Just One Bite

Chapter 1: James' POV

"Oh Jesus Christ!" I hear my father exclaim angrily from the sitting room, "There's been another attack!?"

"Huh?" I lean away from the kitchen counter so my view of the T.V is clear. Once I finished reading the big bold headline at the bottom of the screen, I return to assembling my chicken and mayo sandwich with a groan.

That's the fourth attack in two weeks.

"Fucking Rogues," my father mutters as he plods heavily into the kitchen with another beer bottle in hand, "They should cage them up like animals, every last one of them, and shoot 'em dead!"

I just roll my eyes. He's always like this when he's had a few drinks; and when I mean a few, there were already at least eight empty bottles littering the already cluttered counter.

Say nothing, I chant to myself, he'll be comatosed on the sofa within the hour.

"You need to go shopping tomorrow," I say for the fifth time this evening, "There's no more food left in the house."

The man only grumbles to himself when he opens the fridge and realises that I'm right, before grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard above it. "Don't forget to take your Wolfsbane to college tomorrow," he reminds me, taking a large gulp of the wretched drink.

"I won't," I grumble back, slapping the last piece of bread onto my completed sandwich, "Although I really don't see the point; the college is all-human anyway."

"That's bullshit," my father scoffs, "Just because it's been six years and no one's come forward, doesn't mean you should trust them." Whiskey drips down his stubbled chin. "All-human college," he mutters to himself with a loud snort, "I'll believe it when I see the test results."

I never admit it, but the man was right. Our college hadn't been DNA tested yet, although rumours have told me they'll be starting next month. "Fine," I mutter, ducking into the cupboard that held the wrapping foil. But when I straighten up again, my sandwich's gone. "Hey! That was my lunch for college tomorrow, you bastard!" I scold as my father takes a big juicy bite out of it.

"So?" The man argues in simple ignorance. Before he can take another mouthful, I notice the sly smirk along his thin, alcohol-coated lips and frustration surges through me. He doesn't have time to blink; I had snatched my half-eaten sandwich out of his hand and slammed it down on the counter beside me before it could meet his mouth again.

"Why can't you just buy food at college?" He spits sourly.

"Because I have no money to spare!" I argue back.

"Bullshit!" He laughs arrogantly. "What happened to that load you made last week, huh?"

I watch him take another swig of his drink in silence, fighting the simmering urge to punch him in the face. "What load?" I finally ask, turning impatiently to the kitchen counter again.

He laughs once more, even louder. "You seriously think I'm that stupid, James?"

I don't respond; I just glare at him over one shoulder. His smirk only widens as he leans lazily against the counter opposite me, but his face still close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath.

"So how long have you been selling, huh?"

I almost laugh. "You make it sound as if you actually care," I say as I duck into the fridge and grab the last bottle of Strongbow, cracking the lid off with my teeth.

"And where do you keep the stash?"

"As if I'd tell you!" I snap, taking a swig from the cool, refreshing drink as I vanish into the living room. It takes a moment for my father to realise that I'm not in the kitchen anymore, until I hear his slow heavy footsteps chase in after me.

"Just don't get caught," is all he says like the subject bored him and we both slump down in our chairs with the T.V still blaring out the 10 o'clock news.

The presenter was still giving out details about the Rogue attack last night, pictures of ambulance vans and armed police flashing across the screen. When the woman finally announced, "seven severely injured and three dead," I hear my father make a loud noise of contempt from across the room.

"I don't understand why it doesn't register with these people that they're dangerous creatures," he slurs crossly, "They're monsters! These attacks are proof of that!"

"These attacks have only been committed by Rogues," I reply calmly, "There are others who are more than willing to live peacefully alongside us." Although half of me was wondering why I even bothered reasoning with this man. His opinion on the Supernatural was pretty clear when the secret got out six years ago.

"I don't give a shit! The people will only take so much of this," he warns me, "Mark my words: if the authorities won't do something about it soon, the people will take matters into their own hands..." he smirks a little, "...again."

I don't answer. I just take another swig of my cider, pretending that I didn't care, when in fact the whole situation knaws at my nerves until I feel like I'm getting twitchy with paranoia. There may be Rogue Werewolves terrorising our area but no one can deny that there were Rogue Humans as well, shooting anyone they mildly thought were Supernatural right in their own homes. But nothing of that sort ever made the news.

Fucking hypocrites, I thought.

New laws have been passed since and order was effectively restored within two years after the truth got out. Shootings ceased and everything gradually got back to normal... well... of sorts. But it was still a new world that everyone had to adapt to quickly.

For some that was easy; for others it was not.

My thoughts were interrupted when I feel a violent buzz in my back jeans pocket.

"Who's that?" My father manages to ask with a drunken sneer plastered all over his face, "A customer? Or one of your whores?"

Ignoring him, I pull out my battered IPhone and check my messages. A small smile raises the corners of my mouth without permission, and just like he could read my mind, my father lets out a loud groan.

"Whoever she is, she isn't coming over," he slurs, eyes drooping and head rolling like it's disconnected somewhere. I give him a defiant look even though he's now too plastered to notice.

"I don't complain when you bring that crackhead home," I retort but I get no reply. Instead, I watch him with one eyebrow raised as he brings the Jack Daniels to his lips, takes one last gulp and then drops unconscious with a loud snore.

I smirk. Arsehole.

Then with a few swift taps, I've texted a reply:

Come over. My dad's knocked out. Lets have some fun XX