Hell… Yes. Drill Sergeant.

  Chapter 8 — Carl

  We passed a wooden sign that read Willow Haven.

  Someone had taped a smaller note underneath:

  There are no willows here, so why?

  Solid question.

  I glanced at Mitchell as we walked by, but he looked… tense.

  Too tense.

  “You okay?”

  Words I never thought I’d ask another human being.

  He gave himself a shake, like he was trying to physically toss the feeling off.

  “Sure. Fine.”

  Yeah. I’d seen that look before.

  “Spit it out,” I sighed.

  He blinked, startled.

  “I’m really okay.”

  “Mitchell,” I said, narrowing my eyes, “you’ve got the exact same face you did when you broke your foot in basic. Now what’s wrong?”

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  “Wolves—especially Alphas—don’t walk into unclaimed pack territory,” Arthur said quietly.

  “I have a good pack,” Mitchell muttered, shoulders drawing in defensively. “I don’t want to cause a ruckus.”

  “If it’s easier for you to go—”

  I didn’t want him to.

  But I wasn’t going to trap him either.

  Mitchell’s eyes blazed.

  He stepped toward me with a low snarl.

  “Alphas don’t abandon pack mates,” he growled.

  His voice was more wolf than human.

  He means you, Carl, Chaos said, thoroughly amused.

  Do dragons have packs? Dragoon asked hopefully.

  Mitchell didn’t look away.

  He was waiting.

  Wanting an answer.

  Needing one.

  I swallowed hard… and nodded.

  Mitchell relaxed instantly.

  Then he grinned at me.

  What the hell?

  Arthur chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Give it time. You haven’t been a shifter long.”

  “Less than a week,” I muttered, still side-eyeing Mitchell.

  “Just remember—you’ve got a pack now,” my old private flashed a grin that was equal parts feral and proud. “And that means you’re part of my family. No one is going to mess with you.”

  Terrifying.

  Also… oddly reassuring.

  We crested a small rise in the road, and suddenly the trees parted.

  Willow Haven spread out in front of me.

  One long main street cut straight through the center—a wide dirt road, but with streetlights bolted to rusted metal poles, like someone found them in a junkyard and said good enough.

  Wooden sidewalks.

  Modern shop windows.

  A hitching post next to what looked like an electric vehicle charger.

  It was like someone couldn’t decide between a Wild West town, a strip mall, and a fantasy festival, so they mashed all three together and called it a day.

  Buildings lined the street in every shape imaginable:

  A neat, modern café with glass windows.

  A saloon-style bar with swinging doors.

  A blacksmith shop that was absolutely not OSHA compliant.

  And a row of tiny homes shaped like mushroom caps—red roofs, white dots, smoke curling from their chimneys.

  I blinked.

  “Why… are there toadstool houses?”

  “Mrs. Peabody likes mushrooms,” Arthur said. “Don’t ask.”

  “Every time we do,” Arthur muttered, “she adds another one.”

  People milled about—paranormals of every kind.

  A witch in yoga pants levitated groceries into a wagon.

  A vampire in a Hawaiian shirt swept his porch.

  A centaur trotted past a laundromat, carrying a basket of clothes in one hand while texting with the other.

  A fairy waved enthusiastically from atop a roof he definitely shouldn’t have been on.

  Someone shouted,

  “Arthur! The brownies stole the mayor’s pants again!”

  Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Of course they did.”

  Then, louder, “Get Deputy Blaine! I’m off duty!”

  Chaos purred at the back of my mind.

  I like it here.

  Dragoon practically vibrated with excitement.

  SO MANY SMALL THINGS TO CHASE.

  I was not ready for this.

  Not mentally.

  Not emotionally.

  Not magically.

  Not in any universe.

  “I want to go home,” I muttered.

  Mitchell nudged my shoulder gently.

  “You are home.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  I thought I preferred Army barracks.

  “C’mon,” Arthur said, motioning for us to follow. “We’ll check in at the Sheriff’s office, then get some food.”

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  “Sheriff’s office?” I frowned. “For what?”

  “Part of the Haven ritual,” he said gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe. It’s protection magic, not a violation.”

  My throat tightened.

  Magic.

  Ritual.

  New place.

  New people.

  But Arthur’s grip stayed steady.

  “It only keeps trouble out,” he added. “Not you.”

  I froze, breath hitching—then a long, shuddering exhale finally dragged itself out of me.

  “Literally all we do is go in and say hi to Blaine,” Arthur said, his hand still rubbing slow, grounding circles into my shoulder.

  But my person does not like talking to people, Dragoon said, utterly baffled.

  He even supplied a mental image of himself tilting his head like a confused dog.

  I shot him a glare.

  He ignored it.

  “You know that doesn’t make it easier, right?” I said aloud, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve been a hermit for twenty-six years. Except for Jack. That’s it. That’s all the social experience I’ve had.”

  Arthur’s expression softened—real understanding finally settling in.

  “Well, good news,” he said. “Blaine only says about five words a day. You’ll get along great.”

  He snorted and turned toward the street.

  “C’mon—before everyone gets curious and comes over to say hi.”

  “Should’ve led with that,” I muttered, hurrying after him.

  The Sheriff’s office looked like it had been plucked straight off a Hollywood western set—weathered porch, swinging saloon doors, and SHERIFF carved across the front in oversized letters.

  I arched an eyebrow at Arthur.

  He sighed like this was his daily burden.

  “I don’t understand it either. Sheriff’s offices look like this in every haven town. And somehow the Sheriff is always more important than the mayor.”

  He rubbed his temples.

  “Just remember—magic is fucking weird.”

  Right…

  We stepped inside and immediately left the Wild West behind.

  The interior was a modern police reception area—clean lines, polished floors, digital displays.

  And behind the desk sat a seven-foot demon.

  He wore a brown sheriff’s uniform and looked like he hadn’t slept since the Eisenhower administration. Curly black horns swept back from his skull. Long black hair was pulled into a low tie. Black eyes stared at a computer screen with the hollow exhaustion of someone who had read far too many incident reports. White fangs showed when he sighed.

  “Yes, Arthur, I know about the pants,” he said without looking up.

  “Marnie took them as a trophy. Carlos is already on his way.”

  I blinked.

  Once.

  Then again.

  A lot.

  “Blaine…” Arthur groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

  “What?” the demon rumbled.

  “Why are you in full demon form?”

  “I had to convince Marnie to give the mayor back his pants,” Blaine scowled. “Crazy old vampire.”

  Arthur shot me a look—half sympathy, half bracing for me to bolt.

  Why wasn’t I frea—

  My eyes narrowed.

  “What does your human form look like?”

  Something sharp tugged at the back of my mind.

  Blaine finally looked up and really looked at me. A smile—dangerously close to fond—twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  His form shimmered, collapsed inward—

  —and left a man in the same brown deputy uniform.

  Short dark hair.

  Brown eyes.

  Square jaw.

  An expression of permanent judgment.

  Crap.

  Drillmaster Blaine Brimson.

  Every instinct in my body screamed to salute.

  I needed coffee.

  Blaine rose from his seat.

  Still tall—

  but normal human tall this time.

  He’s enjoying this, Chaos murmured. I think he was bored, and you just made his day.

  Exactly what you never want to hear about your former drill sergeant.

  “Hale,” Blaine said warmly, already moving toward a coffee maker.

  Yeah. I wasn’t correcting him about my name.

  Arthur and Mitchell both glanced at me in surprise.

  I just shook my head.

  Nope.

  You are not correcting him.

  I was a statue now.

  Blaine poured a cup of coffee and walked over to me.

  At least someone was entertained.

  “Blaine, he goes by Carl Vicars now,” Arthur sighed.

  “Does it look like I care?” Blaine said, not even pretending, as he stopped in front of me.

  I was right back on my first day of basic.

  A very different kind of trauma memory, right there.

  Crap.

  He’d given me my first Article 15.

  Blaine held the coffee out to me.

  “You look like you need this.”

  I scowled as I took it.

  Everyone seemed to remember my love of coffee except me.

  “Drink, Hale,” the bastard smirked at me.

  I did.

  While scowling.

  Mitchell watched like Christmas had come early, a grin tugging at his lips as he crossed his arms.

  I glared at him.

  The grin vanished instantly.

  Blaine noticed.

  And grinned wider.

  Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands.

  “Why did they give me this job? Blaine, this is the human I told you about—the one in the cell who broke himself to escape.”

  Crap.

  Literal fire flared in Blaine’s eyes as he turned toward Arthur.

  “Barton messed with one of mine?”

  “Yeah—and he’s dead, so—”

  “That doesn’t matter to me,” Blaine said, smiling as flames danced in his pupils.

  “I can visit him anytime I want.”

  I stared down into my coffee.

  Huh.

  Half gone already.

  People shouldn’t care about me.

  I wasn’t special.

  Just a dad trying to survive.

  A very warm hand landed on my arm.

  Right. Blaine had always run hotter than a human should.

  I glanced up at him.

  “You’re not going there,” he said, grin sharp and far too knowing. “I can—and will—shove you out of your comfort zone if I have to.”

  Right.

  Ex–drill sergeant.

  Of course he knew my tells.

  Shit.

  “I’m really not who I used to be,” I muttered.

  “Can I try something… unorthodox?” Blaine asked. His eyes were dancing—and not with flames this time.

  I knew that look.

  That was never a good look.

  “I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?” I sighed.

  Why couldn’t everyone just let me cope in solitude?

  Because they care, Carl, Chaos said gently.

  “I’m not saying,” Blaine grinned.

  I was still trying to decide how I felt about everything when the saloon doors slammed open.

  A very short Latino man stormed in.

  Paul stiffened.

  “Blaine! Where’s the wolf?!” the man demanded.

  I stepped up beside Paul—slightly behind him.

  No shame in using a human shield when needed.

  “I’m right here,” Mitchell said, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Carlos…” Arthur warned.

  Carlos turned—and actually looked at Mitchell.

  Now I could see the general he’d become. Something wild shimmered just beneath the surface of his eyes, and Blaine looked like Christmas had come early.

  Carlos hesitated.

  “An Alpha.”

  “Correct,” Mitchell said slowly, nodding once.

  Carlos gave himself a sharp shake, like he was wrestling instincts I didn’t understand.

  “Are you for Taro,” he asked finally, “or against him?”

  “He messed with a man I consider pack,” Mitchell rumbled. “What do you think?”

  Carlos sagged in relief.

  “Gracias a Dios. I thought every wolf had gone insane.”

  “Not my pack,” Mitchell growled. “Choice is sacred.”

  I was pretty sure there was a lot I was missing.

  Hell, sometimes I couldn’t even read regular people.

  How was I supposed to read shifters?

  “We really need an Alpha, Se?or,” Carlos said, looking at Mitchell. “I’m trying, but I wasn’t born one.”

  Mitchell let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “And I can’t decide that without my pack.”

  Carlos blinked.

  “You’re not just… going to decide for them?”

  Mitchell’s gaze narrowed.

  “What kind of Alpha did you have before?”

  “Not a good one,” Blaine muttered, already heading back toward the coffee maker.

  “Blaine!” Arthur snapped.

  “Not wolf,” Blaine called over his shoulder.

  Mitchell exhaled and turned back to Arthur.

  “Can you help me contact Damian? I need to reach my sister, Christa. She’s my Beta.”

  “A female is your Beta?” Carlos blurted.

  Mitchell turned slowly, fixing him with a hard stare.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “But—females are only for breeding,” Carlos said, panic creeping into his voice. “That’s what we were taught.”

  Mitchell’s hands curled at his sides.

  His shoulders trembled.

  I edged closer to Blaine.

  Just in case.

  He took one deliberate step toward the smaller man.

  “What,” he growled, “did you just say?”

  Carlos stumbled backward, hands raised.

  “I–I didn’t mean—! That’s just what they told us! We weren’t allowed to question anything—Alpha’s men would punish us if we did!”

  His voice cracked.

  He wasn’t defiant.

  He was scared.

  Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose and swore under his breath.

  And suddenly, I realized—I used to do that.

  All the time.

  My hands started to shake.

  Blaine gently took the coffee cup from my grip.

  “Arthur,” he said calmly, “contact Damian while the wolves sort this out.”

  Arthur frowned.

  “What are you doing? I was supposed to have the day off.”

  “Taking Carl home and fixing him lunch,” Blaine said cheerfully.

  “I can teleport him so he doesn’t have to deal with the townsfolk.”

  He turned that gaze on me as panic tried to rise.

  “Is that a problem, Hale?”

  Yup.

  Panic gone.

  Just—gone.

  I shook my head.

  I like him, Dragoon said.