Page 55 of Catching Camila

Nomad

Thursday 11:20 p.m.

Nomad stood in the darkness and watched John and Camila bolt past. Beside him, Borrin shifted, shaking his mane, sending up a cloud of pheromones thick as the July heat. His clawed hands flared and then retracted into fists. Nomad could understand his desire. Borrin wanted the girl the same way Nomad wanted a Coney dog with everything on it. Borrin pushed a low, guttural growl through his fangs, his hot breath flooding the air. Nomad turned, batting away the fetid stink. What had he been eating, dead mouse intestines?

“Calm down, buddy,” Nomad said, putting a hand on Borrin’s massive bicep. It felt like gripping a scaly Arnold Schwarzenegger. The beast flexed under Nomad’s hand, but he obeyed, his breath slowing. The cloying scent of desire faded.

“Good,” Nomad said, dropping his hand. “Next, we’ll work on your breath.”

In the distance dogs bayed obnoxiously. Gods, he hated dogs. He shook his head as he watched the police bumble their way through the trees. A portly human took a tumble over a log and Nomad struggled not to laugh out loud.

Beside him, Borrin tensed. Nomad needed to get him out of here before the beast lost control and made a mess of that search party.

“Come on,” Nomad said, pulling a bag of Fritos out of his pocket. He took a bite, letting the salty flavor dance over his tongue. Then he nodded to the interior of the trees. “Let’s hit the road.”

Borrin stiffened and uttered a throaty whine, curved fangs glistening with saliva. He wanted to feed and had been promised the girl. Poor John. He was not going to take that well.

“Not yet,” Nomad said, walking into the forest. Nomad could smell her strawberry shampoo. He'd warned John not to get her involved. Now, he had no choice.

“Don't worry, buddy,” he said, tugging the beast into the dense trees. “You'll get your chance.”

---