Fat Cat

FAT CAT A SHIFTERS NOVEL RACHEL VINCENT CONTENTS Dear Reader Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Also by Rachel Vincent About the Author Text copyright © 2023 by Rachel Vincent. Cover art copyright © 2023 by Gaslight Graphics All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locals is entirely coincidental. Rachelvincent.com Dear Reader, The question I get most often from readers is some variation of “When will you write Shifters again?” and for a long time, I thought I probably wouldn’t. That I’d exhausted all the stories I had to tell in that world. But then one day I realized I might have new stories to tell if I had new characters to write about. So I decided to use this new corner of the first fictional world I ever played in to explore a few tropes I’ve always wanted to write. The supernatural bar/hangout. Found family. And a rock-solid bromance. I love these new characters, and I hope they find a place in your heart as well. If they do, feel free to drop me a note online or leave a review! Thanks again for reading! Rachel Vincent Rachelvincent.com ONE “Charley!” Grinning broadly at me, Doug Myers slid onto his favorite barstool with the familiar creak of well-worn leather. I rinsed lime juice from my hands and grabbed a clean towel, then I headed toward him from the service side of the bar. I could smell smoke on his clothes before I even got close. Wood smoke, not cigarettes. Doug had a small cabin in the Lakeshore complex, deep in the woods outside of town, and though he had electricity and running water, like most of the other Lakeshore residents, he both cooked and heated with wood. I’d always found the scent to be comfortably nostalgic. “Whiskey!” His shout was half request, half expletive, and I grabbed a bottle of middle shelf on my way. And for the millionth time I wondered what Doug, or any of my other regulars, was like before he was infected. My gut—from being a bartender, or a shifter, or maybe both—told me he was an alcoholic. Not a social drinker. Not a weekend binger. My best guess was that before Doug Myers found himself on the wrong end of a set of claws, he was a liver-damaged, chronically dehydrated, perpetually inebriated drunkard. Possibly a bit of a legend in whatever small southern town he hailed from, but also consistently around three shots of whiskey away from falling over dead. These days, though, his color was good—no sign of jaundice—and like most of my patrons, he hung out in the bar not to get drunk, but because this was his spot. The place where he belonged. I’d worked hard to make sure they could all count on that. “Caught a couple of new scents in the woods today,” Doug said as I set a shot glass on the worn-smooth bar in front of him and poured. “Oh yeah?” I lifted one brow as he threw the shot back, but I didn’t bother to close the bottle. Doug was in his early 40s—a decade too young to be my father—and like most werecats, he had a hard time getting drunk. Shifter metabolism foils the effort; our bodies process alcohol too quickly for us to feel its effects, short of guzzling straight from the bottle. But like most werecats, Doug never gave up trying. Which was why the Fat Cat Bar and Grille, the only shifter-friendly bar in the territory, enjoyed a steady stream of regular customers, most of whom ran up large tabs. Without spouses or kids, they had little else to spend their money on anyway. May as well spend it at my place. “Yeah.” Doug tapped the bar, and I poured him another. “Out in the common run.” The large, heavily wooded acreage behind the Lakeshore cabin complex, which was open to shifters around the clock as a recreational area and hunting grounds. Our Pride owned the land through the magic of shell corporations and limited liability companies, though I could never claim to understand exactly how all that worked. What mattered was that it did work. That the “private property” signs kept humans away and out of danger. Mostly. “Well, the common run is called that for a reason. All shifters are welcome.” Whether or not they lived at Lakeshore. I visited the common run myself, regularly. “I know, but I thought you’d be interested.” He threw back his second shot, and I poured one more. Interested? Yes, because it was my job to keep tabs on how many and which shifters live in the zone. Concerned? No. Our territory attracted newcomers regularly. Some were just passing through, out of curiosity. Others decided to stay. “Thanks, Doug. Let me know if you catch their names or figure out where I can find them.” “Will do, boss!” he called as I walked back to my tub of uncut limes. I was not Doug Myers’s boss, but like many members of our Pride, he was a little fuzzy on the meaning of my title. My position—Marshal of the northern zone of the Mississippi Valley Pride—had existed for less than three years. Our Alpha, Titus Alexander, had created the job around six months