Chapter 2
Nicholas
Five shifters.
I counted five. I don't know what kind — you can't tell from the eyes alone, just that they're not human. The gold flash, the predator stillness, the way they track movement without turning their heads. Could be wolves, bears, big cats. Doesn't matter. The specifics don't change the math.
The big one in the office doorway — Knox, the owner, the only name I had going in.
Alpha, obvious from ten feet away. The mechanic who came in from the back with grease on his hands and a posture that said he'd been in fights and won all of them.
The quiet one in the corner who never looked up from his book but tracked every movement I made with his peripheral vision.
The young one behind the bar who kept glancing at me like I was a stray dog he wanted to feed.
And the one at the bar with the spreadsheet.
He was the hardest to read. The others had tells — the alpha presence, the fighter's build, the predator watchfulness. The one with the spreadsheet just looked at me like I was mildly interesting. Not a threat, not prey. A variable. Something to factor into his numbers.
Another man joined them shortly after I arrived, took a long look at me, and then the one making pastries pulled him behind the bar. Now he's sitting at the bar with some books.
Five shifters, two humans. Both comfortable, relaxed, moving through the space like they'd never once considered the possibility that the people they chose to be near could kill them without effort.
That's the part I don't understand. That's the part I've never understood.
There's a garage attached to the building — three bays, lifts, a wall of tools that looked well-used.
I'd noticed it on the way in. A couple of bikes up on stands, parts organized on shelving.
But nobody was working on anything that looked like a customer's vehicle.
Just their own bikes, from what I could tell.
More hobby than business. The whole setup had the feel of a clubhouse — guys hanging out in a space they built for themselves, tinkering with their own toys.
The bar was the same. Good nachos, decent beer, zero other customers.
I stayed for ninety minutes. Ate my nachos, which were better than they had any right to be.
Drank my IPA, which was a solid local craft — some mountain brewery I'd never heard of.
Worked through two reports and an acquisition summary for the Portland property that closed last week.
Every twelve minutes I did a sweep of the room, which I know is excessive but I've never been able to stop doing it.
Nothing changed. Nobody approached me. Knox stayed in his office. The pastry guy stopped glaring after about twenty minutes and went back to his glazes. The one with the spreadsheet — I didn't catch his name — refilled a cat's water bowl outside and pretended he hadn't.
The cat sat on the windowsill the entire time. I like cats. They're rational. They assess risk, they maintain distance, they leave when conditions aren't favorable. More people should behave like cats.
I closed my laptop at 4:15, packed my bag, left thirty percent on the nachos because the service was fine and I'm not an asshole, and walked out.
The cat was gone. The rental — a Hyundai Sonata, the only tier with heated seats, which matters when you're driving through mountains in early spring — started on the first try. Small mercies.
The hotel is twenty minutes away. Pinewood Inn off the highway, three stars, continental breakfast, firm mattress. I've stayed in worse. Spokane was worse. That motel smelled like mildew and regret and the jalapeno poppers from the bar across the street were the only thing keeping me sane.
I drop my bag, hang my jacket, loosen my collar. Sit on the bed and pull out my phone.
Daniel picks up on the second ring. "How'd it go?"
"They're shifters, Daniel."
Silence. Then: "What?"
"The property owner is a shifter running a motorcycle club out of a bar on five acres. I counted five shifters and two humans."
"Nico, I had no idea. The file said—"
"The file said independent bar owner, motorcycle enthusiast, resistant to previous outreach. It didn't say anything about shifters." I rub the bridge of my nose. "After Delgado, you told me—"
"I know what I told you. And I meant it.
" Daniel sounds genuinely upset, which is one of the reasons I've worked for him for two years and haven't quit.
He's not a bad guy. He's a middle manager who gets his information from the same system I do.
"The property assessment came from Langford's office. I'll find out what happened."
Langford. Senior VP of acquisitions. The kind of man who looks at a map and sees dollar signs where homes should be.
I've never met him in person. I've seen his signature on approvals and his initials on property reports and that's enough to know he's the type who considers communities a zoning obstacle.
"He refused the offer," I say. "Didn't even let me make it."
"Already?"
"Before I finished my second sentence. Said he didn't need to hear it."
"Shit." Daniel exhales. "Okay. Come home. I'll reassign—"
"I'm going to stay a few days."
"Why?"
Good question. The answer is: because Knox said no before I opened my mouth, which means he's been approached before.
Because the property is five acres in a location that makes no commercial sense unless you know something about the area I don't. Because I drove three hours to get here and I haven't finished my assessment and I don't leave work incomplete.
"Due diligence," I say. "The property assessment is thin. I want to see the surrounding area, traffic patterns, commercial viability. If Langford wants this parcel, I want to know why."
"You're not going to change the owner's mind."
"I'm not trying to. I'm doing my job." I kick off my shoes. "Three days. I'll have a full report."
"Be careful."
"They're not dangerous, Daniel. They're mechanics who run a bar." Even as I say it, I hear how stupid it sounds. They're apex predators who run a bar. The distinction matters even if the nachos were good.
"I meant be careful with Langford. If he finds out you're digging into why he flagged this property—"
"Then he can explain why he sent me to a shifter-owned business after I specifically said I wouldn't do that again."
Daniel is quiet for a moment. "Three days. Then come home."
"Three days."
I hang up. Stare at the popcorn ceiling. The HVAC hums — the same white noise in every city, every state. I've slept in this sound in Spokane and DC and Portland and Austin and a dozen other places where Coldwell wanted something that belonged to someone else.
I'm good at my job. That's not vanity, it's fact.
I graduated top of my class. I know property law, market analysis, negotiation strategy.
I can walk into a room and assess a situation in thirty seconds.
I can read a financial report the way some people read novels.
Coldwell hired me because I'm efficient and thorough and I don't get emotional about acquisitions.
But I'm also the guy who Googles the bars in every new city, picks one that feels right, and orders the same thing every night until the assignment is done.
Hard cider and jalapeno poppers in Spokane.
Pilsner and fish and chips in DC. It's a system.
Structure in unfamiliar territory. A way to make every city feel manageable.
The bar today felt right. That's the problem. The nachos were good, the IPA was good, the booth had decent Wi-Fi and the right angle of afternoon light on my screen. The fact that it's full of shifters and I was there to displace them is a complication I don't want to think about right now.
IPA and nachos. Same booth. I'll go back tomorrow.
It's just due diligence.
* * *
The continental breakfast is exactly what I expected.
Rubbery eggs, decent coffee, a waffle maker that takes three minutes and produces something that technically qualifies as food.
I eat efficiently — proteins first, coffee black, fruit if it looks real.
The couple at the next table is arguing about directions.
The businessman across the room is on his third cup of coffee and hasn't touched his food.
Hotel breakfasts are the same everywhere.
Temporary people fueling up for temporary purposes.
I shower, dress — no suit today, business casual, chinos and a quarter-zip over a collared shirt — and spend the morning driving the area.
The property assessment Langford sent was thin, and now I know why.
There's nothing here. The commercial corridor is a two-lane road with a gas station, a diner, and a hardware store that looks like it's been closing for ten years.
The nearest actual town is fifteen minutes east. The bar and its five acres sit at the edge of nowhere, buffered by undeveloped land and tree line.
I park twice to take photos and make notes.
Traffic counts on the main road: twenty-three vehicles in an hour, mostly trucks and locals.
Zoning is mixed-use but the infrastructure doesn't support retail density.
No sewer expansion plans on file with the county, which I checked at the municipal building this morning.
No pending highway projects that would change access.
This location makes no sense for mixed-use retail. Langford has to know that.
So why does he want it?