A Bear Saves the Town

By Macy Babineaux

Cole Blackpelt makes his living as an underground cage fighter up and down the Gulf Coast. When he was young, he fled his home, believing that his entire family was dead. But a wolf-shifter witch shows up to tell him his brothers are not only alive, but one of them will die if he doesn't help. 

Mallory Delgado is the curvy, pretty, but lonely sheriff's deputy in the sleepy down of Lockdale, Texas. Nothing ever happens in Lockdale, except that in the past year, there was a strange multiple homicide that left the old sheriff dead. And now the new sheriff, Ben Smith, has decided to take on the richest and most corrupt man in town, Carson DeLaine. She's worried he's bitten off more than he can chew when a pair of strangers show up in town and Ben falls mysteriously ill. But someone else is coming to Lockdale, an unlikely hero who just might save the day and steal Mallory's heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publisher s24206
• Release date: Apr 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9788828309413

Book preview

2018

1

COLE

The crowd was restless, hungry for action. Cole stood on the concrete floor of the derelict building, a huge, circular structure that had once been part of some long-abandoned factory. Had it been some sort of storage facility? Had they made something in here? He sniffed the night air, smelling only dust from the floor and the bloodlust of the humans.

They stood along rusty metal railings that ringed the interior of the building. Cole looked up at them. Gang members stood alongside businessmen, scantily-clad women hanging on their arms and laughing like hyenas. The crowd contained all races, shapes, and sizes. The one thing they had in common was money. The gravel lot outside was filled with limousines, Hummers, and sports cars Cole didn’t even know the names of.

They had come here to see him fight. They had come to see blood. And their bets had been placed.

He looked up past the jagged rim of the missing roof at the starlit sky and the nearly-full moon. It was a night like this that most of his family had been killed. His father and mother had been butchered by the blood-crazed horde. His little brother Ben had gone to the meeting. He had to assume he was dead, too. Had Nash made it, though? They’d been together near the end, but then—

Hey, killer.

Cole snapped out of his memory, almost surprised to find himself in this place. Luther stood at his shoulder, a greasy little man in a powder-blue track suit. He wore his platinum blond hair slicked back across his head. His eyes shifted as he sniffed. He looked about as shifty as a person could, but he was Cole’s connection to this world.

You daydreaming, my man? Luther asked. You need to get your head in the game. This guy is no joke.

He was right. Cole wasn’t concerned about losing. He’d fought twenty-four of these matches over the last three years, and he’d never lost a single one. He healed faster than regular men, and he was stronger and quicker than most. It wasn’t losing he was worried about. If he didn’t watch his step, he might lose his cool. And then the bear might come out, whether he wanted it to or not. If that happened, all hell might break loose.

Don’t worry, Cole said. I’m good.

Luther squinted at him with those dark, beady eyes. Satisfied, the little man relaxed. He nodded and smiled, his gold tooth glinting in the moonlight. Okay, okay, he said. Cool. We got a lot of money riding on this one.

He said that every time, but it was also true. The stakes rose with every fight. The first few men he’d fought shouldn’t have stepped anywhere near him. But the more times he won, the tougher and stronger they got. And the more money people bet. That also meant a bigger cut for him at the end of the night. 

Cole looked across the concrete floor where his opponent stood among a group of men. He stood a head above the others, an Asian giant with a permanent grimace on his face. His shirt was off, the scars criss-crossing his chest visible even from this far away. Had he been a knife-fighter? This contest was supposed to be bare-knuckle, hand-to-hand, no weapons. 

As if in answer to this question, Cole saw a man patting down his opponent’s loose-fitting pants.

Must be the referee, he thought. 

Cole pulled his own T-shirt off, standing there in his jeans and dusty boots. The ref walked across the moonlit floor. He was a short, balding man with long, black moustache. He looked like the guy who might seat you at some small Italian restaurant. Cole stepped his legs apart and let the man pat him down.

The man stood and looked Cole in the eyes. He seemed almost like a cartoon character to Cole, a funny little man with dark, twinkling eyes and a furry moustache. 

You gonna give me a clean fight? the man said, his voice higher than Cole had expected.

Before Cole could grunt a response, the man burst into a disturbing giggle.

Who am I kidding? he asked. You’re not holding any weapons. Fight as dirty as you like.

Luther snorted a laugh at that as well, then patted Cole on the chest. Go get ‘em, killer.

Cole hated that name. He hadn’t killed anyone. Not yet, anyway. He’d broken a few bones, and the rules, as much as they had rules here, were to fight until one man couldn’t fight anymore. That usually meant one of them was unconscious, but sometimes it just meant their leg was cracked in two or three places. But not dead. He’d heard stories of fights like these that ended in death, but he never let his rage take him that far.

He walked toward the center of the makeshift arena, his boots clacking on the concrete. His opponent moved towards him as well, smooth and quick for such a big man. The crowd, restless until this point, let up a roar. 

As the man approached, Cole could now clearly see the waxy, puckered pattern of scars across his chest. Definitely a bladed weapon of some kind. Though he had no idea where the man was from, much less his name. Was he Chinese? Vietnamese? 

Doesn’t matter, Cole thought. He’s going to be lying on his back in about thirty seconds.

But that turned out not to be. The man wasted no time coming in hard and fast. Cole barely had time to put up his arms to guard his stomach and neck. But the man pivoted like a dancer and landed two sharp jabs into his side.

Pain exploded in his lower back, and he spun to try to face the man. But Cole was too slow. His opponent had already moved behind him, ducking in to land another powerful strike just under his ribs.

The man’s fist felt like a steel piston driving into his flesh. Agony erupted on his other side, and he almost went down to his knees. 

Son of a bitch, Cole thought. As both a blessing and a curse, the rage came. His heart began to pound. He felt the veins in his neck swell. And he felt the razor-sharp claws threatening to poke through the tips of his fingers.

He had to tamp down the bear and rein it in. But now he was on that balanced edge, almost losing control, and he was going to use it.

That second blow had made him stagger, almost dropping him to his knees. But as he began to straighten up, he decided maybe he should drop down anyway, play a little possum and lure the bastard in.

So Cole bent down, finding it easy to do so. The series of punches had been vicious. He dropped his head and waited.

His opponent came straight on, sensing weakness, growing far too bold. Cole leapt up at the last second, wrapping his arms under the man’s swinging blows and around his chest. For a split second, he caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes widening in surprise. 

Cole hugged hard, squeezing as he hoisted him into the air. He heard a whoosh of breath escape the man’s throat. He spun and slammed his opponent down onto the concrete. Something cracked. Cole hoped it wasn’t the man’s back. He wanted to incapacitate him as fast as possible, but not cripple him.

A surprised gasp went up from the crowd.

Cole moved on top of the man, straddling him. He grabbed him by the throat, raising a clenched fist into the air. 

Yield, Cole said. Don’t know how bad you’re hurt, but don’t make it worse.

The man grabbed Cole’s wrist and gasped for air, but it was no use. He’d choke the guy out if he had to. But if the guy said the word, loud enough for the ref to hear, he’d let him go. This man was stubborn though.

Cole squeezed his hand tighter around the man’s neck. As he did, he saw a hand reach down to the waistband of his pants. Then Cole saw the glint of metal in the moonlight and felt the cold edge of a blade slide across his chest.

He let go and jumped back. He looked down at the line just above his abdomen. The blood looked almost black in the moonlight, but the cut was shallow. 

That piece of shit, Cole thought. Now he was really mad. He looked up to see that the man was back on his feet. He didn’t appear to be holding any weapons. Maybe he’d thrown it away, or tucked it back in his waistband. It had been small, whatever it was. A razor? Had the ref not seen it? Or had he known about it all along?

The swipe had been enough to get Cole to back away, but it hadn’t done much damage. So why was the man smiling at him like that?

Cole took a step forward and immediately realized. A wave of dizziness overtook him, and he nearly stumbled face-forward, catching himself at the last second. 

The blade had been coated in some kind of drug. Cole staggered, but managed to stay upright. 

The man was springing up and down on the balls of his feet, moving quickly to the left and right, dancing around him. Cole’s vision blurred. His head now felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He held his arms up in a defensive pose, but the other man’s fist came crashing out of nowhere, clocking him square on the jaw.

White light and pain bloomed in his head, and he staggered, but somehow stayed on feet. 

The asshole was still prancing around, taking his time to land the next blow. Yet with every second that ticked by, the drug was wearing off. Cole could feel the slit across his chest sealing up, though the blood remained. His metabolism was far beyond any human’s. He healed fast, and whatever pharmaceutical was coursing through his bloodstream, his bear’s blood was burning it up.

When the man finally darted in for a follow-up, Cole caught his fist in mid-swing. 

No mercy for you, pal, Cole thought. He squeezed, and this time the cracking was loud and clear. Cole felt the bones snap. It was like squeezing a bag of sticks.

The man screamed, dropping to his knees. The crowd oohed. Cole kept right on squeezing, bending the man’s wrist back into an unnatural position. Blood now seeped black from between his fingers.

Somewhere up above, a woman screamed.

The man stopped howling long enough to hiss Yield through his clenched teeth. Cole was dimly aware that the referee was there, putting his hand on Cole’s forearm. 

It’s over! the little man with the funny moustache was yelling at him. Let go! 

And somewhere in the back of Cole’s mind, he made a connection that hadn’t before this moment. The ref had patted them both down. But his opponent still had a weapon. The ref was in on it. He'd probably made a deal.

As these thoughts coursed through his brain, he also became aware that he was still crushing the man’s hand, though its owner had already passed out.

Cole released his fist and the man slumped unconscious onto the concrete, his ruined hand pooling in blood.

The referee grabbed Cole’s wrist, hesitated, then raised it in the air. The crowd went nuts. 

That’s what they want, itsn't it? he thought. When it came right down to it, humans weren't really any different than all the other animals. 

Cole glanced at the ref’s face and thought he saw something there. Reluctance? Worry? 

He was supposed to lose this fight, wasn’t he?

Cole jerked his wrist out of the ref’s hand and stepped past his unconscious opponent. Suddenly, Cole just wanted to get paid and get the hell out of here. Something didn’t smell right about the whole thing.

He strode across the arena to where Luther waited by the door, seeming to shrink against the wall. 

Let’s go, Cole grumbled. I want to get paid and get on the road.

Luther let out a nervous titter and cracked a thin smile, only half of his gold tooth showing. Yeah, man, he said. Sure.

The hairs on the back of Cole’s neck stood up. Something wasn’t right with Luther, either. The effects of the drug were almost completely gone now, but he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what was going on.

Luther opened the rusty metal door, and Cole followed him through, leaving the dull roar of the crowd behind. They walked together as crickets chirped in the night. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as they wove their way through the expensive cars. 

Luther let out another nervous giggle, rubbing the back of his neck. Man, that was something else, he said. 

They arrived at Luther’s car, a purple, souped-up El Dorado. Luther always kept his cash stashed in a lockbox in the trunk. Instead of reaching into the pocket of his track suit for his keys, he turned to Cole.

Listen, he said. Why don’t you wait here? I’ll go collect the winnings so we can settle up.

That’s not the way it works, Cole said. Yeah, something was definitely not right. 

Hey, man, Luther said, smiling widely now, I’m just a little light this month. No worries. I’ll be back in a jiff.

He started to head back to the silo, but Cole reached out and snatched the front of his track suit, bunching it into his fist.

Hey! Luther yelled. What the fuck you doin’, man? His righteous indignation was just a little too righteous.

Open the trunk, Luther, Cole said. Show me just how light you are.

And there it was in Luther’s eyes. Fear. All the pieces seemed to fall together. Luther had tried to fuck him. He'd known the fix was in. He’d placed his bets against Cole, and now he was out a lot of money. But Cole intended to take whatever he had on him before he cut this whole dirty mess loose.

Luther looked up at him, his eyes wide. Then he seemed to relax, the smile returning.

Sure, man, he said. I see how it is. You want to look? Fine. Just get your damn hands off me.

Cole let go, and Luther made a show of straightening out the rumpled suit before fishing out his keys.

Luther was shaking his head as he unlocked the trunk.

Can’t believe this shit, Luther said, his back to Cole. How long we been partners, man?

Too long, apparently.

The trunk popped open. That’s cold, man, Luther said, his back still turned. He bent down, and Cole heard the sound of a metal box clanking against the well for the spare tire. He heard a tiny click that sounded like the box being opened, and right after that there was another click that sounded like—