The Witch’s Werewolf

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Timber

The only thing prettier than the autumn colors on Main Street is Cherry Woodbury’s hair that glows under the yellow-orange of the street lamps.

She always looks beautiful to me. Tonight, she looks different. Her cheeks are contoured, and her lips are a glossy, soft red.

Cherry’s curls are tied up in a loose knot on the crown of her head, the soft tendrils brushing her bare shoulders as she moves.

Those bitable, lickable shoulders.

Where is she going?

Parked in front of the bank, her car alarm chirps. She stuffs the key fob into her handbag, then nervously tugs at the hem of her dress. Cherry’s strides are slightly unsure in a pair of sexy heels.

It’s late October. She’s got to be freezing in a sleeveless dress.

Surely she’s not dressed up to do a bank deposit for the candle shop. Of course, the bank is closed already. The host of the Italian restaurant holds the door open for her.

It’s a Friday night. This is not her typical routine, which concerns me. Is something wrong? Did something change?

Maybe she’s simply picking up a pizza for her night in. But why would she do that in a little red dress, and no coat?

The table decor inside the restaurant has changed from its lunchtime red checked cloths and flower vases to white linen and candles. A Frank Sinatra song floats into the street as couples come and go through the doors.

Why would Cherry want to be surrounded by all this romance?

The reality of the situation hits me like a lead musket ball to the scrotum.

Cherry is on a date.

The thought is enough to make me thirst for blood, and the moon is not yet high enough for that.

I’d better go before my elevated blood pressure triggers the change too soon.

On any given first night of a full moon, I’m out of sight by now.

The werewolf transition is grotesque when it hits, and I know better than to be hanging around people.

Not only that, but no humans would want to be in the path of a half-man/half-wolf.

At sunrise, I have little memory of what I need the night before.

Yet here I am, risking it all, watching Cherry stride into the nicest restaurant in town. Oddly, she clutches her handbag tighter when she spots her date.

The man she’s meeting doesn’t stand up when she approaches.

Does no one teach manners anymore?

I’m one to talk about manners, when I lurk in the shadows, coming dangerously close to wolfing out. If I loiter too much longer, I’ll be dining on Cherry’s rude date’s liver before he can order his starter.

I am transfixed as she takes a seat at the candlelit table, pulling out her own chair. In one hand, her date holds a glass of wine; in the other, his thumb scrolls on his phone.

When her date finally looks up, his gaze goes straight to her chest.

My ears twitch. Their conversation is clear as a bell to me through the walls separating us, thanks to the monthly shift having permanently altered my inner ears.

“Hi, Toby,” she says, with her sweet, wide smile and hopeful eyes.

“Well, well, well. You clean up nice,” Toby says.

Toby?

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 him repeatedly 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.

And that’s when all the alarm bells go off. Cherry informs Toby that she wants to go ahead and leave if sex is the only thing that he expects from this date.

She stands.

“Where you going, cutie?” Toby asks.

“Home.”

“Come on,” he says, laughing.

And of course, he doesn’t bother to pull her chair out for her. The host, to his credit, gives Toby a foul look as he holds the door for Cherry.

“Wait! Come on,” Toby says, still laughing as Cherry clip-clops toward her car.

“Don’t follow me, please!”

Finnegan tsks disapprovingly. “Let’s go, Timber. Best steer clear of human/witch drama.”

But I’m homed in, my gaze trained on the scene as Toby follows her down the street.

“I thought New York City girls knew how to have fun!”

Her pace quickens and her voice rises in pitch. “We know how to tell the difference between fun and danger!”

I follow them down the street, keeping to the dark spaces amid the row of hedges and flowers in the median.

When she reaches her car, she fumbles with the key fob and drops it on the pavement. It skids down the inclined sidewalk, and to my utter horror, Toby picks it up.

“Thanks,” she says, a little breathless, holding her hand out for him to give it to her.

With phony puppy dog eyes, Toby asks, “Give me a ride first?”

Her nostrils flare. “Give me my fucking keys, creep!”

My canine teeth grow, biting into my lips.

My skin is on fire as the fur begins to push its way out.

It seems the word “creep” sets Toby off, because a vein pops out in his forehead. “Do you know who you’re talking to, little girl?”

“Yeah,” she says, her New York attitude barely hiding how scared she really is. “I’m talking to a guy whose ego is out of proportion to his tiny pencil dick!”

Toby’s eyes turn about as demonic as they can get for a human. He stalks toward Cherry, backing her up against the hood of her car.

Someone help her, I silently plead. But nobody is around to see what’s happening.

Except me.

The worst part about a premature transformation is the sweat glands. Instead of sweating all over my body due to stress, I’m drooling like, well, like a slobbering dog.

But I no longer care about that.

The monster that I am leaps out from between the bushes. As I bound across the street, a popping sound rings out as a plume of white smoke billows from somewhere in the ether. Cherry hollers something in Latin — an incantation of some kind.

Never interfere with witches while they do their spells, but it’s too late now. I’m now on top of Toby, knocking him to the sidewalk as Cherry’s scream rings in my ears.

My fully extended werewolf canines sink into Toby’s throat. Immobilized, he makes a pathetic choking noise. I shake him like a rag doll until he loses consciousness.

I’m considering dragging him into the woods when I realize that Finnegan was right about the cocaine and Monster drinks. The taste is foul. This meal isn’t worth it. I’d rather chase down a rabbit for my dinner.

And I need to run. Always the first night of the shift, the demand to run and stretch my legs outweighs everything else.

A woman’s blood-curdling scream makes me turn with a snarl.

Her face brings me back to reality.

Cherry stands frozen, her chest heaving in fright. Her mascara is smeared with tears, and her perfect lips are parted.

If I could speak, I’d tell her to stay calm. Don’t run, and don’t make any quick movements. Back away slowly and go to your car, I want to tell her.

But when her eyes dart past my shoulders and I follow her gaze, I see the problem. I’m crouched over her unconscious date, and her key fob is on my other side.

I’d never hurt her, though my hunger is roaring in my ears. All she sees is the blood dripping down my chin.

I carefully extend one long, fur-covered hand, intending to bat her keys toward her.

At impressive speed, she kicks off her heels and sprints full bore down the street, running between the buildings along Main.

An unfortunate choice. My canine instinct kicks in, and I give chase.

I bound down the alley and through the empty courtyard, following closely behind Cherry. I’m not as graceful as she is. Cherry is light on her feet, while I smash through tables and chairs. My prey clambers up the retaining wall into a stand of trees.

I am right behind her. But not too close.

This is all kinds of wrong, but I’m having too much fun for it to end.

I ignore the screams of other people coming from the street. They’ll have to deal with Toby, and frankly, I don’t care if they find him dead or alive. Most likely, he’ll be fine. Maybe, if I were in my human form, I could muster an ounce of compassion.

But not the wolf. The wolf doesn’t care.

The wolf is solely focused on the chase.

Cherry, the woman who is driving me more insane with every stumble through the bushes, every yelp of pain as she scratches her feet on roots and rocks and sticks, is my focus tonight.

The stand of landscaped trees leads to a trailhead in the woods, and she heads that way.

I know this path, and I know exactly where she’s going.

But if this little witch makes it all the way to Colony Hill, amongst an exceptionally powerful group of witches, I’m a dead werewolf. I can’t let her get that far.

Once we’re under the cloak of dense woods, I stop playing cat and mouse with her and run at full speed.

Cherry is tiring herself out as the trail leads to an incline about a tenth of a mile into the woods. She makes the wrong choice and veers off the main trail, taking a beaten path up a sharper side hill, into the far denser bush.

Without much more chasing, I’m on top of her.

She’s terrified and trembling underneath me. Her hair is mostly out of the bun she wears. Her makeup stains her face, and she’s hyperventilating.

I can’t decide whether to bite, or worse.