Since the last werewolf outbreak twenty years ago, sightings of the unpleasant beasts have become blessedly rare. So, it was a surprise to find one lounging in our new neighbor’s yard.
Two other canids lounged around, too: a mutt the size and color of a dirty mop, and a sleepy bloodhound.
This city was no place for a werewolf.
The sound of heavy boots thundered behind him, and Clawson Fangsworth dodged down a dark alleyway. His bare, hairy feet squelched in a puddle of questionable substance. There was the filth, for one thing. On all fours, any werewolf worth his silver bullets could outpace a copper on his tail
An end-of-a-hot-day smell lingers in the air and the scattered clouds turn gold as I set off from my apartment. Easy route for my first run through the neighborhood in too long. The August weather is nice, and I revel in the familiar rhythm of feet pounding pavement.
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I sidled closer to the battle trophy, my palm itching to finally hold the rune-etched hilt.
The dead warrior’s blade had been there as long as I could remember—stabbed into the center of the cave’s floor. Every day I’d gaze at it, and the warrior’s name would dance in my thoughts to a tune only I seemed to hear.
Only someone with a death wish would risk trespassing on werewolf territory during the full moon, but Tari was good as dead anyway.
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