Page 27 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“Ah, come on, Ranger,” he presses. “I couldn’t fight those other witches, not like I needed, so maybe I could f—”

Guardian clips him around the back of the head. “Enough, Thriller. You, me, basement. Let’s go.”

Thriller—an apt name—jumps up and twirls around in his seat, all in one motion. He comes face to face with Guardian’s unimpressed expression and folded arms. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

He stretches out his neck, but in that way I’ve seen people do before they fight, and suddenly all that anxiety from earlier this morning returns full force. My heart pounds so hard in my ribcage that the force of it echoes in my skull, and sweat makes the palms of my hands clammy.

“Baby bird looks about ready to fly the Nest,” pipes up Lieutenant Alfie Beckett from his perch.

Ranger’s concerned face fills my field of vision, brow pulled low over hazel eyes. Instinctively, I lean back. Maybe that’s not concern at all, but murderous intent. Suddenly, I’m no longer sure of anything.

Ranger sets the bag of pastries on the low coffee table beside where he now squats. “Milo?”

I focus on his lips.

“Ye were sent here for safety, aye? It’s just that we weren’t expecting ye, and this isn’t the best time for us. A mission went south earlier, and none of us have had a chance to decompress yet. But yer safe here. Even Thriller is harmless. Mostly.”

“Ah, I see what this is,” Thriller pipes up, climbing from his chair. “In the words of James, chapter four, verse two: you desire, and you do not have…”

Another rumbled growl bubbles from deep inside Ranger’s chest, and he closes the distance to Thriller until they’re standing toe to toe.

“…And so you murder,” Thriller finishes, all but spitting that last word in Ranger’s face.

I expect the pack alpha to snap. To force the other alpha to his knees—punch him, headbutt him, anything to subdue him for his outrageous insubordination—and I expect it because it’s what I’ve always been told by other witches. That werewolves are brutish savages with a penchant for rage and an overflowing pot of violence. But that’s not what happens.

From his seemingly innocent spot in the doorway, Tuesday leans forward and calls out. “Oi, you bible-toting cunt.”

There’s a loaded silence, until on the next collective breath, all hell breaks loose. Thriller lunges for Tuesday, who ducks and backs out of the room. Guardian, hot on Thriller’s tail, grabs him by the back of his neck, and Tuesday opens the basement door. Before he can punch clear through it, Guardian all but pushes him down the stairs, and Tuesday slams the door shut behind them.

Dramatically dusting his hands off, he re-enters the room.

Ranger, having not moved from his spot, and with a quiet and measured voice, informs him, “Ye owe Guardian for that.”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, mate. You having me on? I’ll let him turn next time we have a guest, then, shall I?”

“Get the tally from Delilah, Tuesday. Then do yerself a favour, and shut the fuck up.”

Tuesday stalks over to Delilah… Oh. Left-en-ant Alfie Beckett is Delilah.

I watch, fascinated, as Tuesday then tacks a large piece of Kraft paper to the bare expanse of the living room wall. “What’s that?”

In that very Dick Van Dyke way he has about him, Delilah informs, “It’s the number of favours we all owe Guardian for managing our… eccentricities.”

Tuesday, having pinned the tally up and marked another strike in the column under his name, strides out of the room, snatching up the bag of pastries as he goes.

The wake of silence his absence leaves enables the unmistakable noise of a fight to carry through the floorboards from the basement below us. I look down at my feet, as if I might be able to see the pair.

“Never ye mind that.” Ranger’s brogue draws my attention

He drags the chair Thriller and Guardian just vacated closer. “As I was saying, we’ve had an aggravating morning and we’re all jet lagged to boot. So, while they recover and recharge, yer going to tell us the story of neeps and tatties, Milo. From the beginning. And yer not going to leave a single thing out, ye hear?”

12

Am I A Hostage?

Rowan

Milo, elbow propped on his thigh and head in his hand, blows out a long breath. And honestly? Same. I scrub my hand over my face and check the time on my watch. 12:04.