Page 50 of Werewolves and Witches AU

20

The Witching Hour

Rowan

“Can you feel it?” Milo asks, raising his plastic to-go cup high in the air and jiggling the ice about.

I stop dead in the middle of the almost empty parking lot and let my wolf forward. It’s fully dark out now, and aside from the handful of staff in the gas station we just stopped at, there’s no one else out here—except Milo. He’s walking just a little ahead of me to where I parked the truck. Curious, I watch him.

His platinum-blond hair isn’t dyed, I’ve come to realise, and under the silvery light of the moon and stars it hosts a pearlescent shine. Tall and lithe, his long legs advance over the cracked and littered tarmac with ease, and the contrast that exists between his ethereal aesthetic and the surrounding urban decay is striking.

Milo turns then, walking backward with his arms spread wide, and tilts his head, expression expectant as he waits for my answer.

“Naw,” I admit. “I can’t feel anything.”

He smiles, then takes a long sip of his iced tuxedo coffee through the straw. “Yeah, me either.” Spinning back around, he raises his face skyward. “What time is it?”

Adjusting the grip on my flat white, I check my watch. “Zero-zero-ten hours.”

Milo wrinkles his nose while he thinks.

I convert. “Ten past midnight.”

He hums. “It’s the witching hour. Apparently…” He takes another noisy slurp. “It’s a liminal time when the veil between worlds is thinnest.”

I chuckle quietly and press the button on the fob to deactivate the truck’s alarm. Witches and their superstitions.

“They used to make us take classes at this time because communication and divination are at their strongest.” He shrugs. “I never felt anything either.”

I pause mid-stride. Milo is the most unusual witch I’ve ever encountered.

When he puts his hand on the rear passenger door, I assume to climb back into the same middle seat he used on the drive down here, I command, “Up front, Pup.”

He doesn’t hesitate, just diverts course and hops in the front. With that settled, I nod to myself and make my way around to the driver’s side. My phone in my pocket vibrates with a message alert. It’s not my unit because they’ve gone dark until they reach the new Nest in Rome.

Admiral:

You said the meeting was unproductive. You failed to mention it was a hostile environment. Full AAR required.

I balance my coffee on the roof of the truck, and scratch through my short beard with blunt fingernails.

Acknowledged.

Admiral:

Has the Package I sent you been valuable?

I flick my gaze to Milo, his darkened silhouette just visible through the truck’s tinted windows. Magpie’s value is beyond anything I could write in a text. Not that the General’s Office can ever know that.

To be confirmed.

I pocket my phone, drain half my white coffee in one go, and climb into the truck next to Milo. Turning on the engine, I reset the navigation to direct us out of the gas station near the private North Carolina airfield that Bear used to secure the Dog’s ghost flight and back to the city. Current estimated time of arrival is 03:24. It’s been a long fucking day.

Beside me, Milo’s plastic cup, wet with condensation, slips a little when he transfers it to his other hand to fiddle about with the truck’s climate controls. I slide back the padded cover of the centre console to reveal the cup holders hidden beneath, place my coffee cup in one, then gesture for him to do the same. His jaw hangs open for a beat, then he eagerly tests it out, smiling widely when it fits snuggly.

“This truck is cosier than my home,” he laughs, drying his wet fingers by wiping them on his jeans.

I drop into gear, check Milo is belted in, then set off. “Glad you approve, Pup. It’s the only truck I’ll drive over here because it comes with enough room for a pack of alpha wolves—and Bear’s ego.”