Page 103 of Her Wolf

Peter Piper motherfucker

Lars opened his eyes, and spent a few seconds staring up at a dusty, ancient ceiling fan as he tried to figure out what had woken him. Maybe it was the passive-aggressive headache currently taking his brain to Pound Town. He winced and pressed fingertips to his temple. Getting his elbows under him, Lars propped himself up and carefully took in his surroundings.

Ancient leather sofa - check.

Peeling wallpaper - check.

The smell of moldy carpets hanging in the air - check.

Good, so at least he was still in Cora’s haunted hotel. Things hadn’t gotten so out of hand that he’d woken up on someone’s yacht, or on a park bench — wearing just his boxers — in the middle of winter.

That had been a fun party, but the excruciating bout of bronchitis that had followed almost made it seem not worthwhile in the end.

He fumbled at his belt, but his radio was gone.

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Fuck, shit, damn,” he muttered, when sitting up produced a stab of pain through his head.

How much had he had to drink?

Why couldn’t he remember how much he’d had to drink?

He’d gotten royally pissed before in the past—to the point where taking a nap on a park bench had seemed a good idea at the time—but he’d always, and most unfortunately, been able to remember every last detail…right up until the point he passed out, of course.

But now? Nothing.

Manning the door for Cora…that drudgery he could recall, no problemo. Some of the fanciful masks and outfits he’d let in.

He risked standing. When his head stopped swimming, he managed to get to the door and stick his head out.

A steady stream of party goers exited the building. Most looked pissed off, some just pissed, others confused, even concerned.

The fuck?

He spotted a semi-friendly face and waved. But Neo only glanced in his direction, instantly dismissed him, and shouldered his way through the departing crowd, Santino right behind him.

Lars was still standing there with a frown, staring after the man, when Ana’s blond head appeared in the crowd.

“Ana!” he yelled, grimacing as he received another stab of pain for his efforts. Ana turned, saw him, and hurried over.

“Did you find her?” Ana asked, sounding breathless. She wore an outfit similar to Cora’s—if less modest—with her cat mask perched on the top of her head.

“Who?” Lars asked. But then he waved away the question. “You have pain killers on you?”

“No,” Ana said, looking shocked. “Maybe in the kitchen—”

“Thanks,” he said, closing his left eye in case it improved matters.

It didn’t.

His head still hurt like hell.

“Lars!”

He waved at her without turning back, but she caught up with him a second later.

“So Cora’s still missing?”

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