. Fianna’s own uncle and cousin had used her as a pawn, and had planned to marry her off for political gain.
“Yo, blondie, another pitcher over here,” the burly human across the room shouted. He was rude, but he tipped well and never pinched. Fianna smiled her acknowledgement of the order and returned to the bar to fetch another pitcher of beer.
Less than a year ago, she’d been a pampered young noble at the Faerie queen’s court. Now she’d been stripped of her powers, turned mortal and forced to work in a small, basement-level tavern in Detroit, a city rife with unemployment, crime and decay. Could things get any worse?
Well, yes. She could be dead. After being, however unwittingly, part of a plot to overthrow the elven queen and kill one of the members of the Seelie Court, Fianna was lucky not to have been executed. Instead, the very people she’d betrayed had stepped in and suggested this punishment, which at the time had seemed worse to Fianna. Three months later, despite the leers and pinches, she was very glad to be alive. Learning to be mortal, though, and a commoner at that, hadn’t been easy. Sometimes she still didn’t understand the things they said or the way her own body behaved. How did humans manage to cope with it all in such short lifetimes?
“I need a pitcher of Atwater Amber, please,” she said to Mickey, the graduate student tending one end of the bar. Normally on a Friday night, Greg or George would be back there as well, and Lana would be helping wait tables. Tonight though, the Novaks’ band was going to play, and all three were in the back room preparing for the performance, leaving Fianna, Jase and a handful of part-time staff to manage the larger-than-usual crowd.
“Hey, Fee, how’s it going?”
Blinking at the unexpected voice, Fianna spotted a short redheaded woman perched on a barstool behind the beer taps, pulling drafts and pitchers.
“Busy night, huh?” Meagan Kelly Thornhill, known to the Fae as Lady Rose, finished filling a pitcher with the golden local beer and handed it to Fianna.
“What are you doing back there? Shouldn’t you be resting?” Fianna hurried to take the heavy pitcher from the other woman’s hand. Meagan seemed determined to stay active, despite being almost four months pregnant. For most elves, pregnancy was a tenuous condition, fraught with worry, but the half-Fae woman appeared to be thriving.
Meagan laughed, her green eyes twinkling brightly. “Don’t worry. Baby and I are both doing fine, and I can pull drafts in my sleep. How do you think I paid the rent through art school?”
“Furt’ermore, if she tries to move her ass from that stool, I’ll tie her down to it,” Jase chimed in.
Why was Meagan here? Fianna hadn’t ever seen her in the bar before.
“Ric’s playing with the band tonight.” Meagan answered Fianna’s unspoken question.
Ah.
Meagan’s husband was an elven bard, and a close friend of the Novaks.
“Yo, sweetcheeks, how about that beer?”
Meagan laughed and wrinkled her nose. “Some things about the old days I don’t miss. Catch you later, Fee.”
For the next twenty minutes, Fianna was too busy to stop and talk to anyone. Another drunkard groped her breast as she passed and she felt a momentary longing to have her magic back, so she could dump his beer into his lap without him knowing it was her. She served another round to the booths in the back corner and as she returned to the bar, she felt a distinctive tingling on her skin.
Greg is here.
A drum roll followed, letting her know she’d been correct. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the New Moon.”
Fianna turned toward the stage, trying to ignore the fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach from the sound of his low-pitched, rumbling voice. Though he sat behind his drum kit and his band-mates, to her he dominated the small stage.
“Let’s have a round of applause for the house band, The Lonely Wolves.” Greg’s amplified voice filled the room. “We’ve got my brother George on lead guitar, my cousin Lana on bass, Vince Martin on keyboards, and I’m Greg Novak.” He played a short drum roll. “Now let’s give a big, New Moon welcome to my good friend, Mr. Ric Thornhill.”
Amid thunderous applause, a tall, slender man with golden blond hair stepped onto the stage. A sharp whistle split the air from behind the bar, and Fianna swiveled to see Meagan raise two fingers to her mouth and whistle again as she beamed at her husband.
Fianna had heard Alaric of the Thorny Hills, former bard to the Seelie queen, perform before, but never in the mortal realm, backed by a rock-and-roll band. The band launched into its customary opening number, “Bad Moon Rising,” but instead of George’s smooth bass voice carrying the melody, Ric’s rich baritone took the lead.
The audience watched Ric with rapt attention, the quiet settling over the noisy crowd in a ripple, leaving each member focused on the stage. Even Fianna, who knew it was part talent and part spell, felt her tense muscles ease as the magic of Ric’s singing filled the room. She leaned back against the bar. No one would be ordering drinks now, not until the band took a break. That was the power of an elven bard.
“Here, you look like you need this.” Something cold touched her elbow, and Fianna looked down to see Meagan had slid a glass of ice water across the bar.
“Thank you.” It still amazed Fianna that Meagan didn’t hate her, not when Fianna’s uncle had tried to kill Meagan. Blind family loyalty had led Fianna to believe Owain when he’d promised her no one would be hurt, and guilt still tormented her for the role she’d played in the conspiracy. How could Meagan have forgiven her? No matter how long Fianna spent among mortals or half-mortals, she wasn’t sure she’d ever comprehend the complexities of their spirit.
The song ended and another began, this one a very old love ballad. It had to be for Meagan, because everyone Underhill knew Alaric never sang love songs. Yet now he did, and so beautifully, it brought tears to Fianna’s eyes.
Meagan sighed. “I love this song. It always makes me want to jump his bones, and he knows it, the bastard.” Even the curse was said with a dreamy smile.
Not long ago, Fianna would have been horrified that the other woman had admitted to such a base emotion as lust. Now she watched the muscles glide beneath Greg’s tight T-shirt as he tapped along on the drums and she sighed. Her whole body tingled and a strange knot formed in her stomach whenever she looked at him. His dark brown, almost black, hair brushed his shoulders and heavy brows hooded his deep brown eyes. His craggy face was too rugged to be considered handsome, but to her, he was the epitome of masculine perfection.
“Does Greg have any idea how you feel about him?” Meagan leaned across the bar on her elbows so she could be heard.
Fianna shrugged and bit her lip. “I do not know.” Honestly, she wasn’t sure herself how she felt about the sexy werewolf. On the one hand, he was irreverent, sarcastic and uncouth, most of the time, anyway. On the other, he could turn her bones to jelly with just a look.