CHAPTER ONE
The endof May in New York City came with a burgeoning heat that Wade Espinoza never really noticed. Being a fire dragon came with some perks, and not being bothered by heat or really feeling cold was one of them. During the cooler months of the year, he usually forgot his jacket or sweater at home, which resulted in odd looks from fellow New Yorkers and resigned scolding from his pack.
But it was almost summer, and Wade was happy to leave the cold-weather clothes he never cared for shoved in the back of his closet whenever he left for school, work, or to handle their pack business. The one good thing about jackets, though, was their pockets, which could carry snacks. The pockets of his jeans were never deep enough, even for the short walk home after a night working a shift at Tempest, his pack’s bar.
Tempest was the epicenter of the New York City god pack’s outreach for pack needs. It was neutral territory, open to anyone who wandered inside, and Wade had been helping to supervise the staff there since he turned twenty-one two years ago. He was, admittedly, a terrible bartender, but he could pour a beer, a glass of wine, or a shot of whiskey with the best of them. As faras bouncers went, when the need arose, no one was better than him.
Wade’s one-bedroom condo was located in the East Village, the same neighborhood he’d lived in since joining the New York City god pack five years ago. The condo overlooking Avenue A was cozy and messy and where Wade stored his various hoards until someone from his pack inevitably showed up and told him to clean the place. The building was also where his favorite food cart made a special stop once a week. Wade looked forward to the food cart’s arrival every Tuesday morning for a tasty, greasy breakfast of the best kind after a work shift.
He could already smell the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich before he turned the corner, along with the unwelcome pungent scent of sulfur and the sound of heckling from people who weren’t local to the neighborhood. He wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of three men standing in front of the food cart parked halfway down the street, light shining through its open window. It was almost 6:30 a.m.—he’d closed the bar at 4:00 a.m. and stayed late to handle some pack business—and he was now late for his breakfast pickup.
Clearly, some assholes were trying to steal it.
“Give us the money and we’ll let you keep parking here every week,” one of the men on the sidewalk said.
Or not.
“Are you seriously trying to do some racketeering? In my neighborhood? In front of my building? With my favorite food cart?” Wade asked loudly as he lengthened his stride.
The small group turned to look at him, the cocky expressions on their faces not impressing Wade. The scent of sulfur got stronger, the particular odor ofdemonmaking Wade scowl. Gross. If they ruined his breakfast sandwiches, he was going to be so pissed.
“Keep walking,” said one of the men—an ifrit, if Wade had the scent right, and he usually did.
“Uh, no. You’re in my territory.Youwalk.”
One of the ifrits swaggered closer, flashing sharp teeth and giving off a threatening aura that might have worked on a mundane human but which Wade only found laughable. He’d faced down plenty of demons and gods in his twenty-three years, and Wade hadn’t found anything dead or alive these days that he couldn’t eat, ifrits included.
He flashed his own teeth, the skin on his face getting that particular itch that happened when he shifted mass just enough to push dragon scales through it. The ifrit froze midstep, one foot hovering over the sidewalk as all the color washed out of his tanned face.
“Walk, or I get a side of demon with my BEC,” Wade said. The group of ifrits as a whole spun on their heels and sprinted away with a burst of supernatural speed without another word. Wade snorted, clearing smoke from his nose. “And don’t come back!”
Wade was still scowling in the direction the ifrits had run off to when he stepped up to the food cart’s open window. Paolo leaned through the opening, turning his head in the same direction, but the ifrits were already gone.
“Thanks, kid,” Paolo grunted. He was a tall, burly cook in his late thirties. His entire family ran a food cart business in New York City, and Wade had hit up every single one of them in his time living there, but he liked Paolo’s BECs best.
“Have they been by before?”
“First time for mine.”
Wade turned to look at him, frowning as he dug out his wallet. He’d lived around Patrick Collins for years and knew how to read between the lines of what people said and meant,thanks to the mage and former special agent of the Supernatural Operations Agency. “But not for the rest of your family?”
Paolo grimaced as he shoved away from the window to rummage at the counter to his left. “Some of the cousins said they got hit up by a gang the other week. They closed the carts early rather than pay.”
“Were they in pack territory?”
Paolo snorted out a laugh as he came back with a bulging plastic bag. “You know we only park in pack territory. Werecreatures make great customers.”
Because werecreatures, like magic users and Wade and others who were part of the preternatural or supernatural communities, needed more food than mundane humans for energy. He was thankful for the fact that, tithes to the god pack aside, Marek Taylor was a billionaire who never minded Wade’s grocery bill. “Yeah, but which one?”
“The carts were in Downtown Manhattan and Midtown.”
Wade knew every single werecreature pack in those neighborhoods and made a mental note to send an email to those particular pack alphas. “I’ll let the packs know to keep an eye out for the ifrits.”
“Is that what they were?”
“They were assholes.”
“Dumbassholes.”
