Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
It is my theory, backed by my research, that wolf shifters used to live in remote tribal areas, but over time, as habitat loss affected all species, many of them have made their way into mainstream society.
I put the boxes down and pick up the files on the top. These are clippings and eyewitness testimonies from a whole slew of people who are certain they’ve interacted with wolf shifters in the last five years. It would be better to make contact with an actual shifter. My research indicates I’ve probably done so several times and not had any idea.
I open the first file and start reading the notes as I walk, passing big stacks of boxes, all of which contain precious hardcopies of the kind of intelligence needed to prove this sort of theory.
I walk face first into a wall that wasn’t there this morning, drop my file, and bump my nose.
“Ow.”
Big hands steady me and stop me from tripping over backwards.
I look up to discover that there’s a man in my underground office. He’s tall, well over six feet, and he’s wearing a wolf mask. His arms are bare because he’s also wearing a vest. There are sleeve tattoos down each of his overly muscular arms. I can’t see what they depict, exactly, from this distance. I know instinctively that he’s hot. He has the broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the kind of physique that implies chiseled everything.
“Uh, hello?” I stumble back, dip down, pick up my file and put a little distance between us. I am deeply embarrassed. I hate seeming clumsy. I hate making mistakes.
He doesn’t say anything.
“What do you want? Nobody is supposed to come down here.” My question comes out bluntly and rudely. “That’s why there’s a lock on the door.”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me from behind the mask. He has ice-blue eyes under there, regarding me with an unwavering stare. He folds his arms over his chest, making tattoos ripple with the motion. I see fangs, I see fur. I feel a jolt of some dark energy that scares me into taking another two steps back.
I tell myself this is some kind of shitty prank. The other journalists don’t take me seriously. They’re always fucking with me. Last week someone left their husky in here, then told me that they’d gotten me an interview with a real life wolf shifter. I pretended to laugh, but underneath it all I was humiliated. One day, I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.
“I really don’t have time for this today,” I say.
“You’ll make time.”
I don’t recognize his voice, but that’s probably because it’s muffled by the mask.
“I have a lot of work to do, and this isn’t funny. It’s actually starting to become harassment. Don’t think I won’t go to HR.”
He chuckles, a deep, rich, masculine sound. “I don’t answer to HR.”
The hair on the back of my neck is starting to stand up. There’s something uncanny about this man. He doesn’t belong here. He’s not built like an office worker. Not even one who goes to the gym all the time. He’s got the kind of muscle you see in people who spend a lot of time outside. The skin under his tattoos is deeply tan, and what I can see of his hands indicates roughness. Short, unmanicured nails.
I sigh and put my files down on my desk.
“So what’s this about?”
“It’s about you, and this shrine to the unforgivable.”
“Unforgivable?”
“What you are investigating is unnatural and yes, unforgivable. This is your warning. Stop.”
“You mean wolf shifters?”
“I mean the cursed children of the wild,” he says.
“Wait, that’s what you call them? Cursed children of the wild? Unforgivable?” I go to my desk, pick up a pencil, and start making notes.
He is on me in a flash, snapping my pencil in half and throwing it on the floor.
“Throwing tantrums won’t stop me,” I say as he looms over my desk, his hands fisted on either side of it as he stares me down.
Again, he doesn’t say anything.
“I might take you seriously if you weren’t wearing that stupid Halloween mask,” I add, my temper flaring as he continues to say nothing at all. “I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not amused by all these stupid pranks. Nobody here might be taking this seriously, but I am.”
“I’m taking this very seriously,” he says. “More than you know. That’s why I am telling you to let this go. Stop thinking about it. Stop investigating it. Stop trying to find information. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
He says the part about getting myself killed in a deep growl that makes fear run through me in a horrible trickle. He wants me to feel threatened, and I do.
I back up toward the door, but he’s faster than me. A lot faster. He reaches the door before I do and closes it without slamming it somehow. His speed, strength, and careful coordination are impressive.