Reagan considers herself to be a fair and just daughter of Emma Austen, so when she's showed the dirty underside of werewolf communities, it's difficult to wrap her mind around it. Stray alpha wolves start to cause havoc around her father's town in...
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"What the hell'd you bring him for?" the elderly man, Ron, snapped, gesturing towards me. I pointed to myself, wondering if he got my gender wrong, but really, he was just calling out Griffin, who stood behind me.
Dad was shrugging off his coat with a sigh, drawling, "He's here to talk about the events from last night. You know, the reason why we called off the runs?"
Ron was already worked up, and Dad's annoyed tone seemed to rile him up even further. I swore the old man was going to have a heart attack, or keel over, or something, but before any of that could happen, one of the other men intervened. It was one of the only few younger folks, the one who sat next to me last time and gave me the creeps for no real reason. I noticed that the heebie-jeebies tended to happen a lot, so for the most part, I ignored them.
If Declan Walker didn't give me the heebie-jeebies at home, I figured it was a hoax for the most part, trying to trip me up or something.
While that man calmed down Ol' Man Ron, Dad motioned for me to pass him, along with Griffin. "Sit there. And Reagan, you won't have to talk if you don't want to," he told said to us, and I sighed. We'd gone over the whole, "You don't have to talk." It was just his passive way of saying, "Please don't talk. Let me handle this."
I'd probably fuck it up somehow anyway. Make it sound like some crazy event and give all the geezers a reason to die on the spot. Besides, Griffin was there to explain the whole ordeal and cause all the ruckus. He didn't even need me to assist.
Nichols came in shortly after us, accompanied by a powwow of elders carrying basic white coffee mugs and treats from who knows where. I felt like finding out, but when I asked Dad, he gave me a flat look as if to say, "No, you aren't getting snacks. Or coffee." Griffin turned to snicker at me because not a second later he left the table and walked straight out that door to get himself a coffee.
"Mornin' Reagan," Nichols said, plopping down into the seat across from me. It may have been one in the afternoon, but for a lycanthrope used to the night life, it was morning. "How do you feel? Sore?"
"Fine," I answered. "And sore from what, you pervert?"
I felt Dad poke me with something—probably a pen—but Nichols was laughing. "No, sore loser from chess. I kicked your ass."
I scowled, lips pursed as I muttered, "Did not... I won once."
We bickered until Griffin came back with two mugs of coffee and a biscotti sticking out of one. I gasped and clapped my hands as he slid it over to me. "I hope ya break a tooth on that thing. I know I almost did," he told me, even as I was already munching at the coffee-soaked end of the biscotti.
"Thanks Griff, you're the best," I said, the statement turning more sarcastic by the end. He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out straight under the table, and his narrow eyes peering at me from over the rim of his mug. I stuck my tongue out at him.
