Chapter 1: You Love My Lows.
Sons of the CullBut there’s one question everybody’s asking: who done it?
Who’s the blood er that launched a thousand angels? Valkyries claim they have a witness to the crime. A lot of good that is when they attack on sight. Helen of Sparta had a better chance at being rescued from her Trojan lover. That took ten years. This had continued for 20.
“Sit, girl.” I command, “Sit!”
6 vertical feet of throbbing muscle and matted fur rolls back. Baring crooked fangs, she emits a screech that echoes past charred trees, barren soil, black skies. Something answers back — fabulous. Blaring sirens are just what we need.
At times like this, werewolves make excellent mediators. Good noses and wizened insights are the preferred qualities of any detective. The beasts know the supernatural better than anyone — self-serving ghosts aside. They were here first, after all.
But there’s just one problem: internal strife runs rampant in these ancient tales of the imagination.
“Roll over.” I twirl my fingers. “Now lay down.” With a smile — boasting 4 lines of pearly whites without a bone out of place. “Shake hands?”
Cracked claws take a swipe, slicing through heart lines. Pain is a bullet colliding against bone marrow. Blood spills, gushing from dead veins. I can hear Dr. Blundell weeping across the Atlantic. Hanbin whisks me away — all damsel in distress like — as she launches in for a bite.
“Is that the 86th time you’ve saved my afterlife, dear prince?” I ask in a swooning daze.
“Tis but one of my many talents, Bobby,” he says, pushing me face first into the dirt to avoid the barreling woman scorned.
This century’s conundrum was the high child mortality rate. Babies are dying before they take their first feeble breaths. Someone had poisoned the communal well, and pack mentality spared no lineage from infertility. The resulting generation was a pack of battle-hungry, low class, deformed, and overall degenerate half-breeds: half human, half werewolf.
“Your daddy couldn’t keep it in his pants?” I sneer. She snarls in Hanbin’s headlock. Thrashing wildly. Goopy tears slid into yapping jaws.
“First you try to eat her,” Hanbin strains to criticize, “then you insult big, bad daddy wolf? You’ve reached an all-time low.”
“I asked, she refused; I value mutual consent,” I defend. “Plus—you love my lows.”
Dozens of paws stampede towards us. It looks like Springfield, Canada isn’t the safe haven we’re looking for. Pity. Cold weather and chicken broth are good for the soulless.
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