Streamfield Shifters: Red Rover

Chapter Two

"Which one of you freaks is the red wolf?"

The vehemence in the man's tone briefly rendered me silent. I'd never seen him before in my life. He was of middling height, with average features and messy dark blond hair. He wore a pair of old, dusty jeans and a faded blue T-shirt with streaks of dirt across the hem. Bits of straw and grass clung to his heavy steel-toed boots.

There was a farm across the Streamfield River at the back of our property, but this wasn't elderly Mrs Larson nor either of her sons—and he was definitely too old to be one of the grandkids.

Swallowing my initial shock, I stood, threw my shoulders back and leveled a glare at the man. "Sir, you need to calm down."

"Like hell I will!" The man stalked towards me, a red flush creeping up his neck and spreading out along his face like a blossoming flower.

I reached for the small can of mace I kept next to my computer, intent on unloading its contents in the man's face if he got any closer.

"What the hell is going on?" Uncle Joe demanded, stalking around the corner with a thunderous expression. "What happened to the front door?"

The man's face went from red to white in an instant, as if someone had flicked a switch on the back of his head. He took a step back, visibly swallowed, but changed his mind and shifted his weight forward, fists clenched at his sides.

"Are you the alpha?" he asked, voice cracking on the words.

Uncle Joe glanced at me, then crossed his arms. "Who wants to know?"

Keeping an eye on the confrontation, I furiously dialed the workshop. After what seemed like an eternity, one of my extended relatives picked up.

"This is Aly," I hissed over his greeting, "get Grandpa and have him come up front immediately." Without waiting for a reply, I hung up and turned all of my attention on this angry man and my uncle.

"One of your people killed my chickens," the man replied, chest heaving up and down.

Your people.

Eyes narrowing, I twisted the can of mace in my hand. The world at large welcomed witches and sorcerers when the supernatural community publicly announced itself more than a hundred years ago. They weren't so keen on shapeshifters, however. Men and women who could wield magic improved modern living—all we did was turn into massive predators.

We were seen as boogiemen, terrors that would steal your children in the middle of the night, eat them and leave their bones on your doorstep. Nowadays, we counted among our numbers superstar athletes, models and actors—but the fear was still there.

"Really." Uncle Joe folded his massive arms, muscles bulging beneath a white polo shirt.

"Aly."

Turning my head slightly, I saw my mother, grandmother, aunt and other employees crowding the hallway.

"Are you okay?" Mom whispered, fingers digging into the framework.

I nodded.

"Do you have proof that it was a Clan Michaels member?" Uncle Joe continued.

An angry flush returned to the man's face. "I was told that all of the wolves live here."

The low, mournful tone of a broken chime echoed through the showroom as my grandfather entered, a cloud of sawdust trailing in his wake. Despite being seventy, shapeshifter genetics graced Alan Michaels with the appearance and strength of a man in his fifties: tall, muscled from decades of hauling wood, with a greying head of black hair and sharp purple eyes.