Blue Moon howls and yowls, shapeshifter lovers.
Harken ye back to the beginning of our fair shapeshifter town, Talbot's Peak. Originally taken over by a werewolf pack, the Peak has come a long way, baby cub. Heck, we now have a squirrel shifter as the Mayor.
White Fang, Ace Wolf Reporter, was my first... dare I call him a mere character? No, let's say my super wolf starred in the first Talbot's Peak flash scene I wrote. Recently, I changed the spelling of his last name to Khent instead of Kent, given any trademark issue that might arise.
So, I have to get up earlier than usual, and I'm already darn worn out. Awhile back I began writing White Fang and Pasha's erotic love story. It's about a third done. Anyway, here's the first chapter, a revised version of my original flash scene.
Chapter One ~ White Fang Khent
Talbot’s Peak, Montana
White Fang Khent seated himself before the used desktop computer he’d picked up in town, not four hours ago. As an instant upgrade, he slid a formless silicon device into the USB port. Brought from his home planet, some four light years away, the adaptive technology did his bidding.
With urgency eating at his gut, he positioned his chair, then removed the specialized pair of eyeglasses he often wore while in public. They helped disguise the odd intensity of his eyes and changed the blue coloring to a shade Earth humans didn’t question him about.
In no time, White Fang scanned the online version of the town’s newspaper that had recently been taken over by a werewolf pack. Great Caesar’s Ghostwolf! It was true.
Leaning forward, he re-read to make certain. Lykouz, he had no choice. The brazen pack’s ill-considered actions were a danger to all wolfkind. Especially his wolfkind.
There would have been no problem if the pack had written their features and articles as ‘tongue in slavering cheek’. As werewolf fantasy.
Truth, White Fang found it damn hell refreshing. But, with the full humans in possession of devastating fire power and still in fear of anything paranormal--well snapping fangs, he wondered if this younger generation had ever seen the horrific Old West photos of slaughtered wolves. Not to howl about the current-day helicopter hunting atrocities.
They probably hadn’t witnessed what he had, the scarecrow remains of several scorched-to-the-ground shapeshifter towns. Not all the residents had been lucky enough to escape with only singed smoking tails. No, it appeared as though, this werewolf pack most likely thought the government’s ghost-kill squads were only nasty rumors.
Nov 12, 2010 Guts and Butts, 2nd edition...
Here's wishing Kitty ~Cat~ Collins her very own fond farewell. Story and photo's on page one.
White Fang figured his brow looked like an aerial view of the Grand Canyon as he focused on the obituary, and frowned. Absently lifting his mug of steaming joe, he almost snarled into it. Instead he took a sniff, then swallowed down a healthy swig, or unhealthy, depending on which science study you chose to believe. With his physiology it didn’t matter.
“Not subtle enough,” he growl-muttered. Not at all.
White Fang set his mug down with a decided clank, but not hard enough to splash his window-on-the-world equipment. Lykouz, he remembered the good old days when coffee stains were a journalist’s badge of honor.
What he wouldn’t give for just a pen and pad at times. Even now, his fingers itched to bang out a story on his old typewriter. He threw a fond glance at the working relic before blinking and staring at the screen again.
He’d have to investigate this Kitty Collins, and obviously double quick. That is, before he sought employment as a Guts and Butts Gazette crime reporter.
It was one matter if this Collins, woman or catwoman, deserved to be entrail-splattered roadkill. It was a whole other matter if she was a victim of prejudice or, worse, targeted as an unwanted rival by one of the werewolf bitches in heat for a mate.
White Fang arched his brows, then they took a leap for the ceiling as he read Maggie Novak’s celebrity gossip column. Howling about bitches ready to kill...
Good news, girls – Damien, Alpha of the Hancock pack, informs me his son Devon is on the prowl for a mate. Devon’s just out of grad school and likes fresh-killed elk and long hunts in the moonlight. He’s not a cat fancier, however, so no felines need apply. Wag those tails, ladies – the line forms now!
So, was this steak-of-his-daddy’s eye, this Devon really what he appeared to be? Or, was he a closet cat fancier? Perhaps, even a past fancier of Kitty ~Cat~ Collins? Lykouz knows, as a reporter searching out leads, he’d prowled many a freaky-sex lair party filled with wolf grad students.
Taking another long swallow of his joe, White Fang ignored the yip-yip tones of his apartment’s doorbell. When he’d rented the place three days ago, his landlady’s yellow-gleaming gaze had alerted on his lap package. He’d felt like prime eats. To his private amusement, Tina Havulik had licked her lips as if they were wolfen chops.
Already, Toothsome Tina, as he thought of her, had invited herself in for coffee and bone meal biscuits on two occasions. White Fang figured he gained a couple ace hands, though. His landlady was a raging gossip queen, which gave him a hiked leg up on the inner workings of the town.
It was also an opportunity to practice the role he played in public. He’d pretended to be the shifter geek klutz of the century, thus fending off her amorous advances without offending her bitch sensibilities.
At least, so far, she hadn’t gone rabid werewolf and lunged for his defenseless dick while snapping her formidable jaws. Unlike her wolf breed, he had no desire to harm her or make her into instant roadkill.
White Fang owned no real worry for his physical well being. With one aimed fist between her eyes, he could knock Toothsome Tina out cold and leave her with a nasty headache for about a week’s time.
Glad his landlady had decided to quit leaning on the doorbell, White Fang drained his mug, and set it aside. A low growl vibrated his throat. His gaze narrowed on Mooney McMahon’s sports column.
The city council did not approve the request to allow roller derby tournaments at the city’s recreational facilities, so next week’s bone crusher will be held at the Roller Rama again, assuming we can get old Mrs. Fuddy-Duddy to drop the cease and desist charges.
Was this the same Mooney ‘wanna rip your throat out’ werewolf he’d tangled with in an LA sports bar? Mooney--not a lookalike for George Clooney--had gone neon-green eyed with jealousy over the attention his date lavished on White Fang.
While the woman had been a sweet piece of blonde tail, the only interest he’d had in her was if she could tell him the whereabout of her ex-boyfriend. The Dire wolf biker had gruesomely gnawed through two patrol cars, officers included.
Rumor had it the cops were on the take and shot at bikers for sport. Rumor had proven to be true. White Fang’s news story in the internationally distributed, Shapeshifter Globe Trotter, had saved the Dire wolf’s enormous furry hide from extinction.
Leaning back, White Fang stretched out the kinks from last night’s shift. He’d roamed the back streets, getting a feel for the Talbot’s Peak. Staying out of nose range, he’d watched werewolves hightail it for the surrounding forest. Most of them had been mated pairs.
Bringing the town’s directory up on screen, he typed in a search for Katrina Collins. There it was, address and phone number. Grabbing his cell, he thumbed in the number. No answer, just a cheery voice mail greeting.
With action now required, White Fang rose and strode toward his second floor deck. Once outside, he glanced around, then jumped over the rail. An instant later he blurred to super speed.
Wishing you shapeshifting love on the wild side…
Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance