“If you didn’t devour a week’s worth of snacks in a single day, maybe you’d have some left over.” Patrick dug into one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts, which he threw at Wade. “Don’t touch my pizza.”
Wade caught the box and tore into it, pulling out a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts. He ripped it open and stuffed one into his mouth to take a bite, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“A headache,” Patrick replied as he followed Jono into the kitchen.
Patrick set the wet grocery bags on the floor to deal with later. While Jono went to get everyone situated, Patrick grabbed six glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water. A couple of slices of white bread was all that was left in the bag on top of the refrigerator, but it was enough to parcel out into six pieces.
Patrick carried everything out to the dining table in two trips, lining up the glasses and dropping a piece of bread near each one. He gestured at the offering. “Be welcome.”
The werecreatures didn’t move, not until Jono cleared his throat. “We’re not discussing anything until you lot accept hospitality. If you decline, you can leave.”
The woman and man—alphas of their respective packs, Patrick assumed—stepped forward to pass out the glasses and bread to their people.
Hospitality greetings were binding welcomes that protected a person’s hearth and home. Breaking the welcome meant the transgressor was never able to cross the threshold and enter the home again. Patrick could feel the threshold wrapped around the apartment react to the intent of the act, magic prickling against the shields he still had up. The werecreatures seemed oblivious to the subtle power.
“You got this?” Patrick asked Jono.
“Go eat your pizza, Pat.”
Patrick retreated to the kitchen and popped open the pizza box. He half listened to the conversation happening in the other room, but most of his attention was on his dinner. The pizza was still warm, and Patrick chewed his way through two pieces before slowing down long enough to grab a plate. Piling two more slices onto it, he carried the plate out of the kitchen.
Wade had raised the volume on the television a little, attention focused on the hockey game. It must have been a West Coast game to be broadcasted so late.
“Did you finish your homework?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Yes,” Wade said, eyes glued to the flat-screen television.
Jono paused in whatever he was discussing with the two packs and said, “Wade.”
“What? I finished!”
Patrick snorted. “Finished putting the homework away or actually doing it?”
“It’s an essay, and it’s not due until next week.”
“Do your homework,” Patrick and Jono said in unison.
Wade scowled and reached for the remote to turn off the television. He dragged his backpack onto the couch with a loud, obnoxious sigh. Patrick rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all.
Sage Beacot, the fourth member of their pack, had helped Wade enroll in the Manhattan Educational Opportunity Center out of the Borough of Manhattan Community College. They’d started him off in the Introduction to High School Equivalency course that would lead into the HSE Diploma course. Wade hadn’t finished high school due to running away at the age of fourteen and being subsequently kidnapped. He was basically starting over from scratch, and they were all determined to support his efforts.
Even though he was a dragon, Wade still thought of himself as mostly human and wanted to do human things. Patrick and Jono had both agreed Wade was better off going to school than working a low-wage job or joining the military. Getting Wade to focus was easier on some days than on others. They had better luck if he was here visiting or sleeping over at their place rather than staying at his own apartment. He didn’t live with them, because Patrick knew the importance of having your own space after surviving something that should have killed you.
The one-bedroom apartment Wade called home in the East Village wasn’t technically part of their territory, but Patrick had made it clear that Wade was pack and under their protection. Marek Taylor, a tech billionaire who owned the PreterWorld social media company and was the United States’ one true seer, had covered Wade’s rent for a full year. It was one less thing Patrick had to worry about.
Taking another bite of pizza, Patrick wandered over to where Jono was huddled with the two packs at their dining table. The table was circular, but the two packs had still managed to stay separated around it. Jono sat on a chair between them, listening to their varied arguments about who owned what territory on a single street in the Bronx.
Territory in large metropolitan cities was almost always measured in blocks rather than square miles. Packs claimed territory through agreements or fights, allowing pass-through rights to other packs if the rivalry wasn’t huge. Borders were expanded or lost one house at a time, and that seemed to be the case here, mostly perpetuated by a newly arrived independent werecreature renting a home on the corner. Which meant Marco’sEscorpiónpack had encroached on Letitia’s Gold pack, and no one was happy.
“Asking the independent to give up their miniscule territory on the corner isn’t an option. Have they ever gone before the other god pack about territory other than during the initial move into the Bronx?” Jono said.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Letitia said.
“Fine. I’ll take their territory into consideration even though they aren’t represented here.”
“If they want their territory, then they should be here. They aren’t, so I don’t see why they matter,” Marco retorted.
Jono raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask them to come with you?”
