Page 2 of Mane Brew

“We’re calling it Tuesday.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Even better. Thursdays need more adventure.”

The sign above the door—the one that changes based on my mood—currently reads “Open for Business (Mostly Stable).” I give it a fond pat as I haul the crate outside. The brass letters shimmer at the contact, consider updating to “Open for Business (Wildly Optimistic),” then settle back into place.

The mist is doing its usual thing, settling into the cobblestone streets in silver swirls. It flows differently around my brewery than elsewhere in town—warmer, tinged with amber, carrying hints of hops and wildflowers. Old Mrs. Pemberton swears she once saw the mist spell out “Happy Hour” near my front door, but she also swears her cat is the reincarnated spirit of a medieval knight, so I take her observations with generous salt.

At least the mist has good taste.

I’m halfway to The Den when I spot Berry Thornwick struggling with an armload of books outside her shop. The volumes are attempting to reorganize themselves mid-carry, which is either a feature or a bug depending on how you feel about semi-sentient bookstores. One particularly ambitious tome seems to be trying to climb over the others toward freedom.

“Need help?”

“The shop keeps finding volumes about pre-Severing history!” Berry’s glasses are askew, her wild gray hair escaping its pins in every direction. “It’s very insistent. All this material about lions and witches and—oh, bother.”

The ambitious book makes a break for freedom. I catch it one-handed, juggling my crate with the other. The cover shows an illustration of a lion’s mane wreathed in magical light.

Subtle as a brick through a window.

“Lions and witches?”

“Partnerships. Matings. All terribly romantic, apparently.” She takes the book back with a grateful nod, stuffing it firmly into the middle of the pile. “The shop has opinions about these things. Ever since those other couples claimed each other, it’s been impossible. Books flying off shelves, sections rearranging themselves. Last week the romance section tried to merge with the shifter biology section. Quite dramatic.”

I think about Leire and Aslan. Sakura and Torin. Anouk and Caius. Three mated pairs in less than a year, after centuries of nothing. The town’s been buzzing about it nonstop—the gossip network working overtime, bets being placed at The Crescent Cup about who might be next.

Marcus, one of the vampire owners, has started keeping a betting board behind the counter. His wife Thalia thinks it’s undignified. She also placed twenty gold on “the chaos witch and the documentation lion,” according to Sunny, who heard it from Ember, who probably burst into flames while sharing the news.

Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

“Maybe your shop just likes gossip.”

“Maybe.” Berry’s eyes sharpen behind her glasses—that sudden focus that makes people forget she’s scattered. “It keeps putting books on display for you specifically, you know. Very particular about it.”

“Books about lions?”

“Among other things.” She smiles, cryptic as her shop. “Enjoy your delivery, dear. Do try not to cause any incidents.”

“No promises.”

The Den is packed.

Shifters fill every corner of the converted mill, their presence making the stone walls feel smaller than they are. Exposed beams crisscross overhead, hung with lanterns that cast golden pools of light across the crowd. The stone floors are scarred from years of claws and heavy boots, and the whole place smells like woodsmoke and pine and that distinctive edge that comes with a room full of apex predators pretending to be civilized.

Someone’s already arm-wrestling at the corner table. My money’s on the bearish-looking woman with the braids, though the fox shifter across from her has that sneaky competence foxes are known for.

The chaos, the noise, the shifting energy—nobody looks twice at a batch of beer that changes color depending on who’s drinking it. I belong here.

“Zeph!” Elio Frostheart materializes from the crowd, all smooth elegance and knowing smiles. The panther alpha moves without sound, which is either impressive or unsettling depending on the context. Tonight it’s mostly impressive. “Please tell me that’s your new experiment.”

“Revelation Red. Fresh from the tanks.” I set the crate on the bar with a satisfying thunk. “Enhances clarity. Helps you see what you’ve been missing.”

“Intriguing.” Elio selects a bottle with the careful consideration of someone who’s survived centuries of supernatural politics. “And what are the side effects?”

Around us, the other alphas are already converging. Caius Sternwolf claims his usual spot at the end of the bar, his massive frame making the sturdy oak stool look delicate. Aslan Nexis arrives with his arm around Leire—still disgustingly in love, still making everyone else feel like they’re watching a very enthusiastic romance novel unfold in real time.

“Please tell me that’s not the cheese dream beer,” Aslan calls out.