Shifters Everywhere - Excerpt From Brax by W.M. Dawson

Blurb:
Brax, by nature, is a loner, a badger shifter who keeps to himself and his nose out of everyone's business. That is, until Elle showed up in the fight club he worked out in, starting fights and searching for help to get back her son. His life took a sharp turn. He ended up with everything turned upside down.
Elle, born into one of the most dangerous werewolf packs in Canada, couldn’t shift and had been used for breeding before being tossed out on her ear. She had learned the hard way to survive, and now she was returning for her son, no matter the cost. She gained help from an unlikely badger before everything went completely wrong.
The pack she had come from was playing a much more dangerous game, and they discovered it went further than just trying to get her son back. Join Brax and Elle on a supernatural ride to save her son and the heart of a neutral shifter city and their lives.

Excerpt:
Chapter One-

Wolfe’s Cove stretched its narrow mouth wide, devouring Brax in layers of darkness and stale underground air. The distant, dirty pulse of the club quickened as he approached, absorbing him into its relentless rhythm. A constellation of neon graffiti stained the passageway, the concrete beneath his feet gritty with a history of broken bottles and furtive exchanges. Inside, the room teemed with the press of bodies and an edgy hum of conversation, patrons perched in wait or curled in dark corners. Brax stepped through the entrance, boots landing heavy as he surveyed the familiar chaos. It took only seconds for his eyes to land on the newest quarrel. A vampire baring his fangs at a werewolf, leaning in with a menacing snarl. The wolf stood poised for a fight, muscles tensed, while the vampire’s smirk held a sharp promise. Brax’s eyes narrowed, his mouth set. With a short breath and a practiced, forceful gait, he headed for the battered metal bar.
The floor thrummed under his boots as he moved through the crowd, past leather-jacketed patrons and clusters of lounging demons. The harsh glow of scattered bulbs lit the scene with flickering indifference, throwing shadows against walls lined with worn posters and defunct speakers. Voices mixed with the heavy bass, a confusing harmony of intent.
“You think you can just—?” The werewolf’s words were a low growl, almost lost beneath the music.
“I know I can,” the vampire cut in, eyes bright with a taunt that danced just out of reach.
Brax closed the distance, his presence casting a sudden, heavy pause over the standoff. The wolf’s nostrils flared, catching Brax’s scent. His gaze flickered, uncertain.
“Move along,” Brax commanded, voice edged with a growl of its own. The wolf’s posture wavered, but his hackles remained half-raised.
“This doesn’t concern you,” the vampire spat, yet his bravado faltered under Brax’s unwavering stare.
“Yeah? Then it’s got nothing to do with him either,” Brax said, nodding toward the wolf. “So, back off. Everyone.” His gestures were clipped and final.
A tense moment lingered, charged before the werewolf took a grudging breath. “Whatever. Not worth it.” He turned, disappearing into the throng with an angry shove of shoulders.
The vampire watched him retreat, eyes narrowed, then scoffed and melded back into the crowd.
Brax’s shoulders eased just a fraction. He watched until the vampire vanished completely, swallowed by the music and motion. The bartender, Leon, shot him a grateful look from behind the stack of scratched glassware.
Shifters leaned in clusters, some animated and others lost to their thoughts. Demons perched high on rafters, peering down with wry interest. Brax caught the glint of a whispered exchange between a fox shifter and a witch near a shadowy corner. The woman’s face was set, the man’s expression restless, shifting with barely contained energy.
“Word’s out. They’re planning something big,” the witch said, voice a thread of tension weaving through the music.
The fox glanced around, nerves sparking like static. “Non-shifters?” he asked, the question hanging, electric.
“Not just them,” she answered, folding her arms tight.
Their words dissolved into the crowd’s murmur, and Brax’s mind kicked into overdrive, piecing together the fragments. Conversations flickered around him like fireflies, just out of grasp. A pair of demon twins muttered something about the city council, their expressions edged with distrust. Another group, this one a tangle of species, nodded sharply to each other as though deciding on an unspoken pact.
He moved further into the room, collecting whispers and watching the rise and fall of the club’s shifting loyalties. A flash of silver hair caught his eye—familiar, but only just—and was gone before he could lock it down.
“Purges don’t just happen,” a haggard voice said, snagging Brax’s focus back. A scarred vampire, older than the rest, hunched over a cigarette that burned forgotten between his fingers.
“Exactly,” a red-haired succubus replied. “That’s why we’re clearing out. While we still can.” Her lips twisted into something that might have been a smile, bitter and fleeting.
The vampire snorted, dismissive but with an edge of concern. “This city’s survived worse. This club, too. Konnor won’t let—”
Brax shifted closer as if proximity might crystallize their intentions. He watched their exchange with the sharp, observing silence that turned glances into information.
“You think the lions can hold back a flood?” The succubus cut him off, her voice sharp and high, and Brax felt the words hook in and pull, setting the hairs on his neck to rise.
He scanned the room again, and a dark realization settled in his gut. The patterns of the night pointed to a tide ready to break—a current that threatened more than the club’s usual wild chaos.
Brax’s jaw tightened, thoughts turning inward as he weighed the risks and rewards of staying put against the call to survive. A solitary choice he’d made again and again, but something about this time felt different, tugging with an insistence that defied nature’s instincts. He moved up the stairs, the bass and muttered voices growing faint behind him as he decided to dig deeper and deeper still.
Brax stood above the club, perched like a falcon on the high, rotting scaffold that ran the length of the ceiling. From there, the scene unfolded below him, a breeding ground of chaos and shifting loyalties. The music thudded loud and constant, the bass a quickening pulse that vibrated through the wood and into his bones. He watched the pack of rowdy shifters on the dance floor, their shifting shapes blurring under purple, red, and blue strobes. From the corner, the club’s owner, Konnor Dupont, caught Brax’s eye, but the lion shifter remained cloistered with a shadow-cloaked figure, their intense conversation a clear message to keep his distance. Brax let his gaze sweep the room, a practiced survey for trouble, but his eyes snagged on a commotion below. The fierce blonde was back, locked in combat with the werewolf. The scene bit into him, tearing the night’s intentions wide open.
Below, Konnor’s expression was taut, his eyes sharp as he spoke to the hidden figure. Their discussion had a feral urgency, hands punctuating points with quick, sharp movements. Brax shifted his weight on the scaffold, trying to read the exchange, but the dark figure stayed carefully concealed, making it impossible to catch a clear view.
Brax scanned the room again, watching the crowd move in disjointed waves, some breaking toward the bar, others clustering in agitated groups. A wiry man jabbed the air with a finger, his words about non-shifters finding quick agreement. Brax watched a burly shifter, bear by the looks of him, slamming his fist into his palm as if in eager punctuation.
“Bite me,” a cat-eyed demon shouted at a rival crew, his bravado like a lit fuse waiting to blow.
Near the stage, an owl shifter and a willowy sorceress eyed each other with suspicion, their confrontation dissolving as the sorceress turned on her heel. The club’s tension spiked high, building towards an unsteady crescendo.
Brax dropped down, landing in the middle of the chaos. His presence sent ripples through the gathered patrons, each calculating the potential for escalation. He made his rounds, shoulders square, steps deliberately. The short-haired blonde flitted at the edge of his awareness, a glimpse he couldn’t hold, drawing him toward the bar.
His attention flicked back to Konnor, who now paced with restrained energy, the cloaked figure holding their ground. Their hushed but animated discussion seemed like more than club politics at play. Brax felt the tug of curiosity, the pull of something new beneath the old conflicts.
“Out of my face,” a blue-haired vamp shouted, voice cutting over the bass. A riot of sound and movement spread out, catching more bodies and more blood up for grabs.
A rat shifter ducked as a bottle sailed past him, a fractured chorus of laughs echoing his escape. Brax kept moving, eyeing the room intently and cataloging the budding skirmishes.
Whispers grew louder as he neared the bar. “Purge night,” a dragonkin said, her voice a rush of smoke and doubt.
“We’ll be gone before then,” another replied, eyes scanning for eavesdroppers.
Brax edged closer, instincts guiding him toward the storm before it broke. Chairs flew, and the night’s fragile alliances snapped.
The werewolf’s furious roar pierced the noise as he lunged, tangling with the platinum blonde in a swift, violent surge. Her movements were quicksilver, matching the wolf with agile, fierce strength. Brax watched as she twisted away from the wolf’s reach, a well-aimed kick staggering him back. She dodged a swing that shattered the wall behind her, spinning low and fast. Brax moved to intervene, the woman’s desperation pulling him in. She smelled of wolf but not of wolf at the same time.
The werewolf lunged again, claws sharp under the club’s erratic lights. She met his charge head-on, ducking beneath his strike and driving a stiff elbow into his side. Brax arrived just as the wolf shook off the hit and sprang again. His voice cut through the clamor, a commanding bark. “Enough!”
The wolf hesitated, mid-strike, torn between rage and Brax’s authority.
“You know where this goes,” Brax said, eyes locked on the wolf.
With a snarl that promised future reckoning, the werewolf pulled back, fists tight at his sides, and faded into the crowd.
Brax turned to the woman. Her breath came fast, her shoulders heaving, and her eyes bright and defiant as they locked onto his. He was closer now, caught by her fierce presence.
She pushed tangled hair from her face, and he saw the full force of her anger. “I had him,” she said, not backing down. “I needed to take him.”
“Seemed like it,” Brax replied with a dry note.
“Didn’t need saving,” she added, arms crossed and feet planted.
“I didn’t save you,” he said. “I saved him.” He jerked his head toward the crowd where the wolf had vanished.
She gave a short, sharp laugh; amusement danced in her eyes. “Lucky dog, then.”
They stood during the chaos, an island of stillness in the charged, churning sea of bodies. Brax’s solitude tugged at him, urging distance, but the woman’s raw presence challenged the call.
“Brax,” he said finally, filling the space between them with the weight of his name.
She regarded him with an unreadable look, a hint of something more than combat glinting in her gaze. “Elle,” she replied.
Nearby, Konnor’s conversation suddenly stopped, the lion shifter’s head snapping up to find Brax with the blonde. The cloaked figure melted into the crowd, leaving Konnor suspiciously standing alone.
The music rose again as Brax returned to Elle, the club’s seething energy momentarily distant.
“Looks like you pissed off the right people,” he said, noting Konnor’s pointed attention.
She followed his gaze. “Not just here.” A sardonic edge colored her words, but Brax sensed urgency and a deeper current underneath.
A stray bottle skidded past, rolling to a stop at Brax’s feet, a noisy reminder of the still-simmering chaos around them.
“So, what happens next?” he asked, compelled by more than the usual need to know.
Elle’s eyes sparked with an emotion Brax couldn’t quite pin down, something between determination and reckless invitation. “Depends on if you’re done saving stray dogs for the night,” she said.
Brax felt the familiar pull of old instincts, the call to stay unentangled and out of sight. But Elle’s challenge—and the potential of her fight—refused to let him step back. He pushed past the pull of solitude, surprising himself with his reply. “Let’s find out.”

W.M. Dawson lives in the middle of New Mexico. She avoids the melting heat by writing in a wonderfully air-conditioned house with her husband and a herd of cats that believe they run the place. She writes under her pen name Wendy Cheairs. Wendy has been writing for several anthologies and short fiction and breaking into novels. She often lurks on social media when pondering too many story arcs.

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