Pack of Misfits: Gray Wolf Security Shifters, #1

By Glenna Sinclair

For those who love paranormal shifters, this series is perfect for you. However, if you're not a paranormal fan, you might want to move on to the main romantic suspense series: Gray Wolf Security, Stone Security, Mastiff Security, and Dragon Security.

 

This first book contains over 50,000 words of paranormal romantic suspense and can be read as a stand-alone book. If you enjoy the characters, you can continue reading the six-part series Gray Wolf Security SHIFTERS.

 

Tunstall Grayson has been on the run longer than he can recall. When Ash Grayson finds him, Tunstall tries to push him away. But Ash knows more than he lets on and wants to offer Tunstall something he has never had: a true family. With the responsibility of growing a new office of Gray Wolf Security, Ash has not only given Tunstall a place to call home—he's given him a reason to gather other misfit shifters and build his own pack, one that won't betray him or hunt him down. One he can truly trust. But if Tunstall thinks he can continue to avoid human contact, he's got another thing coming...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenna Sinclair
• Release date: Apr 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224272334

Glenna Sinclair

Experience the heart-racing novels of Glenna Sinclair, the master of romantic suspense. Sinclair's books feature strong male protagonists, many with a military background, who face real-world challenges that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Books2read.com/GlennaSinclair Facebook.com/AuthorGlennaSinclair GlennaSinclairAuthor at Gmail dot com

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Tunstall

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There are shapeshifters walking the streets of America.

I know because I’m one of them.

No, I’m not a werewolf—though I do shift into a gray wolf. But werewolves are a figment of writers’ imaginations. There is no such creature as a man who only transforms when the moon is full. And I’m no more susceptible to a silver bullet than most men would be to a bullet made of any material.

There was once a time when shapeshifters walked the streets freely, unafraid to expose their nature to anyone around them. But then came Christianity and a fear of anything that was different than the majority. There were stories that have been told among the members of my pack for generations about shapeshifters who were burned at the stake like witches, though no one brags about that like they do about those poor girls in Salem who weren’t true witches, but made crazy from the wheat in their bread. If they did, they’d have to acknowledge that we actually exist, but to admit we exist would require Christians to admit that there are things left over from the days of pagan worship that are real.

Hypocrites.

Anyway, it goes without saying that we no longer feel free to expose ourselves because humans have this habit of freaking out when they see our true nature. Like transforming into an animal was all that shocking and... whatever. For that reason, my pack steadily moved further and further away from society, finally burrowing into the remotest areas of Canada. They felt safer that way. And they discouraged interaction with humans, going so far as to turn on their own when someone tried to leave the pack. Like me. They’ve hunted me off and on for sixty-five years, ever since I decided I could no longer live by their restrictions. Who wants to live in the middle of nowhere, never meeting new people, never experiencing all that the world can offer?

Not me. I’ve lived a hell of a life since leaving my pack:

I found distant relatives and lived with a cousin for a while.

I spent a little time in Haight-Ashbury.

I fought in Vietnam alongside some very interesting characters.

I worked as a roadie for the Backstreet Boys.

I joined the marines and worked with the CIA to take down Osama bin Laden.

I’ve spent time in jungles and frozen tundra, danced under the moon with beautiful women, ridden the fastest horses and sailed the wildest seas.

The only problem with living my life the way I have was that it always felt temporary. See, the thing was, I’m old enough that I’ve lost count of the exact number. Something about my nature as a shapeshifter caused me to age much slower than normal humans. I was old by human standards, but I looked like I was no more than a man in his late twenties. And when you spent ten or fifteen years among the same people day in and day out, they noticed when they’d grown gray hairs but you hadn’t.

I learned a long time ago not to remain in one place longer than three or four years. Leave before anyone got close enough to be too curious. That was once a difficult task because people are naturally curious creatures. But it was growing easier and easier in the age of social media. No one really pays much attention to others IRL—in real life. It’s all about that online profile, which I carefully avoid as much as possible.

I’ve changed my name and my social security number so many times I’ve lost count of the ones I’ve used. My last existence was a construction worker in Texas—Lyle Collins. That lasted three years, until one of the guys on a building site commented on the fact that I healed awfully quick from a deep cut on my hand. That’s another perk of the shapeshifting thing—I tended to heal faster than most people. Not supernaturally fast, unfortunately, but fast enough that it was noticeable, apparently. Because of that, I was on the road again for the last few months, moving from town to town, one rundown hotel after another. I was just me again. Tunstall Grayson. Basic shapeshifter misfit, off on my own.

Then again, I’m not really on my own. Other misfits just seem to find me.

Where the hell were you last night?

My companion, a shifter I met in a bar in Colorado, shrugged. Around, he said noncommittally.

When we hunt, you’re supposed to let me know if you spot any hunters.

I’m aware.

There were hunters tonight. And one of them came within an inch of blowing a hole in my ass!

I’m not perfect, Tunstall. I can’t see everything.

Yeah, well, you have a pretty good vantage point when you’re flying over the treetops.

I found a wounded deer. Was I supposed to pass up a delicious meal just because you weren’t as lucky as me?

I sighed, twisting my body slightly to take a look at the strip of raw flesh just above my hip that the bullet had created. It was already smaller than it had been, but that didn’t do much to take away the insult that getting shot in any capacity caused.

You’ll be good as new by tomorrow.

That’s not the point.

I would have been there if I thought you were in any real danger.

How much more danger could I be in, Levi? They shot at me. I have a graze on my hip!

Why didn’t you smell them, or whatever it is you can do?

I growled, a guttural sound that was more like my other half than I’d intended it to be. Levi backed away, his self-preservation instincts as strong as mine. Levi’s other half was a king vulture, a large bird of prey whose only natural predators are snakes that can attack their young—which is not a concern for Levi—and large cats, such as jaguars. I supposed I could be counted in that last category. I’m not a cat, but if he pissed me off enough it probably wouldn’t take much for me to rip out his narrow bird throat.

I got off the bed, vaguely aware of the human noises going on in the next room. I hated these motels with their thin walls and the strong odor of human excretions. My sense of smell was intense and it could be really annoying sometimes, especially when in my human form. It was time to look for somewhere more permanent, a quiet place I could live unnoticed for a few years.

We’re moving on tomorrow, I announced.

Where to?

I shrugged. I had no idea. We were in California now, close enough to the ocean that we could no longer move west. Or maybe we could. Asia might be an interesting experience. I’d never been to Japan or China. We could disappear there. Then again, I was a particularly tall man when in my human form, with pale skin that seemed to be particularly noticeable when contrasted with my dark brown hair. I’d stick out like a sore thumb. Levi, on the other hand, was a few inches shorter than me with dark hair and skin, a gift of his South American heritage. He might fit in well.

It was something.

We could go back East.

It’s cold back East.

My eyebrows rose. No one’s forcing you to travel with me.

Levi shrugged. Cold’s better than alone.

I glanced at him. He’d backed up nearly to the door, leaning against the wall there like he was still afraid I’d attack. Levi was in bad shape when I found him in that bar, bruised and broken in ways no human would ever appreciate. He’d been hunted. He wouldn’t tell me who’d been hunting him, but I got the impression it had more to do with his past than it did with his present. It would be arrogant to believe that I was the only misfit who was being hunted by his pack.

I was about to make a comment when my attention was drawn to the television. It’d been on most of the day even though we never really sat down and watched. It was noise to drown out other noises. But I’d heard a name that pulled me out of my thoughts—one I didn’t know but did all at the same time.

Where’s the remote?

What?

The television. Where’s the remote?

Levi snatched it up from the table beside him and tossed it at me. I caught it easily and turned up the sound, my eyes slightly narrowed as I stared at the screen. A pretty blonde woman was talking about something that had recently happened in Florida, the arrest of some woman whose crime I didn’t quite catch. What I was more interested in was the man in a stock photo they were also displaying and the name written in the caption underneath.

Ashford Grayson.

He was a middle-aged man with dark, curly hair and intense green eyes. Familiar green eyes.

He’s got the same last name as you, Levi commented.

He does.

I stared at that picture, remembering a moment in my life that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I was on my own for the first time, learning how to live among humans in a world that wasn’t quite what I’d expected. My mother talked about family that had evolved differently than us, humans in every aspect of the word. I found them out of curiosity, nothing more. I never intended to have contact, just wanted to see them, learn about them. But Silas Grayson was a kind, gentle man who was more than accepting of me. He gave me a home when I needed it more than even I understood at the time. And he taught me things about living among humans I still use to this day. I probably would have been caught and killed years ago if not for him.

I wondered if Ashford was anything like his great-grandfather.

Who is he?

My cousin.

Levi made a sound like a strangled cry. Are you serious? You have human relatives? Or is he—

He’s human. Not all of my kind evolved in the same way.

Seriously?

I turned the sound up a little more as the woman continued to talk. She’d said gray wolf. What was she talking about? What wolf? Was he...? Silas hadn’t been, but he knew about our family, knew our heritage. Had he passed that information down to his children and their children? Had Ashford been told about my pack in Canada? Would he be receptive to meeting me?

But then I understood what her reference meant. Gray Wolf was the name of his security firm. A play on his name, nothing more.

Disappointment shot through me. For a second, I’d actually found myself hoping that I’d found a place to go in this stranger. I should have known better.

You should go talk to him.

Why? His side of the family hasn’t had anything to do with my side in more than sixty years.

So? He’s still a relative. Maybe you might have something on the human side in common.

I shook my head. The last time I contacted a member of his side of the family, it didn’t end well.

What could be so bad that you don’t want to see him?

I was quiet for a long moment, watching the blonde woman on the television as she moved to another story. I tried not to think about the disasters I often left in my wake, because the guilt could be overwhelming. The guilt was still often overwhelming.

I lived with my cousin years ago—not that one, but his great-grandfather—and he helped me more than I could ever repay. But my presence near him, near his family, put him in danger. My pack came looking for me and they... a girl died. It wasn’t a happy ending. I can’t put another person in danger like that.

But that had to have been a long time ago.

It was. But my pack is still looking for me.

When was the last time they found you?

Ten years, but that doesn’t mean anything. They’ll keep hunting me until I’m dead, or all their warriors are dead.

Tunstall, this could be an opportunity. He could give us work. They said he owns this big security firm that took down an entire criminal organization! That kind of work would be perfect for us!

I shook my head. No. I won’t put an innocent in danger.

Tunstall—

Enough, Levi! I won’t talk about it anymore.

I shut off the television and grabbed my jacket. Nothing would ever be as warm as the fur that covered my body when I was in my natural form, but this leather jacket was a close second. I slid it on and stepped out into the late-evening sunlight. It’d be dark soon and the woods were calling.

Let’s go hunting.

Chapter 2

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Trinity

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It was so strange being back in this place. I’d only been gone for five years, but it seemed like a lifetime. I’d certainly lived a different life since the last time I set eyes on this town.

Bemidji, Minnesota. Not really the cultural center of the world.

I wondered how many of my old classmates were still stuck in this town. Probably more than the ones who swore they’d get out the moment we all graduated. I got out. Thank God for that scholarship to NYU! Not that I stayed there for long, either. The moment my photographs started to sell, I was out of there too.

Eighteen years was long enough to sit still in one place. I needed to be on the move, to see things I’d only read about in books. And I did. I saw more than I ever wanted to and captured it all with my camera. Some of my photographs had appeared in international publications, online, and in newspapers all over the world. Others were blown up and displayed in galleries, even a museum here and there. I was well known in art circles. But here in Bemidji? I was just Trinity Larson. I was Bruno Larson’s daughter, come home to bury him.

What a hell of a reason to come home again. Hopefully it would only take a day or two and I could be back on a plane to Italy, just like I was supposed to be. There was a festival going on there that a publisher wanted photographed for an upcoming book on winemaking. A little milder than my usual subject, but it was a good-paying gig. And it was thousands of miles from here.

I drove up to the house where I was conceived, born, and raised, feeling nothing but irritation as I looked up at the simple lines of the roof, the sag that was more pronounced in the porch than I recalled.