The two men stare at me in horror. I can’t tell if Racist-Larry is more afraid of me or the man who’d been holding him at gunpoint only seconds ago.
“You’re one of them,” the previously armed robber says, disgust dripping from the words. A glance at Larry says he is thinking the same.
I don’t give a verbal response because the genius takes a swing at me. I catch his arm and twist, snapping a few of the bones inside. The man howls out in pain, the wolf in me perking up at the sound.
“You stupid b—”
I slam his head into the counter, hard enough to put him out, but perhaps not do any longterm damage. He crumples to the floor before he can finish the rest of his ironically accurate insult.
I sigh and look up at Larry.
He holds a shotgun that he must’ve retrieved while I’d been saving him from dumbass over here. I stare into the two dark holes of its barrel, thinking: Seriously?
I guess no good deed goes unpunished.
“Get out,” Larry says. I can smell the fear on him the same as I can read the hatred written on his face.
Larry pumps the shotgun, creating a duel click that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. I’m a pull of the trigger away from meeting my maker.
“Get out, and don’t come back,” Larry says. “Your kind ain’t welcome here.”
I glance down at the unconscious, human male on the floor by my feet, and back up at Larry.
“Fucking animals, right?” I say, and shove my way out the door.
2 6:00 a.m.
Bells tinkle as my alarm goes off.
My Gods, it can’t be time to wake up already. I swear I just closed my eyes an hour ago.
I pluck my phone up from the end table beside the couch upon which I lay, squinting at the screen. The evidence of my junk food binge lies around me like carcasses, crumbs cascading down my shirt as I blink at the numbers on the phone, confirming the worst.
It is time to get up and ready for work.
Devil’s ball sac.
With a groan, I drape my forearm over my face and steal a handful more minutes of rest. Then I drag myself out of bed and to the bathroom, where I shower, brush my teeth, and take care of business.
Thirty minutes later, I’m out the door, looking the least shitty I can manage after eating all that junk I’d bought last night. I tell myself that I gotta get a hold on my cravings and appetite. Perhaps a good hunt would help ease the rabid hunger.
How long has it been since I shifted and ran, anyway?
Too long, since I can’t offhandedly remember. And after the encounter with the douchebags at the convenience store very early this morning, I could certainly stand to blow off a little steam.
A calm wolf is a smart wolf.
I release a breath, holding onto this reminder as I head to the office, which is a gauntlet of patience-testing and keeping one’s emotions in check. Especially now that humans know about the existence of supernaturals.
The world is changing as we know it, and every Tom, Dick, and Jerry has a damn opinion about it.
Most of the people I work with are humans, and they do not know that I’m not like them. They have no idea that I’m a werewolf. And why would they? Supernaturals have been working alongside them, living in their communities, teaching at their schools, attending their churches, for forever, and they’ve never been the wiser.
Until a certain group of supers had to go and make national news. Fucking camera phones. Stupid ass internet. I supposed that if those young shifters had never come out to the public and put on that display of theirs, other supernaturals would have done so eventually, and the secret was bound to get out at some point. But that didn’t keep me from being angry with them for it. What made it their decision to expose supes when it had affected all of us?
I guess I was getting old, because I just did not understand the younger generation. The world was changing, all right, and the rest of us were just trying to keep up.
I pull into the parking garage outside the building in which I work and let out a sigh at the prospect of going inside. Another day, another dollar.
“Smile, Harp,” says my mother’s voice in my head. “You have the tendency to look very wolfish when you’re not smiling. And the last thing you want to do is scare the humans. The secret of our existence is our greatest strength. Always remember that.”
Well, it’s all gone to hell in a hand-basket now, ma, I think as I put my old Toyota into park and grab the ID badge I keep dangling from my rearview mirror, slipping it over my head in a final ritual before surrendering my freedom.
Nine hours, including lunch. Then I could go home.
I clamor out of the vehicle, balancing my phone, keys, and coffee and slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I check the watch on my wrist—it’s digital, because ain’t nobody got time for that analog shit.
It reads: 7:56
I put some pep in my step, knowing how the director gets when I’m even a few minutes late. The parking garage is about half full, and I had to ride up to the fourth floor to find a spot. I see the elevators ahead, and beeline toward them.
I check my watch again: 7:58
Shit.
Forget the elevators, I think, steering instead toward the edge of the garage. I reach it and climb up over the guardrail, taking a single glance at the four stories between the ground and my feet and making sure there are no witnesses.
Then I leap over the edge, airborne for a handful of seconds before landing easily on my feet. A bit of coffee sloshes out of the little hole in the
