Page 7 of The Witch's Werewolf
Amazingly, the creature crawls to me on all fours, resembling the way a household German shepherd might track its owner’s every movement. He’s like a big herding animal, his nose and ears and eyes tracking my every movement.
“I won’t run,” I promise. “Just please don’t eat me.”
As I say this, I hear how ridiculous that is.
He says something, too low and too raspy for me to make out.
“What’s that, boy?”
The beast doesn’t answer, but is sniffing my ankles and feet. I realize for the first time that they’re scratched and bleeding from the insane run through the woods.
“No, leave it alone. It’s not that serious. Ew, gross,” I say, wincing as the creature’s tongue darts out and licks the bloody wounds dry and clean, one by one. The licking tickles at first.And then the beast is licking up my legs, then nudging me around.
I think it’s safest to just let him move me where he wants me, and before long, my wounded feet are resting on his upturned belly while he sort of curls around my body in a protective arc.
The creature is sharing his warmth with me.
Before long, panic subsides.
We sit like this for hours, maybe.
Eventually, I fall asleep from the exhaustion and the crash following the wildest surge of adrenaline I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Not surprisingly, I have fitful dreams of being chased. Not by a dog, but by Toby Cook.
But every time I jolt in panic, something warm washes over my face. Warm fur surrounds me. I am lulled back to sleep, again and again.
I wake with a start,blinded by the bright light of morning, to find myself wrapped in layers of fur, lying in a strange bed.
Sitting up, I notice the rustic but pleasant room is bathed in candlelight. Everywhere on every surface, there are jars and candlesticks and pedestals of white candles. On the counters, on the sills, on the mantle, on the nightstand. Votives, pillars, tapers everywhere. There’s even a log-shaped candleholder flickering in the fireplace.
This place is a firetrap.
I strain to think. What happened last night? Did I go home with a hot guy who decided to be over-the-top romantic?
The wolf. I met a fucking wolf man.
Holy shit. Werewolves are real.
And one chased me through the woods.
I turn in the bed, fully expecting to see the beast again. But the wolf is gone. Instead of being cradled in fur, I’m lying next to a man.
His sleeping face is peaceful in the light streaming in through the window, and I realize I know him.
It’s Timber Hawkins.
I know these candles.
These are the white unscented beeswax ones from the store where I work. To confirm, I pick up one jarred candle on the nightstand and inspect the label. Sure enough.
There’s only one person I know who comes in at least once a week and buys a white unscented candle. Sometimes every day.
My mind flashes back to the conversation I had with my boss.
“Why does one single man need so many white candles?”
“Maybe he’s really into protection spells.”
