Kendrick exhaled in relief. Tiger would make a formidable ally—or an unstoppable enemy. He’d take ally any day.

“Thank you,” he said to Tiger. “Here’s what I need you to do . . .”

*   *   *

The ancient being known as Ben did his best research in bars and dives. He told himself this as he sat in the run-down bar in a hole-in-the wall town on the outskirts of Houston.

The giant city had grown out to swallow the countryside, but in this little town, the seedy dive was about all there was for entertainment. The roadhouse drew people from up and down the highway, or from out of the metropolis, giving them an alternative to chain restaurants or slick new gastro-pubs serving ultra-organic food no one had ever heard of.

This place was real enough. Gang bikers stopped off here, as did disreputable-looking men with nothing to do but down beer and stare at the small television above the bar.

Shifters came here too, ones hiding their Collars under hoodies and others with no Collars at all.

They didn’t pay much attention to Ben, but then, Ben wasn’t Shifter. Occasionally one of the Shifters would send Ben a puzzled look, but that was because Ben didn’t smell human either.

He also wasn’t Fae, but was technically a product of Faerie. More things lived in Faerie than the hoch alfar, or High Fae—those over-the-top arrogant but very powerful and cruel bastards who ruled the place. There were beings far more ancient in the Fae realms—the dokk alfar—Dark Fae—and the things like Ben, who were considered monsters by all but their own kind.

Ben had been living in the human world for a thousand years. He’d learned to look human, quickly growing tired of humans screaming and fleeing at the sight of him, or worse, trying to hunt and kill him. Humans in Ben’s first days out of Faerie had called him demon and wanted to do unspeakable things to him, when all Ben had wanted was a beer.

Now he looked human, like one of the guys in this bar. The tatts helped him with his disguise and also kept more aggressive people away from him. No one wanted to tangle with a dude who looked like he broke necks for a living.

Ben had used this guise up in Las Vegas when he’d helped out Misty Granger—sweet girl—and her not-so-sweet mate, Graham. Well, those two kids were happy now and cubs would be coming to them soon.

In North Carolina, he’d taken the guise of Gil, part Native American cop and all-around nice guy. There, he’d helped another sweet woman, Kenzie, when she and her mate had been beset with problems. He’d worn out his welcome, though, at least with Kenzie’s take-no-shit mate, Bowman, and decided to hit the road.

Why did the nice ones always end up with the hard-asses? Ben shook his head regretfully. He’d have to find him a woman who wasn’t immune to the charms of Ben, the magical and all-wise.

Addison, now. She was pretty, and another sweetheart. He sighed. She’d gazed at Kendrick with obvious longing in her eyes, and Kendrick’s look back at her told Ben that the man had already lost his heart but just didn’t want to admit it.

It had to be the height, Ben decided. Shifter males were all about a foot taller than Ben, who clocked in at five eight on a good day. He’d learned how to change his appearance to blend in with humans, but so far, Ben had never been able to change his height. So unfair.

He hadn’t come here, however, to think wistful thoughts about beautiful women, Shifter or otherwise. He’d come to eavesdrop on Shifters.

He could easily hear the ones who met at a table in the far corner—not because of any magical spell, but because he’d put a bug under the table where they habitually gathered. A small spell kept them from accidentally finding the little microphone, that was true, but technology definitely helped.