Shifter groupie? Maybe, but she didn’t have the obsessed look, nor did she wear a fake Collar or paint on whiskers or anything like that.

On the other hand, Spike was standing next to her wearing nothing but his tattoos, sweat, and the blood from the fight. The woman kept her gaze on Spike’s face, not even flickering it to his very naked body.

Spike upended the bottle, squirted water onto his face, and rubbed his hand over his cheeks and jaw. A shower was going to feel good.

He was also antsy, adrenaline still up in spite of the Collar’s efforts. A nice roll the sack would be great too, and here was this nice little morsel, handing him water and looking fine in a Texas-cowgirl kind of way.

Not that Spike usually went for humans. He had to be too careful in bed with human women, because things could get wild and wicked. Shifters females were more resilient, more used to male Shifters and what they wanted.

But there was something Spike liked about this human.

“Who are you, sweetheart?” he asked.

“My name’s Myka. Myka Thompson. You don’t know me, but you know Jillian.”

Jillian. Jillian. Who the hell was Jillian?

“You knew her, I should say,” Myka said. “For one night at least. Five years ago. Shifter bar. You were a Shifter, she was a Shifter groupie . . .” She trailed off, one hand moving before she returned it to her shapely hip.

Memory came to him. Five years ago, sure. Spike had been very drunk that night, but Jillian had been the hottest thing he’d seen in a long, long time. She’d been more than willing—in fact, she’d almost dragged him to that hotel room—and Spike had waived his avoidance of humans for her. “Red-headed little thing, fiery. Yeah, I remember her.”

He’d never seen Jillian again. Spike liked to date his ladies for more than a night, much more than a night, but the phone number Jillian had given him had been disconnected, and she’d not come to the bar again—that one or any other Shifter bar.

Some humans were like that. They wanted a taste of the beast, but they didn’t want anything long-term with a Shifter.

“How’s she doing?” Spike asked. He grabbed a towel he’d left on a box outside the ring and rubbed his wet face. The towel came away filthy and bloody. A shower and some bandages. Shifters healed quickly, but Spike was going to be in for a sore night.

“She’s dying,” Myka said.

Spike jerked back to her, towel dangling from his grasp. “What?”

“I said, Jillian’s dying. She wants to see you, but you have to come with me now.”

Chapter Two

Hospitals sucked. Myka hated them. Their pale rooms were filled with soft electronic sounds that told you that the person in the hospital bed, the person you loved, was dying. Plus, the overriding scent of antiseptic never could quite mask the mixture of bodily odors and illness.

Broke Myka’s heart to see Jillian in that bed, her body that once had enticed every male in Hill Country wasted, her red hair thin and dry against the white sheets. Her blue eyes were washed out under the fluorescent lights, her skin tinged with gray.

Jillian smiled at Myka over the foot of the bed as Myka led in Spike, which couldn’t be his real name. Spike, tall and Shifter, in jeans and T-shirt, his black hair buzzed into almost nonexistence, tatts of wildcats marking him up and down his arms, gazed down at Jillian in shock and grief.

Grief? Jillian was nothing to Spike, was she? He’d had to dredge her out of his memory when Myka had said her name. Jillian hadn’t mentioned Spike at all until their shocker of a conversation this morning. She’d sent Myka to Shiftertown to find him, and hadn’t that been fun?

Shifters. There was a reason they were Collared and made to live in Shiftertowns. Myka couldn’t understand the women who longed to sleep with them. Too much excitement for this girl, thank you. Training horses gave her all the time she needed with animals, had taught her enough about animals that she didn’t much want to be around ones that could turn human.

Shiftertown had been almost deserted, Spike not at home in the modest bungalow to which Jillian had sent her. Casual conversation with some humans in a little bar outside the perimeter of Shiftertown led Myka to the abandoned hay barn out east of town, and there she’d found the Shifters in all their wild glory at their so-called fight club.

The way Spike had beat the shit out of that bear Shifter was evidence enough of why humans wanted to contain them. They weren’t even supposed to be able to fight like that—the Collars were designed to stop them. If Myka had been a good citizen, she’d report the illicit three-ringed fight club and all the Shifters there betting on their favorites.

But she hadn’t been a good citizen since the day the system had given ten-year-old Myka into the custody of Randall, the stepfather from hell. Randall had been very good at charming judges, social workers, and anyone else who came along. Couldn’t bear to be separated from Myka, he’d said, after Myka’s mother had died, in a hospital room just like Jillian’s. Randall had gotten himself appointed Myka’s legal guardian, and nine long years of hell had ensued, until the day of Randall’s death.

Jillian produced a thin smile as she looked over the foot of the bed at Spike. “You came. Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

That was the first word he’d spoke since he’d followed Myka out of the barn into the cool of the night so she could drive him here. Not What happened? Why is she asking for me? Just stone silence in the cab of her pickup.