Werewolf Of FeverPeak

Chapter 17-friendly reunion

The phone rang in Richie's trembling hand. He stared at the flip phone as if it might explode, his mind racing with the events that had just unfolded. The harsh vibrations echoed through the tense air, each ring amplifying the knot in his stomach.

Finally, he answered.

"Where," came the voice on the other end, cold and detached. No introduction, just the one word-demanding, commanding.

Richie swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "We need your hel-"

"**WHERE?**" The voice cut him off, sharper this time. There was no mistaking the impatience laced in the word, a demand that brooked no hesitation.

Richie's voice shook as he replied, "F-Fever Peak."

The line went dead, leaving Richie in the silence of his car, the weight of dread heavier than before.

**Three Days Later**

Crowley exhaled slowly, sweat dripping down his neck as he finished his morning workout routine. The weight of the barbell pressed into his shoulders as he grunted through the final set of squats. He relished the burn, using it to drive away the nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Something was off-he could feel it, though he didn't know what.

As the clank of the weights echoed through his house, a sudden knock broke the silence. Crowley paused, heart thumping in his chest. He grabbed a towel, wiping his face, and moved toward the door. Years of instinct had his hand sliding toward the gun tucked into the side of his workout pants. He opened the door cautiously, his other hand hovering near the grip of the weapon.

No one was there.

Crowley frowned and looked around, his eyes scanning the quiet street. Just as he was about to close the door, something on the ground caught his attention. A newspaper lay at his feet, its pages flapping lightly in the breeze. He bent down, picked it up, and watched as the wind turned the pages on its own, flicking one by one until they stopped.

He stared down at the single word printed in bold ink across the page.

**"Park."**

Crowley's eyes narrowed. He crumpled the paper in his fist, his jaw tight. He didn't like being summoned.

Minutes later, Crowley stood at the park's edge, eyes scanning the dimly lit surroundings. The wind rustled the trees, carrying the scent of wet leaves. A voice slithered through the shadows.

"I knew you could get here fast."

Crowley's eyes flicked toward a bench beneath an old oak tree. Sitting there, relaxed and unnervingly still, was the Scarecrow, his long, wiry frame casting a grotesque silhouette in the fading light.

"How much is he paying you?" Crowley asked, his voice low and hard.

Scarecrow's lips curled into a humorless smile, his voice dripping with cryptic elegance. "Greed is a bottomless pit which exhausts the person in an endless effort to satisfy the need without ever reaching satisfaction."

Crowley sighed and pulled his gun from its holster, aiming it directly at Scarecrow's chest. "You're still on your bullshit."

Without hesitation, he fired. The bullet cut through the air, but instead of the sickening thud of impact, the Scarecrow shimmered and faded, dissolving like mist. The laughter that followed was cold, disembodied.

"Being a hypocrite is like wearing a mask; eventually, the truth will reveal the face behind the facade."

Crowley holstered his gun, his eyes narrowing in irritation. "My bullshit has meaning. Yours doesn't."

From above, a slow rustling of leaves made him glance up. Perched in the branches of the oak tree, the Scarecrow crouched, his lanky form blending into the shadows like a predator waiting for the right moment.

"**This is my town,**" Crowley growled, his voice thick with menace. "Don't forget that."

The Scarecrow cocked his head, his movements unsettlingly smooth. "You were in mine," he said softly, his voice carrying with the wind, "and I spared you."

Crowley chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. "You think you could kill me?"

In one fluid motion, the Scarecrow leapt down from the tree, landing in front of Crowley with a soft thud. His towering form loomed over him, his yellowed eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Effortlessly."

Crowley met the Scarecrow's gaze without flinching, his hand resting on his holstered gun. "You've changed."

The Scarecrow's voice was a low rasp. "Tremendously."

A beat of silence stretched between them, the tension thick as the night air.

"I don't need to kill you yet, Crowley," the Scarecrow said finally, his voice an eerie whisper. "But I will... when the time comes."

With a flick of his hand, the Scarecrow turned, disappearing back into the night, his figure dissolving into the shadows as quickly as it had appeared.

Crowley stood still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes scanning the dark once more before he muttered, "We'll see about that."