This chapter contains mature and violent content.

Greg, As it Turns Out, Does Get Punched in the Face at Work A Lot

Oh, sweet, fiery, goat sucking hell. Mr. Cabroni.

His burly form emerged from a shadow. Stroking his beard. Bald head glistening. Jaw jetting out into an almost snout. Two other mutts flanked the werewolf. All of them snarling and sneering. Their drool froze on the sidewalk. This is what you get, old boy. This is what happens when you ignore paranoid clients' calls. They confront their spouses. Their spouses confront you.

Tried plastering on my best golly, friend, you got the wrong vampire, smile as I stepped forward. Just a foot. Palms up, an illusion of surrender, yet I made sure to carefully shield Isla with my body. All on top of doing my best to ignore the needy tremors still coursing through us both.

"Hey, fellas, we don't want any trouble."

I reached, casually, into my jacket, feeling for my gun holster. But, of course, since I hadn't planned on working tonight, wasn't on my person. Naturally.

Fanging idiot.

Cabroni grinned, his teeth jagged, yellowed saw blades. Dang it, how'd we get choked into such a narrow alley? One way in and out, and that way was blocked by wolves. The streetlamp on the corner flickered. Not that it brightened the alley much. Reminded me of how close to full moon we were. One, tops two days, by the looks of it looming in the sky. And the looks of the dogs. Fur sprouted from their pointed ears and nostrils and cracking knuckles. Muscles bulged beneath their tees and torn jeans. Amber eyes. Nails long and sharp on their disjointed fingers. They reeked of sweat and drool and fleas.

"Shame. That's exactly what we're in the mood for," said Cabroni.

"Nah."

"Uh, Greg," said Isla.

I ground my teeth – fangs long and sharp – to keep from shushing her. My every vein and nerve and bone itched. I wasn't mad at Isla, not for refusing my fangs. How could I be? Isla was warm and soft and enticing in my hands but she didn't deserve what she didn't want. I didn't mean to scare or pressure her. But I was still starving and frustrated and tired and fanging mad at myself for pulling her out here, forcing her into a dangerous situation, again, like the damned fool I was.

So maybe that's why I opened my cursed mouth and said the dumbest dang thing on both sides of the Schuylkill I possibly could've to the wolf: "Ever think of cooling it on the trouble to spend more time with your wife?"

Cabroni, who'd been eyeing Isla like an Iberico ham aging over my shoulder, snapped his attention back to me. "The fuck you think you know about my wife?"

"I know what she hired me for. Paid me a decent slice of your pup's college fund to catch you cheating, you know that, fleabag? Took the clip I got of you visiting the mistress stashed away in your alleged ma's place real hard."

Hard enough that she nearly broke my fingers denying I'd caught her husband in the act of falling into the arms of another woman, but still.

Cabroni's nostrils flared. Rage boiled in those watery, amber eyes. He cracked his neck in a sickening pop as the other mongrels looked on in obvious confusion. Guess the affair was news to his buddies as well.

"Greg," said Isla, "you might want to cool it on the sleazy PI bit."

No. Hell no. Isla could not open her mouth here. The dame had such a knack for making my job difficult. As much as I enjoyed the challenge, this was not the time to indulge her.

"Darling, let me—"

"She right. You want to keep your fangs you should fucking cool it," bellowed Cabroni. "And where's my money, chica? Your few days are up."

Isla peeked for a moment over her shoulder at the brick wall. She spun back around. Pulse hammered. Frightened and anxious. She feigned an innocent smile. Poorly. Batted those long lashes in that way I was beginning to think made my knees weak exclusively.

"What? Me? Kyle, did you follow me from a bar into a dark and secluded alley?" she tsked and, of all the stupid things, lit a fresh cigarette. Kyle? Isla was on a first name basis with Mr. Kyle Cabroni? She took a deep drag and blew the smoke in the wolf's direction. "Here I thought us running into each other was just a funny coincidence. Ha ha. Um, say, while this is a touch more charming than letting yourself into my apartment while I'm not home, why don't you swing by in the morning, knock, and I'll let you in to talk business, kay? People might get the wrong impression if I just paid my rent on the street in the middle of the night, you know."

The wolf chuckled. He nodded to Isla for his buddies. "See, what I tell you boys? She goes in the bar and comes out hammered. And paid."

Feral anger blistered in my chest. "Don't talk to her—"

But Isla, anchoring a warm hand on my shoulder, cut me off. Nearly cracked a tooth I gritted my teeth so hard when she jumped in to say: "Hey I can hold my liquor better than you can a bar of chocolate, bucko. Cute back up dancers, by the way. Guess after our last couple of waltzes Denise doesn't trust you to collect on the payment solo, huh?"

Cabroni growled. Swear several bones in his jaw, right above that bulging vein, clicked. "What is wrong with you? We're not here to fucking dance. Ever."

"Nuance. I promised your mommy-in-law I'd pay my rent, and I will, swear it on the ghost of my great-great aunt Molly—she was gambler—but now's not really the best time. Bank's not even open!"

I pinched my nose. Cabroni was with the D'Onofrio pack? Of course he was, that cheating scoundrel. Isla was digging our graves and polishing the tombstones with this chat. I needed to take over.

She huffed when I stepped in front of her again. Most polite way I could shut her up without literally tying her tongue in a knot (with mine).

"I appreciate that my associate and your Alpha have business together, but really, fellas, we're all civilized creatures here—" I swallowed my speech, Isla's last remark finally dawning on me. I'd made a mistake. I'd made many, many mistakes. "Your wife is Denise D'Onofrio's daughter?"

Denise. Alpha of the D'Onofrio Pack. Criminal underworld kingpin. Apparent real estate racket tycoon. Owner of the Bok building. Isla's landlord. Her daughter hired me to snitch on her husband?

Oh fangs.

Stitches were about to be the least of my problems.

Kyle Cabroni spit on my shoe. A large, phlegmy glob. He raised a pair of fingers and made a show of sniffing the air, like a hound scenting a fox. "Skip the bank. I'm sure vampy paid you for that two-finger fortune he just—"

I hit him. Punched him square in the nose. His snout crumpled. Bones crunched. His and mine. Hot, tangy blood smeared my knuckles. Cabroni howled. I know, I know. I said didn't want a fight. Fights never ended well. But no way in all the hells was this fucker allowed to finish that sentence.

I'd barely finished my swing when, somewhere between a laugh and snarl, the dog hit me back. With his face.

Pain ricocheted through my skull as Cabroni headbutted me—I stupidly hadn't noticed him grab my collar when I punched him. Couldn't back away fast enough. The wolf pulled me straight into his massive, blunt skull like this was Monday Night Raw. My nose collapsed. Choked on the lack of air suddenly ceasing to pass through it. Not that I really needed it.

I stumbled. But he clutched my collar still and laid another whammy on me with his fist hardly a second later. A sharp pain ripped across my lips and gums – my own teeth tearing into me – followed by a sickening pop and loss of pressure inside my mouth. Fangs. Think he dislocated my jaw.

Cabroni released me after the second blow. Unable to find balance, I slipped and fell to my knees. Ice cracked under me.

I spat.

My left fang and a miniscule puddle of blood splattered onto the ice. The tooth dissolved to dust the moment it hit the ground. I gummed the empty hole. No sign of a new fang poking through yet. Tapped my nose ­­– ouch, sweet hell, it was a crumpled and positively broken mess beneath my fingers. I felt no trace of the cartilage reforming back into its rightful place.

I was too dry.

Above me Cabroni raised his foot. His boots were a heavy tread. He aimed to bring one down on my neck.

To my side Isla screamed like an angry sailor and swung at Cabroni like a drunken one. Where the shit she get the switchblade she was suddenly wielding? One of his mutts rushed forward and pushed her, slapping her wrist. The blade fell.

Summoning what little strength and concentration I had I willed my body to dissipate. Took a lot. It shouldn't have worked. I was too dry. It took too much energy. But fang it.

We reformed in an instant. As a hundred bats we swarmed the wolf who dared to lay his dirty paws on Isla. A hundred pairs of eyes watched him fling his arms over his face. Screeching and clawing and biting. We all felt the weight of Isla's knife on our backs. And the pain of his meaty hand snatching and crushing a single bat's wing. Fuck. That was it. We couldn't hold the form any longer.

I rematerialized, sloppily, as my usual self behind Cabroni, groaning through the pain of my now dislocated shoulder, Isla's switchblade gleaming in my fist.

Isla's back hit the wall.

Cabroni tripped, rolling his ankle as he came down hard on pavement instead of my spine. "Stay put, you ugly suck—awwoooooo!"

I slashed him. Twice. On both legs. Deep into the tendons and muscle. Blood sprayed from him in a bright, coppery arc. Drenching pavement. Inflaming that itch in my veins. His top-heavy frame toppled. Smashed his cheek against the ice, shattering it like glass. He howled and sputtered. I ignored the maddening urge to dip a crazy straw into his gushing wounds. I had barely a few moments left to react.

Just as quick, I turned and stabbed the wolf that had pushed Isla in the shoulder. Withdrew the blade as he fell back into the bricks. Splatter drizzled onto my cheeks.

I looped an arm Isla's waist – she hadn't even found time to form a scream yet – and gently as I could moved her out the way and threw the knife at the third wolf flanking her. Hit that one in the chest. He went down, knife handle buried between his ribs, doubly slipping on ice.

Isla ducked.

It had only taken a few breaths. If that. And the alley was steaming with breath and blood and the iron of it was assaulting my every sense. Putting me on edge. My mouth watering against my own will.

Isla's scream finally formed words. "What are you a fucking ninja!"

Couldn't help but grin at that. And then wince at the pain of my torn lips and missing tooth.

She coughed – think it was meant to be a laugh – and took a deep puff from her cigarette. Of course she hadn't put it out.

"You fucking—blood sucker—fuck you," growled Cabroni.

The wolves groaned on the ground. Meh, shouldn't worry about them, they'd heal. The last thing I needed was to kill henchmen of mafia alphas. And my clients' husbands (who still technically hadn't paid me). The moon was nearly full. Any other time of the month and their bodies might as well be human, but on the full moon and days surrounding only silver could irreparably harm them. They would heal fine now. Probably quicker than I would. My nose remained crumpled, while Cabroni's calf muscles were already straining to stitch themselves back together. Despite its new shape, I still caught the heady scent of their flowing blood in my nostrils. So much blood. Soaking into the ice. Dying it crimson.

A sharp pain twisted in my gut. In my veins. Constricted my throat and set every nerve in me on fire. Itching and burning and tearing my insides to shreds. I stumbled. The sudden, overwhelming urge of thirst so powerful it nearly felled me. I couldn't do this. My throat was so dry.

I tongued the empty hole in my gums again. You don't need two fangs to drink from a puddle.

It was there. Just spilling there. Going to waste. Weakening the dogs as they bled. Swirling. Beckoning. Hells, I was so weak. My face was broken. My knees so tired and trembling I thought they may give out any second. If I didn't have just a sip of it surely I'd never make it home. I'd shrivel to a husk right on the pavement.

I couldn't protect Isla. Couldn't keep her blood inside her where it belonged, all warm and silky and begging me to have a taste.

Werewolves never tasted good, never really sated­. So I'd been told. Never tried it myself, but fangs, beggars couldn't be choosers, right?

My knees surrendered. Fell to the ice with a smack. So did the knife. Just dropped it there. Somewhere. Not sure where. It didn't matter. I'd pick it up later. It be fine. Just a sip.

"Greg!" Isla grabbed me by the shoulder. But I was too heavy for her. Too weak. "Get up."

"I just need a little—" I croaked.

"Oh, oh no, no, we got to go, man," she tugged and pulled and yanked at my jacket but I was crouched over on all fours, my face already a mere inch from the puddle. Red. Hot. (In the background, somewhere, could be far, could be close, a wolf howled). "We'll swing by Wawa, or fuck it, the Red Cross on the way home, but now we got to run. Now, Greg, get up! Shit. Shit, Fuck."

I didn't care. Whatever she was saying didn't matter. How could it matter, how could anything matter as much as finally, finally being able to quench this aching thirst?

I lapped at the puddle. A regular kitten with a saucer of milk.

It burned my lips. Searing, acidic heat. Distinct garlic aftertaste too. Fanging hell. I spit the disgusting blood onto the ice. Coughed. Sputtered. Fought a losing battle against my gag reflex and heaved, unable to catch my useless breath between retches. The undigested slosh of margarita mix and bad tequila surged out of me (though, if I'm being honest, it was always destined to come back up this way).

"Oh crap," Isla whimpered.

My senses returned. Cold air. Hot blood. My sore face. Isla's trembling hands on my shoulders. I swallowed the last of my dry heaves. But it was too late already.

The wolves had healed.

Cabroni laughed as one of his cronies snatched a kicking Isla by the shoulders.

And his second one yanked the silver garrote around my neck.