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understand.
    Or, at least, Spike didn’t think Ellison had ever had cubs. The man never talked about his life before this Shiftertown. But Spike had to worry about all kinds of shit now, from what to feed the kid to the fact that he’d have to put a Collar on him sooner or later.
    Spike barely controlled his growls. The Collars were painful going on, and to subject his son to that . . . Damn it, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let Liam do it.
    Ellison drove to a bar in the north part of San Antonio, near the National Cemetery, where Gavan, Nate, and Spike had hung out on their rare off hours back when they’d been Fergus’s thugs.
    It was a Shifter bar—that is, a bar that allowed Shifters to drink there. This wasn’t the friendly corner bar near the Austin Shiftertown where Liam worked as a manager and Shifters came to take a load off. This was a rougher place where the human bikers eyed Shifters and were always spoiling for a fight. An uneasy truce existed, each side knowing the other could start one hell of a brawl.
    Everyone in the place turned around and stared at Ellison and Spike when they walked in. They recognized Spike, but he’d ceased to become a regular, and Ellison was clearly out of place.
    Spike sensed their assessments, and he assessed back. He noted the exits, how many males were between him and each door out, how many of those males were Shifters, how many human. He noted who sat where, where in the bar humans and Shifters mixed, where humans and Shifters preferred to keep to their own.
    Balls clacked on a pool table in the back room. Spike and Ellison ordered beers at the long bar and drifted toward the sounds of the pool game.
    Gavan, a big Feline with sand-colored hair pulled into a ponytail, stood at the head of one table, watching two other Shifters play. Spike got that the other Shifters were Lupine right away from their stink. Felines were more fastidious. Spike put up with Ellison’s Lupine smell only because he was used to him, and Ellison often offered to pay for beer.
    Gavan hadn’t changed much since Spike had last seen him. Same lank ponytail, same granite-like face, same attitude. Gavan’s family was mostly mountain lion, and his washed-out eyes held the look of a solitary hunter.
    Ellison started setting up a game at the empty table farthest from Gavan, signaling he wouldn’t intrude on Gavan’s territory. Territory fights could extend even to corners of bar back rooms.
    “What are you doing here, Spike?” Gavan asked. “Morrissey send you?”
    Ellison bent to break the cluster of balls, and Spike shrugged. Scents changed with lies, and Gavan would smell a false denial.
    “Doesn’t matter,” Gavan said, then he chuckled. “I’m entitled to my own opinions. How you been, Spike?”
    Spike shrugged again, burying deep any thoughts of his new cub, but he knew Gavan would scent Jordan on him too. “Can’t complain.”
    “I saw you fight last night,” Gavan said. “You’re good. You wanted to kill that bear.”
    “Could be.”
    “Not could be. You did. I saw it in your eyes. You backed off because you had to. The kill would have felt good, yeah?”
    “Yep.” No question. Of course Spike had wanted the kill. He was Shifter.
    But Spike wasn’t as stupid as people assumed. Most Shifters and humans looked at Spike and thought, boneheaded fighter. Spike let them. Easier to keep them off guard while he figured out exactly what they were up to and what to do about it.
    He’d have been stupid as hell to try to go for the kill with Cormac last night. The bear had been holding back his true strength, and Spike had known it.
    Bears were stronger than all Shifters—they’d learned to temper their strength in order to live in Shiftertowns with other Shifters. They had to, or they’d crush every hand they shook.
    Even in the ring, in a fight to show off skill, Cormac hadn’t wanted to accidentally kill Spike. Spike had won through strategy and opportunity, not strength.
    If