Page 2 of His Whispered Witch (Witches and Shifters: Scott Pack #6)

Asher had a tiny laptop with no memory he bought to set up this business, but who the hell would he speak to?

He had been a mindless wolf in the years cell phones took over rural West Virginia, and even now could not understand why on earth anyone would need to walk around tethered to their contact list.

This is what happened when you kept in touch with your contact list. You got people.

They were loud, crazy, and smelled weird.

His donkeys reeled around behind the makeshift barriers, looking nervous.

He couldn’t tell if they were picking up his unease or were experiencing their own overwhelm at the crowds heehawing around them.

The air was filled with the scent of animal hair, sweat, and sunscreen.

Asher tried to breathe through his mouth.

The people renting his donkeys came by over the next half hour as the race drew closer and the day grew hotter.

He handed them the reins and escorted them to the starting line, smiling at the incongruous sight of humans in high-tech running gear next to donkeys tricked out with wooden saddles and ancient gold panning equipment.

Though not everyone wore nylon. He clenched his teeth every time he saw more people in that rough dyed fabric, all with light hair and blue eyes. He steered well clear of them and kept his eyes down, which infuriated the wolf, but he was not going to provoke a challenge.

There was a moment where the crowd quieted and the hair on the back of his neck lifted, a presentiment of danger, before a gun went off, and Asher slammed his palm down into the edge of the paperclip, anchoring himself in the bite of pain rather than shift and tear the world apart.

As the donkeys rumbled forward and the race began, he leaned against one of the empty pens, gasping for air.

He thought he was better. He knew he wasn’t anywhere near healthy, but he thought he was getting better. He could go a day at a time without the overwhelming desire to shift.

But out here, he had to admit that maybe he wasn’t getting better; maybe he was just asking less of himself, alone in the woods and the silence.

He had been here less than an hour in a crowd of happy people, and his wolf was a breath away from losing it.

Immediately, he shut off thoughts of the future. There was no profit in thinking about the years. There was no point in thinking beyond today. He’d be as crazy as his wolf if he contemplated a life lived this close to the edge with a beast who was never going to find sanity again.

He choked on air and reeled away from the crowds.

Absolutely no point.

In this singular moment, he was okay, and that was all he had to deal with.

“Hey, Asher!”

Who the hell knew his name? He bore down and turned, expecting to see Main Street empty and the runners on their way.

Instead, chaos greeted him. Burros were milling in every direction with runners dangling after them. To his embarrassment and chagrin, all four of his donkeys were still standing at the starting line with very frustrated runners.

“Asher!”

Of course, the runners he’d rented to knew who he was.

He jogged for them. What happened? His donkeys had always run for him. Unlike so many horror stories, they always went exactly where he told them to.

He closed his eyes, finding the fatal flaw in his brilliant business plan. He was a werewolf. More than that, he could summon his wolf without shifting. The beast was always happy to growl at the world, as the little girl pointed out.

How had he learned that little trick? His alpha forced him into wolf form and forbade him from shifting back.

He’d forgotten how to shift and lived as a wolf for years and absolutely lost his mind.

The only reason he was here was that the new alpha, his former best friend, pinned him back in human form until he figured out how the hell to stay there.

After all of that, he had a wolf who could shift without shifting and menace four stubborn, terrible asses that were going to ruin everything.

He started toward the line, his wolf in his eyes. For once, he perfectly agreed with the beast and had half a mind to let it eat the smallest one.

They took off like a shot, trailing screaming runners like kites behind them.

A cascade of bell-like laughter erupted from the crowd, floating over the normal cheers like a fine musical instrument, and his eyes snapped to the source.

She was tall, with gorgeous curves in a practical pair of jeans and hiking boots but also wore a sparkly top that belonged in a club.

She had dangling earrings to match the top.

She stood out because her dark hair was only a centimeter long, framing vivid features and gray eyes. And she was coming right toward him.

For once, his wolf didn’t want to kill anything and had nothing to say.

She smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth, and dug in a little bag slung across her body. It was made of the same fabric as the top.

“I can help with the starting problem,” she said in a mellifluous voice.

She held out a square business card. He took it with numb fingers and glanced at the words.

Penelope Young, animal psychologist.

His eyes started back to hers. “Is this a thing?”

She winked. “I considered having special ones printed that said Donkey Whisperer but thought that was a little over the top for a single race. And if you’re asking whether there’s a course at a university for animal psychology, sure. It’s called biology, but I’m so much more than that.”

She tapped the card again, and he read under her name: Intuitive Understanding, Behavioral Modification, and Communication. And then under that in tiny letters: A division of Coven Holdings, LTD.

Coven.

He swallowed. Witches had covens. Witches also had animal magic. It was one of the twelve talents, wasn’t it? He also knew the vast majority of witches avoided shifters like the plague. Most witches would take his presence as an extreme threat.

Why didn’t he think this through? Why didn’t he think anything through? His donkeys ran for him because he was a werewolf, not because he was magic with donkeys. He left the territory he knew was safe because it was safe and bumped into a pack of werewolves and a witch.

Two witches.

A younger woman came up alongside the “animal psychologist.” She had strawberry blonde hair tucked under the biggest sun hat he’d ever seen. She was a head shorter, with green eyes and pale freckles covering almost every inch of her skin.

“Penelope, do you want to see the race?” she asked.

The woman turned to her. “Yeah. I think I’ve handed one of these suckers out to anyone within ten square feet of a donkey.”

The girl laughed, and Penelope met his eyes again. “If you ever need anything, let me know. I’d love to help.”

He’d love to let her.

The two women wandered off together, and he frowned.

Normally, covens consisted of witches from the same family.

He knew not every family member looked the same, but he’d eat that enormous hat if those two women were related by blood.

So who were they? Were they a coven or just regular humans who liked fairy tales?

His eyes drifted back to the card. It seemed to pulse in his hand. Could she help him ? If she were truly an animal witch, could she help his wolf?