Isis: The E6 Breeder (Lycan Breeder Series Book No. 2)

Scene Four

Even with superhuman sight, the large male walked into a wall of darkness. The blinding effect was mutual with the open-door pouring streetlight around him and just as he couldn't see the patrons inside, they couldn't see anything but a black profile on him.

They rarely use their vision to identify each other anyway.

How a space could smell so strongly of both disinfectant and infection was the most impressive feature of this bar. Other notable mentions include a floor that flexed so much that he was sure the carpet is what kept his kind from landing in the basement, an eclectic collection of bar stools that most likely fell off a truck here and there, and a bartender that knew how to pour beer and whiskey and nothing else.

"What'll'it'be?" Said bartender rolled off his tongue for the millionth time since he either purchased this place or decided to just stock a shack he found on the side of the road with alcohol and dusty pretzels.

"That bottle right there. The one that's still sealed and you haven't added water to yet."

There was no use arguing his point. No feigning offense at the attack against the proprietor's reputation. Just a grunt and the clinking of a cloudy tumbler against the yet unopened bottle of whiskey, bourbon, scotch, whatever.

His party was in the corner in the "VIP" booth. The designation was honored upon that location as it had the most intact pleather of any other bench in the place. It also afforded a view of the portal that would occasionally fill with light to let soberish riffraff in and drunk riffraff out.

A hairpin chair dangled in one hand and the bottle of questionable alcohol with matching glass in the other. His back was towards the front door when he took a seat at the table. Anyone who thought that the biggest threat in the region had yet to arrive didn't know who was already there.

The cracking of the seal brought a mild amount of satisfaction. The bartender hadn't had a chance to taint it with whatever tap water made it to this place, but who knows what the distillery considered sanitary.

The only sound besides the groaning of the structure and the other patrons was the glugging of a deep pour. A couple fingers high, he threw back the mystery liquid.

Tequila?

Whatever.

First down, second on standby.

The liquid rolled to the side as the table shifted under the weight of elbows and interest from the male across from him. Forearms the size of European models' thighs and as hairy as their armpits burdened the warped top in front of the newcomer. Now that his first helping was complete, it's time for business.

"I've never seen a lycan in form before."

His second helping punctuated the confession. A couple seconds later and his third helping was lined up.

Eyes the lightest shade of blue and still considered a color didn't break their focus on him. Those eyeballs on their own could have been considered kind or ethereal or something. But surrounded by weathered skin that even advanced healing can't keep up with and ample hair that made him look more like Teen Wolf than the shifter bear he was kept them looking menacing.

"That's what happened to Brad." Blue eyes confirmed.

A nod back and that third helping was being thought fondly of. It was better to imagine what the burn down his throat would feel like than to see his partner get taken out the way that he had just an hour before.

"They had a message for you. Keep off their territory."

A grunt from his president across the table neither accepted nor rejected the request. The black leather vest had just a few more patches than the rest, was fit around a chest that was just a bit larger in girth, and held back aggression that was quite a bit more than the audience. He was calm now, but that wouldn't keep.

The group that looked like a Rogaine commercial gone wild nodded and waited. He had his second in command with him, living up to his nickname. Silent Bob.

"There's only one lycan, and his dad. The rest are wolves. We're stronger than them," The president shared.

"There are packs that don't have lycans. Let's harvest those areas again." Setting himself up for the answer, he grabbed his drink and waited.

"We've collected what we can there. These are high value targets. The market is in need of fresh blood."

Third drink down and the fourth lined up, he was just starting to lose the harsh edge to the pain he felt from tonight. It didn't always used to be this way. Just a few years ago they would get by with picking up construction jobs here and there, paid in cash, working on roofs, riding their hogs through the various terrains. Now they were locked into a smaller area, a deal brokered by the male in front of him, in exchange for participating in the sale of shifters.

That market was enough to wrench even the most hardened bear's gut. Shifters of all kinds would be lined up for auction or awaiting their private purchaser.

The clientele included unmated males who killed their fated mate or grew desperate, twisted humans trying to "discover" the secret to youth in their labs, and deranged others just going for the thrill of owning a powerful being. They were also supplying a black-market breeding program.

Although the goods being dealt were shifters of all kinds, the top prize were wolves. Everyone wanted a wolf. They were also harder to capture. Not just powerful, they were hard to find on their own. Creatures that adored being around each other, selfless in their nature and defense of their kind. A dead wolf would sell for a very low price as compared to a live one. There was no profit for President Ralph by pulling in expired product.

Pulling in live wolves were this clan's dark specialty. But honestly, their leader never seemed too disappointed when he killed a wolf that he was supposed to bring in.