Page 2 of The Witch's Werewolf
Oh shit. I know that face, and I know the name. Toby Cook, son of our four-term mayor. I graduated with him, the semester I transferred to Birchdale — the year I turned eighteen and discovered I was cursed.
Back then, eleven years ago, Toby was a classic big fish in a little pond. He loved to talk shit about my discount jeans and shoes. What can I say? Transitioning to a werewolf every month really does a number on one’s clothes. I couldn’t afford to keep myself in designer goods, especially as a homeless teen.
“Well, he looks like someone’s future deadbeat dad,” someone says.
At first, I think it’s the running commentary in my head. But when I look to my left, a man lurks in the shadows. He’s a familiar friend, but one I don’t want to see right now.
Stepping out slightly from the darkness, his slim form boasts an expensive black sweater and tailored trousers. He looks timeless as always, with a face that’s both casually bored and lethal. Only the unfathomably wealthy in this town can achieve this particular vibe, and no one does it better than my best friend, Finnegan Frost.
Finnegan is the only reason Toby never succeeded in breaking me our senior year. Nobody ever messes with Finnegan, or the people he takes under his wing. There’s Cook power and money, and then there’s Finnegan power and money.
My hackles go up as I watch my best friend eye Cherry and Toby like they’re a couple of prime rib. Odd, as he doesn’t usually set foot outside until late. All the better for committing his necessary crimes in secret.
“What are you doing here? The sun hasn’t even fully set yet. You wanna get burned?”
Finnegan sighs and examines his perfectly manicured nails. “Getting vicariously bored out of my mind. What in hell’s bells is a delicious treat like her doing with him?”
He may curse like he’s several hundred years older than me, but he could outrun me and corner prey faster than me any day.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I spit out. “She’s not food.”
Finnegan laughs and nudges me. “I beg to differ. Have you smelled her blood?”
I growl, a sound I don’t allow myself to make around humans. It’s a little too feral, and will become more so as the moon continues its ascent above the quaint little town. The chill in the air triggers the frisson up and down my arms as every skin cell anticipates being coated in black fur.
“I thought so,” Finnegan teases.
“Don’t you have blood bags to pilfer somewhere?”
“Insults!” Finnegan scoffs, feigning offense, at this attack on his morality. “The hospitals are paid handsomely for what I take. And I only target the for-profit facilities.”
Potato, potahto. Still a vampire taking human blood. We all have our vices.
I turn my attention back to Cherry, and I can see right away the date isn’t going well. She frowns as she watches himrepeatedly glance at his phone, then tries to engage him in conversation about what looks good on the menu.
Toby sighs and puts down his phone. “The only thing on the menu tonight is you. Let’s get out of here.”
Cherry’s brows draw together. “I think you mean that as a compliment, but I gotta tell you something. It comes off as too forward and pretty offensive.” She tries to keep it light and says it softly, with a smile.
Toby raises his hands in mock innocence. “Look, you can play clueless. That’s cute. But we both know what everyone’s intentions are when they match on that app.”
Every fiber of my being works overtime to keep my blood from roaring in my veins, and to keep me from hurling myself through the plate glass window of the restaurant.
“What would it take for you to exsanguinate this fool as a favor to me?” I ask, half joking, half out of my mind.
“Settle down, Timber. I’m not touching that one. His blood smells like cocaine and Monster drinks. Besides, that girl can handle herself. Do you know who her grandmother is?”
“Of course I do.”
This is a small town. Everyone knows that Morgan is possibly the most powerful witch this town has ever known. And the truth is, I know way more about Cherry and her entire family than an average werewolf ought to know.
“Yeah. I’ll bet you know plenty, you little stalker,” Finnegan says, as if reading my mind.
I shoot him a dark look. “Little. As if. I may be two inches shorter than you, but I’ve got about forty pounds on you, beanpole.”
At this minor outburst, he laughs. “Oh shit. You’re in deep, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer that, but turn my focus back on Cherry.
