Page 3 of The Witch's Werewolf
And that’s when all the alarm bells go off. Cherry informs Toby that she wants to go ahead and leave if sex is the only thing that he expects from this date.
She stands.
“Where you going, cutie?” Toby asks.
“Home.”
“Come on,” he says, laughing.
And of course, he doesn’t bother to pull her chair out for her. The host, to his credit, gives Toby a foul look as he holds the door for Cherry.
“Wait! Come on,” Toby says, still laughing as Cherry clip-clops toward her car.
“Don’t follow me, please!”
Finnegan tsks disapprovingly. “Let’s go, Timber. Best steer clear of human/witch drama.”
But I’m homed in, my gaze trained on the scene as Toby follows her down the street.
“I thought New York City girls knew how to have fun!”
Her pace quickens and her voice rises in pitch. “We know how to tell the difference between fun and danger!”
I follow them down the street, keeping to the dark spaces amid the row of hedges and flowers in the median.
When she reaches her car, she fumbles with the key fob and drops it on the pavement. It skids down the inclined sidewalk, and to my utter horror, Toby picks it up.
“Thanks,” she says, a little breathless, holding her hand out for him to give it to her.
With phony puppy dog eyes, Toby asks, “Give me a ride first?”
Her nostrils flare. “Give me my fucking keys, creep!”
My canine teeth grow, biting into my lips.
My skin is on fire as the fur begins to push its way out.
It seems the word “creep” sets Toby off, because a vein pops out in his forehead. “Do you know who you’re talking to, little girl?”
“Yeah,” she says, her New York attitude barely hiding how scared she really is. “I’m talking to a guy whose ego is out of proportion to his tiny pencil dick!”
Toby’s eyes turn about as demonic as they can get for a human. He stalks toward Cherry, backing her up against the hood of her car.
Someone help her, I silently plead. But nobody is around to see what’s happening.
Except me.
The worst part about a premature transformation is the sweat glands. Instead of sweating all over my body due to stress, I’m drooling like, well, like a slobbering dog.
But I no longer care about that.
The monster that I am leaps out from between the bushes. As I bound across the street, a popping sound rings out as a plume of white smoke billows from somewhere in the ether. Cherry hollers something in Latin — an incantation of some kind.
Never interfere with witches while they do their spells, but it’s too late now. I’m now on top of Toby, knocking him to the sidewalk as Cherry’s scream rings in my ears.
My fully extended werewolf canines sink into Toby’s throat. Immobilized, he makes a pathetic choking noise. I shake him like a rag doll until he loses consciousness.
I’m considering dragging him into the woods when I realize that Finnegan was right about the cocaine and Monster drinks. The taste is foul. This meal isn’t worth it. I’d rather chase down a rabbit for my dinner.
