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against the relentless Arizona sun. The isolated roadhouse was an old fashioned mix of stone and wood and belligerence, the kind of place where nobody had any upstanding business. Near enough to fall within Sanctuary town limits yet deep enough in the Sycamore woods to retain its wild identity, the bar attracted a diverse population of outsiders. As such, it had become a popular haunt for the local motorcycle gang.
    The biker pressed his gloved hand against the door and took a breath. Last time he was here, that night, a raucous crowd had filled the patio and the doors had been kept open for easy passage and a cool breeze. Tempers, however, had remained high. Perhaps now, at this early time of day, the heat would suppress the more vile nature of the bar's occupants.
    Diego was wearing his full leathers now. His heavy black jacket was armored with inner metal plates, and he had steel-toe long boots with padded knees under his black leather pants. Everything he wore was a dark, matte shade of black that purposefully absorbed all traces of light. Running along the right side of the outfit were heavy scuffs from when he had slid off his bike. Diego grimaced as he pushed open the heavy door. After being released from police custody, it had taken him all of yesterday to sleep the soreness off. But that had been time enough.
    The daylight had trouble penetrating indoors despite the large windows lining the wall. Diego waited for his eyes to adjust to his dim surroundings after pulling off his sunglasses. They were cheap and plastic, just bought this morning to replace the ones he had smashed in the accident. If only all mistakes were so easily corrected.
    Diego squinted his black eyes and Sycamore Lodge fell into focus. The main room had a long bar and wooden cocktail tables and cushioned chairs. Antler sconces emanated red light and cast shadows like fingers reaching out of hell. The raised wood floor rung hollow under Diego's heavy boots and seemed to interrupt the quiet murmur of the patrons.
    Good, he thought, only a few tables of guests, and no one at the bar. Diego released the door to take off his gloves and it slammed shut behind him.
    The right side of the establishment had a step down to an inlaid stone floor. As with the patio, the tread of heavy feet had worn down any finish that may have once existed, and the floor held the look of grit that was inherent in the desert. This alcove culminated with an empty stage that was really nothing more than a raised platform. Live music would surely return with the dusk, but for now the absence of activity was welcome.
    A darkened stain was still visible on the stones where Diego had stabbed the man. According to police, the victim had managed to leave the roadhouse and die off-premises, but that didn't change that the act had happened here, and while nobody who frequented this building would dare tell the police what they saw, the few who knew what happened would certainly hold Diego personally accountable.
    The biker didn't know much about the dead man. He had been massive, threatening, and drunk. He was also a werewolf.
    Werewolves were much stronger than normal people, even in human form. A fist fight could be deadly if the wolf wasn't controlling itself. Entering this situation without a weapon would have been stupid, but the best strategy involved only talk. Besides, Diego liked to think that he had a way with words.
    The biker stood in place as his eyes swept across everyone in the bar. Brown glasses, pink lipstick, jean shorts, baseball cap—he needed to be careful since any number of them could be wolves, even the pretty girl bartending. It was much easier to detect werewolves in the hours before they turned, but the full moon, along with first impressions, had already passed.
    Mind your own business, bro.
    His sister's words invaded his thoughts and brushed away his caution. Angelica was only twenty-two. At five years his junior, Diego had always taken responsibility for