Last Immortal Dragon (Gray Back Bears #6)(7)

The scenery really was breathtaking. Clara leaned against the glass and pressed both hands on the window, just to leave smudges and feel as though she’d won a tiny battle. Outside, evergreens, ferns, wild grasses, brambles, and wildflowers painted a wilderness canvas full of colors too vibrant to be real. It was springtime, and apparently the rains that had been coasting across the country had done this place good.

Mason drove her past a flat cliff ledge where curious, giant machines stood still and abandoned, the arm of one stuck in the air as if its operator had stopped mid-chore when they cut out for the workday.

“Damon owns these mountains,” Mason said.

“Of course he does.”

A muscle twitched in Mason’s jaw. Good. She hoped she was as annoying to him as he was to her.

“Several years ago, pine beetles started killing off the trees. Mostly the weak and old ones at first, but that’s what happened to all the dead ones you see.”

Outside, there was a mash-up of brown interspersed in the green. Dead trees, and all because of a bug. Huh.

“Mr. Daye has a protective nature, so he began gathering in these mountains shifters he respected to cut down the dead lumber and replant as they went along. There are three crews that live here. The Ashe Crew, the Gray Backs, and the Boarlanders. They clear the land in sections and deliver the lumber to the Lowlander Crew, who own the sawmill down in Saratoga. Gorilla shifters, and real hard workers. It helps Damon keep his land healthy, and in turn, he gives these folks who don’t fit anywhere else jobs and homes.”

It was then that she saw the sign over the road. Grayland Mobile Park. Mason slowed and came to a stop in front of a high, bricked fire pit where several people were gathered around a grill, talking and laughing. Behind them was a semi-circle of singlewide trailers. Clara couldn’t guess their age since they’d been covered in cedar shingles and fixed up with screened-in porches. All but the one on the end. That one had a new porch built off the side, but the trailer itself looked less cared for than the others. Chipped cream paint and green shudders, a splintered front door that looked as if some sort of rodent had tried to chew its way through, and the numbers beside the doorframe were barely hanging on by a rusty, bent-up nail. 1010. Chills blasted up her arms, and she rubbed them to bring warmth back into her skin.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked as a tall man without a shirt approached. His entire torso was covered with crisscrossing scars, but he wore a greeting smile.

Ignoring her, Mason rolled down his window and gave the guy a mannish handshake. One of those that ended with a fist bump. Hmm. Maybe Mason wasn’t as big a fuddy-duddy as she’d deemed him. “Hey, Matt,” Mason greeted through an answering grin.

Matt leaned onto the door frame, big triceps flexing as he asked, “You here to party with the riff-raff? Get on out here. We have brisket cooking and beer on ice.” The blue-eyed man’s nostrils flared, and he slid a gaze to the back seat. “Holy shit, you’ve got a crier.”

Mortified by his observation, Clara wiped her eyes.

“Willa!” he called behind him. “I can’t do tears, Nerd. This one is all you. Mason, get your ass out of the car and grab a drink.”

Mason tossed her a cocky grin, rolled up the window and kicked his door open as Matt sauntered back to the others.

“Where are you going?”

“To party with the riff-raff.” Mason pocketed the keys and shut the driver-side door. “You can come out here and meet the Gray Backs and eat some delicious barbecue, or you can stay in there and pout.”

“Sea cucumber shifters are *s,” she called as he walked away.

“Boar shifter,” he called over his shoulder.

Clara crossed her arms over her chest and growled. Sea cucumber, boar, or hamster, the man was still a grade-A douche-wagon.

She startled when a tiny woman with black, thick-rimmed glasses and hair dyed an unnatural shade of bright red opened the door right next to her. She sniffed the air and grinned, then pointed her finger at Clara. “Werebear.”

Clara huffed a surprised laugh and scented the air. The mini-woman was also a bear shifter, and a dominant female, like herself. Respect. “Werebear,” she drawled.

“I’m Willa, and I’m coming in because I’ve never been in Damon’s car and those jackasses are going to be so jealous.”

“I’m Clara.”

Willa climbed over her lap and shut the door, then wiggled to the front and hit the lock button right as a dark-haired man lifted the door handle. “Hey! I want to see in there, too.”

“Back off, Jason. I’ll paint you a picture later.”

Jason jiggled the handle with a miffed expression that marred his handsome features. “Now that’s just rude,” he huffed as he released the door and stomped off.

Clara was trying not to laugh, because really, she wanted to hold onto her anger for a little while longer, but Willa opened the cap of a tiny liquor bottle from a hidden mini bar and handed it to her. “One for you and one for me and— I will eat you!” she yelled when Jason tried the door one last time.

When he cupped his hands over his eyebrows and stared into the dark tinted window, Clara told him blandly, “I’m crying.”

“Ew, no.” Jason left and didn’t look back.

“Nicely done. Girl tears. Sends men skittering away every time. Cheers,” Willa said through a bright grin as she held up her miniature bottle of vodka.