Page 24 of Werewolves and Witches AU

It’s possible that he just remotely disabled the house alarm, but it’s also possible he just primed a bomb. There’s something in the way those light grey eyes, neither blue nor green, watch me, that give me confidence both of those are valid outcomes.

“Been waiting long?” he asks with a cheery tone. As if I’m expected.

“Not really,” I play along. But I’m increasingly uncertain whether, now the homeowner has now shown up, I even want to go inside that house anymore. “A few minutes.”

He nods, as if satisfied with my answer, and resumes walking up the drive toward the porch. Toward me.

I step away—closer to the path that cuts through the front lawn. Can I outrun an alpha wolf? Probably not.

Just as he’s about to plant a huge, mud-caked boot on the deck, someone else appears from the side path as if they were in the back yard this whole time, and plants a strong, dark hand on Mr Australia’s shoulder.

“Easy, Tuesday,” the stranger says. American, but still not local—more East Coast. “Neeps and tatties means he was sent.”

Tuesday shrugs this other man off, who retracts his hand and straightens to full height, gaining a good few inches on the alpha wolf beside him.

I tilt my head as I try to work this newcomer out. He isn’t human… but neither is he a werewolf. The orange reflective lenses of his ski-style sunglasses don’t quite suppress the supernatural glow of his eyes. What is he?

“I know that,” Tuesday tosses out. “I’m just curious. A fella can be curious, can’t he?”

Tuesday makes to continue his approach up onto the deck, and despite the fact that he triggers my flight response, something about the stranger’s presence counters it enough that I remain standing right where I am.

As Tuesday steps up, the behemoth beside him drags his hand from his pocket and smoothly confiscates whatever it was he’d been fiddling with earlier. Dressed in all-black compression sportswear, including black running shorts and some kind of Velcro strap around the bicep of his right arm, this guy should be intimidating—he’s clearly some kind of alpha werewolf handler, and that alone should be terrifying, but it isn’t.

“Don’t be the fun police, Guardian,” Tuesday whines from between tightly clenched back teeth.

Guardian, then, turns to me and smiles. That’s when his likeness strikes me—he looks like the dhampir from that movie. The badass one with the long leather jacket. Except, he’s not a vampire. I’m pretty sure of that on account of the fact that it’s daytime.

With his fist still encasing whatever he just took from Tuesday, Guardian calmly tells him, “Fellas can be curious all they like, but you can’t. Not in public.” As if Tuesday’s plotting of revenge isn’t written all over his face, he directs his attention to me. “Who sent you?”

I bounce my gaze between them for a moment, trying to work out if it’s wise to ignore Tuesday. Then I decide that as Guardian is obviously Tuesday’s superior, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. “The General’s Office—at the Witches Council—said this was a safe place.”

“The Witches Council?” Guardian asks.

At the same time as Tuesday accuses, “The Witches Council don’t have a General’s Office.”

“That’s what I thought!” I agree. “Unless it’s new… I haven’t had anything to do with the Witches Council in…” I cut myself off, unsure why I’m suddenly spilling my life’s secrets to a werewolf and a man I’ve only just met. “A long time.”

Tuesday is so close now that if he wanted to, he could grab me by the jacket.

I step off the porch and onto the path.

“But you know, it’s probably fine now. So, I’ll just go.” As I talk, I hold my hands palm up and back steadily away.

The Witches Council must have got the address wrong, because this is clearly some kind of packhouse… even though I was sure that the nearest pack territory to here was way north, in the forest.

“And just where is it ye plan on going, Pup?” The gruff question, asked in the sexiest Scottish brogue I’ve ever heard, comes from directly behind me.

I whirl, heart pounding, and come face to face with a literal man-mountain. Having always been tall, I’m not used to looking straight ahead and my line of sight landing on the neckline of another person’s T-shirt. My reflection in the sunglasses he has tucked there shows the unattractive way my mouth hangs open as I unashamedly rake my gaze up his towering form.

Vibrant auburn hair gleams copper in the sun’s rays. It’s short-cropped at the sides, longer on top, but it has that look about it that suggests he’s been pushing his fingers through it all morning. It crowns a thick and healthy short beard of equally red hair, and a flood of saliva washes over my tongue.

Then my eyes find his: two golden chestnuts set under a thick and heavy brow. A brow furrowed under the weight of an equally thorough assessment of me. A furrow that fast becomes a scowl the longer I take to answer, and it’s a scowl that screams serial killer.

He steps to block my route off the end of the path, and I swallow reflexively. I also don’t engage my brain before I find myself answering him back.

“Pup?” I question. “Ah fuck…”

I turn to look over my shoulder, but neither Guardian nor Tuesday have moved from their spots by the porch. Not keen on backing myself into them, I take a steadying breath and exhale slowly.