Fangs And Fur: A Werewolf Story
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Lauren Sommers is a sixteen-year old girl who was Turned to a werewolf by her father when she was twelve. Fast-forward to four years later, and this young teenager has a lot more than school work to worry about. She begins to find out hidden secrets about her parentage when a new presence is introduced into her life in the form of a werewolf boy. Things take a turn for the worse as she is captured by her manic father and subsequently finds out that her mother whom she'd thought was dead is still alive, wasting away in the depths of a science lab. Lauren's story and many others are entwined in this fast-paced werewolf story: Fangs and Fur!
Katherine took a sip from her styrofoam cup as she calmly watched the bustle of the crowd in the coffeeshop. The shop was filled with a blend of people, from nine-to-fivers on their laptops to high school teenagers with backpacks and chiming cellphones. Typical Perkins evening, she thought.
Her attention was drawn to the door as a middle-aged man with white hair entered the coffeeshop. The raucous chattering in the shop was reduced to a low murmuring as the customers turned their attention to the man. His stance was intimidating. He isn't even tall, Katherine thought as he located and walked towards her. What he lacked in height he made up for in a frightening aura.
He reached her table and took a seat without asking for an invitation. She watched him as he placed his hands on the table and folded his fingers.
"You're avoiding me." He began "What did I do, Katherine?" His English was thick with a Russian accent, but Katherine could decipher his words due to practice.
"Frank, you must understand that we're over. You should forget me and move on. The things I saw you do... I cannot live with that."
"That doesn't stop us. You know how I feel for you, my dear Kat." He placed one of his hands on hers.
She stared at his long, tapering fingers on her hand and instinctively flinched, remembering how those fingers had felt on her body, the lines of passion they'd drawn on the most intimate parts of her. Being with him was a terrible mistake she would never live down.
"Whatever happened between us," she said tremulously "happened months ago, and I would like it to be buried there."
He stared at her for long seconds, then gave a small smile and withdrew his hand. "You're really going to throw away everything you hold dear just to be with your—with him?"
Katherine knew very well that he was subtly threatening her. She'd worked with him long enough to know that he hated being confronted and she'd done just that by rejecting him. "I'd do anything to be away from you. You're a freak." She spat.
She saw his eyes darken with concealed rage and her courage failed her. He looked like he would like nothing more than to smack her across the face, then just as swiftly as the rage changed his eyes, it diffused and he smiled at her again.
"Very well then." He murmured, then stood up with a groan. He made towards the door, then stopped and turned back to her. "If I were you, I wouldn't feel too safe. "The days ahead will be full of terrors, and you wouldn't want it coming close to your new family now, would you?" He said, then patted her cheek and left the coffeeshop.
Katherine watched him walk away through the coffeeshop window and swallowed past the lump of dread in her throat. She took a shaky breath and closed her eyes, then patted the growing bulge of her stomach. She knew what he expected her to do in exchange for her family's safety, and she would do it. Whatever happened, she would keep her family safe.
Clyde Roberts had never trusted policemen, which was why he'd instantly hated Mike Sommers as the other man had first walked into his bar a few months ago, badge flashing, pistol in his belt. He only started to tolerate the man after he had thrown his weight around that day and ordered a round of drinks for everyone at the bar. If there's one language Clyde loved to listen to and understood perfectly, it was the language of money.
However tonight was the drunkest the old barman had ever seen Mike. He was literally swaying on his stool and his eyes were half closed. What could have bothered the man so much for him to run through one bottle of whiskey?
"Another shot!" The drunk Mike yelled and slammed his glass on the bar. "Clyde!"
"No can do, officer. I think it's time for you to head home to your daughter." Clyde said and forcefully dragged the glass from his hand.
"Don't...tell me what to do" Mike wagged a shaky finger at Clyde "Don't–" he retched.
"If you puke all over my bar I will personally drag you out of here with your collar." He threatened the policeman "You wouldn't want that, would you Mike? Leave my bar, please."
"Bah!" Mike waved away his words and stood shakily, swaying on his feet. He withdrew a couple of ten-dollar bills from his pocket and slammed it on the bar, way too much money for a couple of shots. Clyde shrewdly grabbed the money and stuffed it in his own pocket.
The drunk man stumbled out of the bar and into the cold night air outside. The air seemed to sober him up a little bit as he looked around in search of his POLICE CAR. Sighting it a couple of yards to the left, he staggered towards It, and stopped abruptly as he saw the figure in white leaning calmly against the car.
Ghost! His alcohol-soaked brain screamed, but he reminded himself that ghosts only existed in his daughter's fairytales. Taking a few steps, he walked towards the figure and realised within about a metre of his car that the figure was no ghost, only a white-haired man with a whiter moustache in a lab coat. The man was smoking a cigar and the smoke from the cigar sobered Mike even more.
"You!" He growled. "What do you want, Einstein?"
"Hello, Michael." The man replied, with the cigar bouncing about in his mouth. It didn't seem to restrict his speech. In fact, the man's accent was heavy, like English wasn't his natural tongue. If Mike was sober enough he would have been able to correctly place his accent, but for now his brain felt like little more than a heavy, wet towel in his skull.
"What," he repeated "Do you want, Einstein?"
The white-haired man brought out a tranquilizer gun from the pocket of his lab coat and pointed it at Mike "This will hurt if you move, so you might want to stay still" He said.
"Bloody hell!" Mike swore as he sighted the gun. Policeman instinct kicked in as he tried to retrieve his pistol from his belt. He was still stone-drunk though; his hand shook and the gun tumbled out of his hands.
The other man aimed at him and shot. The shot was unusually quiet, was Mike's last thoughts before a dart made contact with his neck and his body was racked with inexplicable pain. He screamed and fell, writhing with agony.
"I told you it would hurt if you move." The old man said and pocketed the tranquilizer gun. He watched as Mike twisted and turned on the cold, hard ground until his body went still. Mike felt himself let go of all consciousness and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the man's white hair and the cloudy sky beyond him.
Like a fish on a hook, Mike was yanked back to the brink of consciousness. He twisted, trying to take stock of his surroundings while making as little noise as possible. A little shake of the wrists and ankles told him that he was being held down with something, presumably metal clamps since he still had a little wriggle room for his wrists. His behind was extremely sore, which meant he was probably on a hospital bed, not too comfortable, probably covered with sterile sheets. His surest guess was that he was in a sort of hospital or facility, and his being held down was probably down to the fact that he was some sort of lab rat for an experiment. The alcohol had completely worn off, and all the bad choices he'd made the night before was coming back in torrents. Why had he gotten so drunk in the first place? Why had he left his daughter at home unsupervised? And what type of tranquilizer gun in God's green earth caused so much unbearable pain?
He opened his eyes. Shaf
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