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breezy ride had made me appreciate the black leather jacket and jeans I’d worn to blend with the biker crowd, but as I exited the Jeep the cracked asphalt under my boots reflected enough heat to make sweat bead, dripping between my breasts. Compared to Sunday’s fiery battle, this heat was nothing. Still, I was glad that the modern miracle of A/C was only a few feet away.
    Resisting the temptation to hurry, I strolled. Assessing. Fera might be a potential client, and Mag’s might be a public place, but the instincts I’d honed over the years didn’t distinguish between Chuck E. Cheese’s and a war zone. To drop your guard was to get smacked between the eyes, especially if you were at the former. Those little kids with mallets could be real bastards.
    The lot was empty of people but full of motorcycles, cars and pickups. My Susie was the only bright spot in the sea of black, chrome, and blue, dust-covered Harleys and Chevys. If the number of vehicles was any evidence, Mag’s was hopping.
    Built from gray, weathered boards that most likely dated to the bar’s opening in the ’70s, the only exception was the nice side deck that had been added since my last visit. It was a beautiful night to sit outside. Too bad Fera had specified as discreet a meeting as possible. To that end, I took a moment to ensure my jacket still concealed my weapons. I was licensed to carry the stunners. But the whip on my hip and short sword sheathed in line with my spine weren’t exactly legal or illegal. Either way, a woman carrying weapons—other than those used for deer or raccoon hunting—was enough of a novelty in rural Miss. to draw attention. Attention Sheriff Fera didn’t want. Although, and I grinned at this thought, anyone, woman or man, would draw attention if they walked into a bar carrying my small arsenal. Considering this was a business meeting, it was probably overkill. But I wasn’t comfortable going unarmed, especially after the Kin’s job had turned into such a mess. Satisfied that everything was hidden, I pulled open the dented wooden door.
    The bar was dim and smoky. Maybe the smoking ban didn’t reach this far outside the city. Or more likely, no one cared. Straight ahead, a dark polished bar rested against the rear wall. Green felt pool tables were on my right with booths and dining tables to my left. As I headed for a booth, I exchanged a brief nod with three Weres and a gremlin playing pool with the bikers and wannabe cowboys that crowded the place. I couldn’t help but grin at the number of eager women in denim and cowboy hats crowding the men, unaware that they were being drawn in by the Weres’ pheromones, like moths to a sexed-up flame.
    I kept walking, leaving everyone to their fun. The Weres looked friendly enough, and the phers wouldn’t make anyone do anything they didn’t want. The “moths” might go down singed, but everyone would walk away happy. Besides, lycanthropy was almost never transmitted sexually. So as of yet, the Council hadn’t banned Were to non-Were intercourse. Still, if you were an unattached man or woman, it was good to keep an eye on an unmated Were. They were notoriously horny bastards, especially the women.
    I should know, I used to date one.
    Uh…I mean, I used to date Luke, who was definitely male. But I’d been around a few female Weres and knew they put out as much if not more phers. I’d also learned that Weres were cautious, which was why I wasn’t worried. The scent of my whip’s silver worked better than hanging a NOT AVAILABLE sign around my neck.
    I picked the darkest corner and settled in, back to the wall. The seat’s springs had long since given up, and the menu was only a plastic-covered piece of paper, but the jukebox was state of the art, an old Willie Nelson song carrying well over the chatter. What the place lacked in décor it made up with atmosphere. The walls were covered in a mixture of hunting trophies, old posters and framed black-and-white photos.