Streamfield Shifters: Hide & Seek

Chapter Two

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled onto Michaels Drive, so-named because Michaels were the only residents on the cul-de-sac. The majority of shapeshifters, at least in small towns and cities, lived in clans. We called ourselves "clans" rather than "packs" because not all of us turned into wolves. While it was true that wolves made up the majority of shapeshifter families in America, there was no shortage of big cats, coyotes, bears and foxes.

Being a part of a clan granted you safety, security and a pretty good lawyer. Even if someone didn't live on clan land, they usually belonged to one.

A total of twenty houses were on the street, all in various stages of renovation. Unlike normal people, we stayed close to our families, forming groups of three generations or more. It wasn't unusual at all for parents to build their kids a cottage in their (albeit big) backyard.

My grandparents lived in the biggest house, as benefiting my grandfather's position as clan leader. It was also the oldest residence on the street, dating as far back as the settling of Streamfield in 1688.

Originally built by my English Michaels ancestors as a farmhouse, it had been updated and expanded almost every century like clockwork. Currently, my grandparents occupied the center portion of the house, while my paternal aunt and her family lived to the right. Our section was on the left. Each of the three parts was its own separate residence, complete with kitchen, living room, and several bedrooms and bathrooms. We even cordoned off the massive basement, but left the doors open in case of emergencies.

I pulled into the large, shared driveway and parked my car behind Dad's big black pickup. To the far right of the Clan House, a gravel road sloped downwards into what had once been farmland. A bright red arrow pointed down the lane, just below a sign proclaiming "Michaels Customs".

As I got out of the car, I could see several vehicles parked near the office/show room—more than could be found on any normal day of operation. One of them was a cruiser. Shouldering my purse, I trekked down the road. In the distance, the workshop loomed; although it was after business hours, the buzz of saws and drone of planers was still audible.

The office door was unlocked and I yanked it open. "I'm here!" I called out. The reception area, where I normally sat, was dark, illuminated only by the small, bendable light over my desk.

"In here, Aly!" My father's voice drifted down the hall.

Pausing, I took note of several messages scattered across the desk, sighed, and ambled towards the back of the building. A group of thirteen people—mostly black-haired, purple-eyed shifters—sat around a large oak conference table. Each face was familiar and expected—except one: my sixteen-year-old cousin, Rachael. Why is she here? Judging by the look on my aunt's face, she was less than pleased about the whole situation.

I didn't doubt that my cousin had somehow weaseled her way into an adults-only meeting. Rachael didn't like missing out on "cool stuff" and did all that she could to ensure she was part of it.

At the head of the table, seated next to my grandfather, was Laura's brother John Merrickson. Bald as a cue-ball and broad as a barn, Detective Merrickson could scare the piss out of practically anyone with a simple glance. He looked up when I entered, all seriousness and duty. Suddenly, I felt as if I had entered class late.

"Sit next to Mom, Aly," Dad said, waving to me.

I didn't need to be told twice. I scurried to an open chair next to my mother and plunked down with a enough force for the chair to bounce.

"Here," I said to my mother, sliding her the change and receipt for the package.

"Not now," she murmured, covering the items with one hand.