Page 23 of Werewolves and Witches AU

The call disconnects, leaving me standing in the street wondering what a neep is?

Why are they important to the person who lives at this house?

And am I really going to walk across town to an unknown address?

Then I remember the sickening crunch of Time Guy’s head—and Sarah—and I pull up a map on my phone.

10

Neeps And Tatties

Milo

87390 North East Kings Walk Drive could be on the cover of every lifestyle magazine that promotes that picture-perfect, all-American, suburban family dream. The detached houses all sit back from the road, many with basketball hoops and flags fixed above the garage doors, and everyone’s lawns and hedges are perfectly within regulation. I bet their Homeowners Association is a headache.

Cancelling the directions on my phone triggers its low battery warning to flash, and I suck my lower lip between my teeth. I didn’t bring the charging cable with me, and I’ve no idea what to do if my phone dies before I sort this out—whatever this even is. Zipping it into the pocket of my leather jacket takes away the temptation to keep checking it for… I don’t even know what for. But I know I’ll do it if it’s not sealed away.

When I finally reach my destination there’s no truck in the drive, no bikes on the lawn, no sounds from over the gate to the back yard, no lights on, nor any other evidence that anyone even lives here. A tall hedge runs up the left side of the property, offering shelter from prying neighbourhood eyes, and for some reason it feels important to not be seen by any nosy curtain twitcher.

Cutting up beside the hedge, I beeline for the porch—confident, like I know the homeowner. I must still be wired from what happened back at my apartment, though, because I don’t think I’ve ever spared a single thought for who might see me walking anywhere before.

The doorbell is one of those fancy ones that’ll probably livestream me to the homeowner. Wary, I knock instead.

My fingers twitch nervously where they hang by my sides. Not wanting to look like a drug dealer or something, I rake them through my hair and blow out a long breath. I’ve been sent here for help, I remind myself. Also, there’s no way that Time Guy or the police or anyone can find me here. Mostly, that’s because I didn’t expect to find myself here, so why would anyone else?

When, after a minute or two, there’s no answer, I knock again. Louder this time, and with a little lean left and right to try and peep through the windows. Surely someone’s home?

Why would the Witches Council direct me to an empty house in an emergency?

I turn and scan the houses opposite. It’s quiet. Too quiet for a family neighbourhood. A chilling, creeping feeling, like I’m being watched—or stalked—raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

The longer I wait out on the porch, the more vulnerable I feel. Accepting that I’ll be seen through one of those unflattering fishbowl lenses, I press the strange doorbell.

Its melody chimes through the large house as if it’s hollow, as if there’s no soft furnishings to absorb the sound, and that uneasy feeling intensifies.

Scratching the back of my neck, I shuffle my weight from foot to foot. Come on, please answer.

A long and low whistle, a bit like a catcall, splits the stifling air of this upscale neighbourhood, and I squint at the little doorbell, looking for the camera.

“Erm, hi. Hello,” I babble, unsure of the etiquette for conducting a conversation through one of these.

“Aaand just who is it we have ’ere?” The Australian accent that responds is the last thing I expected in a day already marked by incredibly unexpected things.

“I’m Milo—I was sent here,” I add, before cupping my hands around my mouth to whisper, “By the Witches Council.”

“Were you now?”

I whirl on my heels so fast that I almost fall back into the door. The person I’ve been talking to is neither communicating through the doorbell, nor a person. He’s walking languidly up the drive toward me, hand in one of the many pockets of his combat pants, and maybe walking isn’t the most accurate word because he is a werewolf and that… strut, screams alpha.

Dark blond hair, styled with artful precision to look messy, catches in the bright sun as he tilts his head to examine me in return. His hoodie reads, “probably needed a hug,” and if my heart weren’t beating faster than a rabbit’s right now, I’d snort at the irony. I have a shirt that reads “werewolves need hugs, too,” and the renegade part of my brain wants to ask him where he bought it. Thankfully, the part that’s responsible for my survival is currently in charge.

Holding up my hands, I swallow around the tight ball of anxiety that clogs my throat, and with some awkward mix of squeak and swagger, I choke out, “I was told to tell you, ‘neeps and tatties.’”

As if the words are magic, the Australian alpha comes to a dead stop halfway up the drive. The fingers buried in his pocket twitch, alerting me that he has something in there, and I’m really not sure I want to know what it might be. Yet I struggle to pull my gaze away.

The doorbell behind me beeps.

My breaths freeze inside my lungs.