Page 36 of Werewolves and Witches AU

He inhales slowly. “Because the Luna del Lupo was specifically created for the General—to protect him—and so his Bloodline will share that protection.”

I open my mouth to refute that because he told me earlier that the…

“Sì, the witch who made it revoked it, but its continued existence—as you have proved—enables a connection. I don’t want any connection. I want the filthy animals sealed away. Forever.”

I swallow uneasily and take a side step closer to the door. “Say I give it to you… what assurance do I have that you won’t fold me away too?”

Time Guy gives a wicked and predatory smile.

My eyes flick over to the barista, still frozen in time, and then I slowly ease my hand out of my pocket and stretch the charging cable tightly between both fists.

Another growl. This one much louder than before. Definitely not made by Time Guy.

I turn to look out the window behind me, and there, barrelling at full speed across the small parking lot outside, is Rowan. Between one blink and the next, I barely register that the ginger man-mountain is transforming into a large russet-coloured wolf in broad daylight. And isn’t heading for the shop doorway, but the window.

The squeak that escapes the tight cinch of my throat is involuntary. Raising my arm, I shield my face from shards of glass as the alpha wolf explodes through the window. His wolf is just like the man—massive—but with a lot more emphasis on teeth and claws.

Those huge and powerful jaws latch onto Time Guy’s forearm where he, too, had made a vain attempt to protect himself.

Deep rumbling growls and vicious wet snarls underpin sharp cracks and guttural cries of pain. The table breaks under Rowan’s weight, and Time Guy is sent crashing back onto the floor.

Italian curse words punctuate the chaos as more chairs and tables are upturned and splintered. I make a mental note to look up vaffanculo later.

There’s a moment of deathly silence, and I lean around Rowan’s impressive flank to take in the shredded and blood-soaked scraps of material that cover the coffee shop floor like a macabre and abstract rug. However, it’s impossible to tell how badly injured Time Guy is.

Between us, Rowan pants heavily.

Having been released from the werewolf’s maw, Time Guy’s eyes are now a rageful red—and they’re intently focused on Rowan. Purple crackles glow and spark between the fingers of his injured arm that he cradles to his chest. More violet lightning arcs and weaves around his other hand, and I remember the same magical aura from right before he tried to…

Instinctively, I reach for Rowan. Pushing my fingers through his thick, russet fur, I grab a tight hold of his tail only a moment before Time Guy shoots his hand up and presses it to the wolf’s shoulder.

Purple lightning bolts, a bit like those plasma balls at a science fair, spread over Rowan, and that same spot on my hip itches with a savage intensity. But I don’t let go.

Those violet sparks web further out, rapidly taking us both over, but it’s as if we’re inside some invisible, protective layer. I stare, stupefied, and Time Guy stares back, horrified. Only Rowan has the wits to move.

The biggest damn alpha wolf I’ve ever seen bites down on the junction of Time Guy’s neck and shoulder, grinds his jaw back and forth, and then shakes him. Once. It’s all that’s needed.

Time Guy falls lax, and the magenta magic fades. For some reason, my gaze drifts to the barista, who remains perfectly still—just like me.

It isn’t until Rowan turns himself in a tight circle that I relinquish his tail from my vicelike grip. A pair of almond-shaped golden eyes lock onto my face.

I step back.

Those golden eyes deepen in colour as their wide spacing narrows. It probably only takes a second for Rowan to change back into his human form, but it’s as if Time Guy’s magic has slowed everything down, and I stand here, transfixed.

I’ve never seen a werewolf shift before, but I’ve always wondered about it. There are no breaking bones or painful augmentations, no drooling nor panting, but rather a fluid transformation between states. As if it’s perfectly natural that man and beast would co-exist.

Where bloodied fangs had been, now there’s a short auburn beard and human lips that draw into a thin line when a soft Scottish accent asks me, “Ye okay, Pup?”

My gaze drifts back to the mangled body on the floor. I don’t know. Am I okay?

“The Dogs are coming to sort this. We should leave.” Rowan extends his hand—human, five fingers with bloodied knuckles. “Come on, I’ll take ye home.”

16

Carnage vs. Milo

Rowan