Claiming His Witch

CLAIMING HIS WITCH

The Third Book in the Feral Breed Series

Only ten years into his new life as a wolf shifter, Feral Breed MC prospect Pup is struggling to find his place. A throwaway kid in his human past, the only home he’s ever known has been with his Breed brothers. But a mistake that nearly ended the life of his leader’s mate haunts him, and he’ll stop at nothing to prove his worth.

Orphaned at birth, Azurine and her sisters have been raised on string magick, grimoires, and the strength of the elements around them. Growing up surrounded by the witches in their coven, there's never been a lack of a maternal element to support her. But she’s always been the “middle Weaver,” forced to accept the coven’s refusal to see the girls as anything other than the Weaver triplets.

When a witch hunter invades the coven’s home, the witches lash out at the nearest suspect… and one of their own. Betrayed by her coven, Azurine must choose between the only family she’s ever known and the man fate tied to her soul. And as Pup tries to earn the respect of his club, he makes a decision that could cost him more than his place in the Feral Breed. It could cost him Azurine. Or his own life.

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GLOSSARY

Anbizen

Term for turned shifters, or those born as humans. Anbizen shifters are a bit rare as the rush of instinct can only be handled by the strongest minds. Most Anbizens end up packless or feral.

Bagger
 

A type of motorcycle equipped with permanent saddle bags and other touring accessories. Once thought of as a bike for older, first-time riders, these bikes are now being used by many riders for long-haul riding.

Bobber
 

A type of motorcycle originally called such due to the shortening of the rear fender. Bobbers tend to have a stripped-down style, where the owner customizes their bike by removing all the unnecessary accessories.

Borzohn

Term for the men and women born with the shifter gene. Usually raised in a pack culture, these shifters sometimes believe they are superior to the shifters who began their lives as humans.

NALB

National Association of the Lycan Brotherhood; a form of government for wolf shifters throughout North America. There is one president who runs the various jurisdictions within the group, which are each run by a Regional Head. Regional Heads control local packs, assign territory, and handle any minor NALB rule infractions. The President of the NALB is also the National President of the Feral Breed Motorcycle Club, the group called in to handle situations the Regional Heads can’t.

Wiccan Rede
 

A long statement laying out the morality of the Wiccan religions. Many modern Wiccans follow what is known as the eight words couplet:
An it harm none, do what ye will.

I flew down the two-lane highway, the cold November wind burning my face. Dropping down into every curve and pushing the speedometer higher on the straightaways, I raced time with two wheels rolling along asphalt. Letting my thoughts roam, my mind wander, and my heart enjoy the ride.

This was my favorite part of being with the Feral Breed Motorcycle Club. The freedom that came from knowing death was much farther away than it was before I’d been turned. Not that there was no chance of going lights-out. Even as a wolf shifter, I’d almost died after making a stupid mistake on a mission with my Breed brothers. And yet, as I pushed my bobber past the hundred-mile-an-hour mark and leaned hard into a sharp turn in the road, I felt bulletproof. Confident. Nothing could stop me. Nothing could rein me in. Nothing could knock me off-balance. Not when I was on two wheels or four paws.
 

It was only the human side of me that still seemed to lose his balance as I roared my way through this life.

Physical balance had not been kind to me as a child. I’d fallen and skinned my knees countless times, taken a tumble down a flight of stairs, even busted an ankle tripping over a stick hidden in the tall grass of the fields around the trailer where I grew up. Balance had definitely bitch-slapped me a time or two. It still slithered out of my grasp at times, though no longer in the physical sense of the word. More balance between my past and my present; my human life and my shifter life; what the two sides of me wanted to be at any given time.

As a wolf shifter in the Feral Breed, I knew my role. I was a prospect; biding my time and doing everything I could to prove my worth to the patched members. My goal was in sight—the addition of a Feral Breed MC rocker and a growling wolf insignia to the black leather I always wore. We were guardians of the secret, protectors of our fellow wolf shifters, and I wanted that patch more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. I was focused, I was on target, and I knew exactly what I needed to do.

As a human man, I had a tendency to lose myself in memories and regrets. I’d almost died for a mistake my human side made, ignoring both the orders I’d been given and my wolf instincts. If not for the damage a deranged shifter had inflicted on me, I probably would have lost my spot in the Feral Breed. I’d let my leader down, I’d let his mate down, I’d let my Brothers down, and I’d disrespected my wolf spirit. I’d nearly lost everything, but I was on a mission to right my wrongs. I would make it up to my team. I would earn that patch.

Even if trying brought death back to my doorstep.

I slowed to a more reasonable speed as I rolled in to the town where I grew up. The place looked the same—single stoplight, empty buildings on the main business strip, pallor of poverty hanging in the air like the stink of rotting garbage on a hot day. This place made my skin itch and my wolf spirit prick his proverbial ears. Not that there was anything special about it. This place was a town like many others, like any based in a region where factory closings had caused businesses—and then families of the unemployed—to wither and die.
 

My hometown sat seven miles from the shore of Lake Michigan. On the coast, people found a strip of land filled with tourists and transplants who could afford a life on the beach. But drive inland, and instead of big houses and trendy restaurants, one found a bunch of little towns just like this. Shabby, decaying, and practically hidden from the eyes of the people driving past on the expressways.

Growling to myself, I tightened my grip on the throttle and clenched my jaw. I couldn’t get lost in my memories of this place. I needed to stay focused on my job, not wonder about the things I’d left behind. This trip was to be one hundred percent about work, even if I’d be working right where my old life had ended and my new one began.

Once past the only operating gas station in town, I turned off the main drag and headed down a side street to the shop owned by Beast, brother of the Gatekeeper, and the man who made me what I was. Pulling into the Yard Shark Customs driveway was like stepping into a time warp, one that did its best to knock me right back into those memories trying to pull me off course. The asphalt gleamed dark and unblemished from the edge of the road all the way up to the bay doors. The hulking corpses of various classic cars waiting for whatever magic they needed to make them roadworthy lined the fences, each perfectly placed with a near-obsessive attention to spacing. Not much had changed since the first time I’d rolled onto the lot nearly sixteen years ago, an eager kid looking for something to do to make a little money and keep busy during the summer break from school. I’d had no clue what turning onto that lot would eventually lead to. And I’d had no foresight that returning would make me feel like I’d been kicked in the junk.

I parked my bike in front of one of the bay doors and paused a moment to take it all in. Brown, barn-wood exterior, black roll-up doors, and boisterous fall-colored flowers in containers lining the front walkway, interspersed with pumpkins of various sizes. Clean and welcoming, the shop looked like any average, middle-America small business. Which made it way too nice for the town around it.

It was also nearly impenetrable.
 

There was no way to sneak onto Yard Shark land without alerting the security system. The owner had made sure of that after the breach that brought me to my new life. If there was one way I was exactly like my maker, it was in that—I might make a mistake, but I’d learn from my error. It wouldn’t happen twice. His biggest mistake had been not paying enough attention the night a nomad came to town; mine had been not paying enough attention to my inner wolf. I’d paid for his mistake with my human life; I was still paying for my own.

I stood and swung my leg over the seat as the man who’d been my boss, my friend, my teacher, and, in the end, my wolf giver, appeared in the open bay door to my left. “What’s up, brother?”

“Not a whole helluva lot, Pup. You do know it’s supposed to snow, right?” Beast nodded toward my bike. I grinned. I knew it was a gamble riding it up, but I couldn’t resist one more trip before the snow fell and we were stuck waiting for the world to thaw.
 

“You know me, man. I’m all about taking risks.”

Beast snorted. “Sure thing, kid. Keep telling yourself that. What’re you doing up this way? I didn’t expect to see you until the big feast at the end of the month.”
 

He ambled outside as he wiped his greasy hands on a dirty, red rag. The black skullcap he wore sported the Feral Breed insignia sans rockers. The same insignia was tattooed on his forearm amidst a swirling pattern of lines and images. People saw the Beast—with his full-sleeves and the wicked scar curving up the side of his face—and they assumed he was dangerous. And he was, as all wolf shifters were. But he was also kind and compassionate; a quiet man with a deep sense of what was right and wrong. I was living proof of that.

“I had some work to do out this way, so Rebel sent me to see you. Said I needed to make sure the bagger was put through its paces before he picked it up this weekend. He should be rolling in to the lake camp later tonight.” I strolled toward the garage, fighting back the memories with each step.

“Custom rides take time. You and Rebel know that.” Beast gave me a backslapping hug before directing us inside.

I shrugged. “I think he’s anxious to get back to work. He doesn’t have a bike he deems”—I made air quotes—“good enough for his Cherry.”

Beast huffed. “The boy’s got about fifteen skids that would be right comfortable for someone on a bitch seat. Now he wants a bagger with a behemoth motor, to what? Chase down man-eaters with his human mate on the back?”

“Don’t ask me, man. I just do what I’m told.”

“You Anbizens don’t make a lot of sense sometimes.” Beast looked my way, his face growing serious. “So the mating went well, I assume? She take to him okay?”

“Seems so. We haven’t seen either one of them in months. Shadow and I rode through Milwaukee to check on them before the weather turned cold, but we couldn’t get close to the door.” I smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Cherry started screaming whenever we stepped foot on her property.”

“What was she yelling for?”

My smirk morphed into a full-on grin. “Well, at that particular moment, she was yelling for more, for him to go faster, and occasionally hollering out the Lord’s name.”

Beast bellowed a laugh, the sound echoing through the concrete-floored structure. “You tried walking up to the den of a newly mated wolf while he was fucking his woman? You’re lucky you didn’t get a chunk taken out of your ass.”

“It’s not like I knew what they were up to. When we rolled up, they were quiet. But that quiet didn’t last long.”

“Well, damn. Good for Rebel. I’m real happy for him.” Beast shook his head as we walked between pits. “Man, I’m going to razz that kid hard when he gets his ass up here. All mated and riding a bagger, for fuck’s sake. I thought only that chump Magnus would ever ride one of these giants for the Detroit den.”

We came to the back alcove where a turquoise and white motorcycle rested on the lift. Sleek and long, the bike was showstoppingly gorgeous. From the huge front wheel to the low handlebars, the white leather seat to the chrome accents, Rebel’s new toy would definitely be turning heads.

I whistled low. “She sure is a looker.”

Beast nodded before pulling his skullcap off and dropping it on the workbench. “She is, and she’s going to ride like a motherfucking La-Z-Boy once she gets rolling. But just like any woman, she’s been giving me shit all damn day. I can’t get the wiring right to save my sorry ass.”

“She won’t start?”

“Oh no, she’ll start. I just can’t get her to finish.” He chuckled at his own innuendo before pointing toward the engine. “She putters out every time I put her in gear.”

I ran my fingers over the curve of the large front headlight. “Think it’s the wiring?”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, boy.”

Memories of the night the purely human me died flooded my mind. The blood and pain from the attack that had forced Beast to turn me, even though he didn’t think I was ready. The way the world seemed to tear itself apart and put itself back together as I writhed on the cot in the far back corner of the garage. The confusion that had filled my consciousness as I’d come to, no longer just human inside my own mind. And Beast, calm as ever, looking me over and snorting.