Greg, As it Turns Out, Does Get Punched in the Face at Work A Lot

Oh, sweet, fiery, goat sucking hell.

Mr. Cabroni.

His burly form emerged from a shadow. Stroking his beard. Bald head glistening. Jaw jetting out into an almost snout. Two other mutts flanked their apparent alpha wolf. All of them snarling. Their drool froze on the sidewalk. This is what you get, old boy. This is what happens when you ignore paranoid clients' calls. They confront their spouses. Their spouses confront you.

Tried plastering on my best golly, friend, you got the wrong vampire, smile as I stepped forward. Just a foot. Palms up, an illusion of surrender, yet I made sure to shield Isla with my body. All on top of doing my best to ignore the cloud of Isla's perfume still in my nose and needy tremors still coursing through us both.

"Hey, fellas, we don't want any trouble."

I reached, casually, into my jacket, feeling for my gun holster. But, of course, since I hadn't planned on working tonight, it wasn't on my person.

Cabroni grinned with jagged, yellowed saw blades for teeth. Dang it, how'd we get choked into such a narrow alley? One way in and out, and that way was blocked by wolves.

The streetlamp on the corner flickered. Not that it brightened the alley much. Reminded me of how close to full moon we were though. One, tops two nights, by the looks of it looming in the sky. And the looks of the dogs. Fur sprouted from their pointed ears and nostrils and cracking knuckles. Muscles bulged beneath their tees and torn jeans. Amber eyes. Nails long and sharp on their disjointed fingers.

"Shame. That's exactly what we're in the mood for," said Cabroni.

"Nah."

"Uh, Greg," said Isla.

I ground my teeth – fangs long and sharp – to keep from shushing her. My every vein and nerve and bone itched. I wasn't mad at Isla, not for refusing my fangs. How could I be? Isla was warm and soft and enticing in my hands, but she didn't deserve what she didn't want. I didn't mean to scare or pressure her. But I was still starving and frustrated and tired and mad at myself for pulling her out here, forcing her into a dangerous situation, again, like the damned fool I was.

So maybe that's why I opened my cursed mouth and said the dumbest dang thing on both sides of the Schuylkill I possibly could've to the wolf: "Ever think of cooling it on the trouble to spend more time with your wife?"

Cabroni, who'd been eyeing Isla like an Iberico ham aging over my shoulder, snapped his attention back to me. "The fuck you think you know about my wife?"

"I know what she hired me for. Paid me a decent slice of your pup's college fund to catch you cheating, you know that, fleabag?"

Cabroni's nostrils flared. He cracked his neck in a sickening pop as the other mongrels looked on in obvious confusion. Guess the affair was news to his buddies as well.

"Greg," said Isla, "you might want to cool it on the sleazy PI bit."

No. Hell no. Isla could not open her mouth here. The dame had such a knack for making my job difficult. As much as I enjoyed the challenge, this was not the time to indulge her.

"Darling, let me—"

"She right. You want to keep your fangs you should fucking cool it," bellowed Cabroni. "And where's my money, chica? Your few days are up."

Isla peeked for a moment over her shoulder at the brick wall. She spun back around. Pulse hammered. She feigned an innocent smile. Poorly. Batted those long lashes in that way I was beginning to think made my knees weak exclusively.

"What? Me? Rocco, did you follow me from a bar into a dark and secluded alley?" she tsked and, of all the stupid things, lit a fresh cigarette. She took a deep drag and blew the smoke in the wolf's direction. Rocco? Isla was on a first name basis with Rocco Cabroni? "Here I thought us running into each other was just a funny coincidence. Ha ha. Um, say, while this is a touch more charming than letting yourself into my apartment while I'm not home, why don't you swing by in the morning, knock, and I'll let you in to talk business, kay? People might get the wrong impression if I just paid my rent on the street in the middle of the night, you know."

The wolf chuckled. He nodded to Isla for his buddies. "See, what I tell you boys? She goes in the bar and comes out hammered. And paid."

Anger blistered in my chest. "Don't talk to her—"

But Isla, anchoring a warm hand on my shoulder, cut me off. Nearly cracked a tooth I ground my teeth so hard when she jumped in to say: "Hey I can hold my liquor better than you can a chocolate bar, bucko. Cute back up dancers, by the way. Guess after our last couple of tangoes Denise doesn't trust you to collect on the payment solo, huh?"

Cabroni growled. Swear several bones in his jaw, right above that bulging vein, clicked. "What is wrong with you? We're not here to fucking dance. Ever."

"It's a fucking metaphor, man. I'm just trying to keep the conversation interesting. But hey, I promised your mommy-in-law I'd pay my rent, and I will, swear it on the ghost of my great-great aunt Molly—she was gambler—but now's not really the best time. Bank's not even open!"

I pinched my nose. Cabroni was with the D'Onofrio pack? Of course he was, that cheating scoundrel. Isla was digging our graves and polishing the tombstones with this chat. I needed to take over.

She huffed when I stepped in front of her again. Most polite way I could shut her up without literally tying her tongue in a knot (with mine).

"I appreciate that my associate and your pack Alpha have business together, but really, fellas, we're all civilized creatures here—" I swallowed my speech, Isla's last remark finally dawning on me. I'd made a mistake. I'd made many, many mistakes. "Your wife is Denise D'Onofrio's daughter?"

Denise. Alpha of the D'Onofrio Pack. Criminal underworld kingpin. Apparent real estate racket tycoon. Owner of the Bok building. Isla's landlord. Her daughter hired me to snitch on her husband?

Oh fangs.

Stitches were about to be the least of my problems.

Rocco Cabroni spit on my shoe. A large, phlegmy glob. He raised a pair of fingers and made a show of sniffing the air, like a hound scenting a fox. "Skip the bank. I'm sure vampy paid you for that two-finger fortune he just—awwwwoooooooo!"

I hit him.

Cabroni howled. I know, I know. I said didn't want a fight. Fights never ended well. But no way in all the hells was this fucker allowed to finish that sentence. So I punched him square in the nose. His snout crumpled. Bones crunched. His and mine. Hot, tangy blood smeared my knuckles.

I'd barely finished my swing when, somewhere between a laugh and snarl, the dog hit me back. With his face.

Pain ricocheted through my skull as Cabroni headbutted me—I stupidly hadn't noticed him grab my collar when I swung at him. Couldn't back away fast enough. The wolf pulled me straight into his massive, blunt skull like this was Monday Night Raw. My nose collapsed. Choked on the lack of air suddenly ceasing to pass through it. Not that I really needed it.

I stumbled. But he clutched my collar still and laid another whammy on me with his fist hardly a second later. A sharp pain ripped across my lips and gums – my own teeth tearing into me – followed by a sickening pop and loss of pressure inside my mouth. Think he dislocated my jaw.

Cabroni released me after the second blow. Unable to find balance, I slipped and fell to my knees. Ice cracked under me.

I spat.

My left fang and a miniscule puddle of blood splattered onto the ice. The tooth dissolved to dust the moment it hit the ground. I gummed the empty hole. No sign of a new fang poking through yet. Tapped my nose ­­– ouch, sweet hell, it was a crumpled and positively broken mess beneath my fingers. I felt no trace of the cartilage reforming back into its rightful place.

"You fucking—blood sucker—fuck you," howled Carboni, dabbing at the blood spewing from his nostrils.

The moon was nearly full. Any other time of the month and their bodies might as well be human, but on the full moon and days surrounding only silver could irreparably harm them. He would heal quicker than I would. My nose remained crumpled, while his cartilage was already, audibly rearranging itself under his skin.

Despite its new shape, he was still bleeding. So much blood. A regular waterfall dribbling down his lips and chin and soaking into the ice. Dying it crimson.

A sharp pain twisted in my gut. In my veins. Constricted my throat and set every nerve in me on fire. Itching and burning and tearing my insides to shreds.

My throat was so dry.

I tongued the empty hole in my gums again. You don't need two fangs to drink from a puddle.

It was there. Just spilling there. Going to waste. Weakening the dog as he bled. Swirling. Beckoning. Hells, I was so weak. My face was broken. Knees were so weak. If I didn't have just a sip of it surely, I'd never stand up again. Never make it home. I'd shrivel to a husk right on the pavement.

To my side Isla screamed like an angry sailor and swung at Cabroni like a drunken one. Where the hell she get the switchblade she was suddenly wielding? One of his mutts rushed forward and pushed her, slapping her wrist. The blade fell.

I couldn't protect Isla. Couldn't keep her blood inside her where it belonged, all warm and silky and begging me to have a taste.

Werewolves never tasted good, never really sated­. So I'd been told. Never tried it myself, but beggars couldn't be choosers, right?

"Greg—just fucking take it, get off me!" Isla yelled— and paper crinkled. "Greg, get up."

Green bills. Twenties. Fives. They caught in the wind. Fluttered all around us like snow. The envelope from Sal, empty, touched down in the puddle. Corners turned red.

"I just need a little—" I croaked.

"Oh, oh no, no, we got to go, man," she grabbed me by the shoulder. But I was too heavy for her. Undead weight. My face already a mere inch from the puddle. Red. Hot. "We'll swing by Wawa, or fuck it, the Red Cross on the way home, but now we got to jet. Now, Greg, get up! Shit. Shit, Fuck."

I didn't care. Whatever she was saying didn't matter. How could it matter, how could anything matter as much as finally, finally being able to quench this aching thirst?

I lapped at the puddle. A regular kitten with a saucer of milk.

It burned my lips. Searing, acidic heat. Distinct garlic aftertaste too. Fuck. I spit the disgusting blood onto the ice. Coughed. Sputtered. Fought a losing battle against my gag reflex and heaved, unable to catch my useless breath between retches. The undigested slosh of margarita mix and bad tequila surged out of me (though, if I'm being honest, it was always destined to come back up this way).

"Oh crap," Isla whimpered.

My senses returned. Cold air. Hot blood. My sore face. Isla's trembling hands on my shoulders. I swallowed the last of my dry heaves. But it was too late already.

The wolves had healed.

Cabroni laughed as one of his cronies snatched a kicking Isla by the shoulders.

And his second one yanked the silver garrote around my neck.