Rusty Creek

The heat in Rusty Creek wasn't just a temperature; it was a physical weight. It sat heavy on the corrugated tin roofs of the trailer park, pressed down on the dusty sagebrush, and shimmered in waves off the asphalt of Highway 95.

Leo wiped a smear of 10W-30 motor oil across his forehead, leaving a black streak that mingled with the sweat. He was nineteen, shirtless, and currently losing a wrestling match with the transmission of a 1988 Ford F-150.

"You gonna have that running by noon, Leo?" old man Miller shouted from his porch, waving a can of cheap beer.

"Give me an hour, Mr. Miller!" Leo called back, grinning. He slid back under the truck on his creeper.

He liked it here. He liked the grease under his fingernails. He liked the fact that his entire net worth could be counted in the jar of quarters on his dresser. There was an honesty to being broke in the desert. You knew exactly who your friends were—the ones who’d share a shade tree and a soda when the AC broke.

He was tightening the last bolt on the bell housing when the ground began to vibrate.

It wasn't the truck. It was something heavier. A deep, rhythmic thrumming that rattled the tools on his metal tray.

Leo frowned. He rolled out from under the chassis and squinted against the glare.

Turning off the highway and rolling into the gravel lot of the Rusty Creek Trailer Park was a convoy. Four matte-black SUVs, armored, with tinted windows and Swiss diplomatic plates. They looked like spaceships landing on Mars.

The lead vehicle stopped ten feet from Leo’s boots. The engine cut, and the silence that followed was thick with tension. Doors opened in unison.

Six men stepped out. They were huge—werewolves, obviously, but not the scruffy, blue-collar wolves Leo grew up around. These men wore earpieces and suits that cost more than Mr. Miller’s double-wide.

Then, the rear door of the second SUV opened.

A girl stepped out.

She was vivid against the backdrop of beige dust. She wore a white trench coat belted at the waist, pristine black heels that shouldn't have been able to navigate the gravel, and sunglasses that hid half her face. She looked like a ghost, or an angel, or an executioner.

She walked straight to Leo. She didn't seem to notice the heat, or the oil on his skin, or the fact that half the trailer park was watching through their blinds.

She stopped and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were a piercing, icy blue—the color of a glacier.

"Leo Aurelian," she said. Her voice was cool, crisp, and devoid of accent.

"Just Leo," he corrected, wiping his hands on a rag. "I don't know who Aurelian is."

"He was your father," the girl said. "And the Alpha of the European Sector. My name is Isolde. I am the Regent of your pack."

Leo laughed, a nervous, dry sound. "Lady, you’ve got the wrong guy. My parents dumped me at a fire station in Reno because they couldn't afford a baby. I’m nobody."

Isolde reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a document. It was heavy parchment, sealed with gold wax.

"They didn't dump you because they were poor," Isolde said, extending the paper. "They hid you because they were rich. And now, they are dead."

Leo stared at the wax seal. It was a wolf’s head, crowned in laurels. He felt a sudden, sickening lurch in his gut—a biological recognition. His wolf, usually a dormant, lazy creature content with chasing rabbits, woke up and howled.

"What is this?" Leo asked, not taking the paper.

"A Summons," Isolde said. "The Aurelian assets are frozen. The rival packs are circling. Unless the male heir claims the seat by the Winter Solstice, the dynasty dissolves. You have twenty-four hours to board that plane, or five thousand people lose their homes, their protection, and their lives."

She looked around the trailer park, her gaze landing on Mr. Miller’s rusting truck.

"You can stay here and play mechanic," she said softly, "or you can come with me and save your people. Choose."

Leo looked at the wrench in his hand. He looked at the endless, empty desert. The youth he had cherished—the freedom of having nothing to lose—was evaporating like water on the pavement.

"I need a shirt," Leo said.

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