Full Wolf Moon howls and yowls, shapeshifter lovers.
Dugger, my dingo shapeshifter, makes another appearance in this flash scene. After all, Dante, the alpha werewolf, would never have lax security at his biker bar.
"Should I accept this mission," Dugger lampooned...
With a flick of his wrist, Dante sent the tankard of dark ale sliding toward Dugger. "Thanks, mate." Dugger flashed a ready grin while neatly retrieving the tall mug, then lifting it to his lips for a long taste.
"You ain't gonna tell this Ewan Carter, are ya?" Dugger leaned an elbow on the bar's shiny surface -- almost like a bloody mirror. "Just let him dangle like bait, is that the plan?"
A grin glinted in Dante's gaze before it hit his mouth. The alpha werewolf made himself more comfortable against the pub's dark-wood bar. "By my reckoning, Ewan's better off not knowing. Besides, I'm counting on his coyote wiles to keep him out of any real trouble."
"Should I accept this mission," Dugger lampooned the infamous "Mission Impossible" saying. He took another swig of the rippin' good ale, before continuing. "You want me to gather the intel, then report back."
Dante gave a short nod after tossing back a swallow of his ale. "If there's any real danger, give Ewan a helping paw."
"Yeah, mate, I could use the exercise. Gotta keep in top bloomin' shape -- the dingo and the man -- for the rigors ahead. Enemies to the right of us... enemies to the left of us."
"Enemies above us. And below us," Dante growly continued. Raising a hand, he stopped the approach of a server. "Looks like these none-too-smart interlopers are an annoyance, like fleas bitin' in midsummer."
"Bugger fleas. Always keep the pennyroyal in my pocket." Dugger enjoyed making Dante crack a smile. "Want the herbal recipe, mate?"
"I hear Gypsy has her own recipes for the flea bitten among us." Dante's gaze turned dangerously serious. He set his tankard on the bar with a back-to-business clank.
Dugger followed suit. "Yeah. Gotta keep our territory tidied up. Never know when it could get downright messy."
"The bigger shark eats the smaller shark, and we got more trouble than I want," Dante growled. "From last report, the van should be arriving tonight at my biker bar. Everyone working is onboard with keeping the patrons inside... except Ewan."
"Righto. I'll be lurking in the shadows, watchin', waitin'. Hitch myself a little joy ride."
"You got mental contact with your mate, Symone?" Dante stated what they both knew.
"Yeah, I'll send her the images, the intel. Had to talk her out of followin' with that special rifle of hers. Long as she has instant access to you, mate, we're right as rain."
"We're right as rain, pardner." Dante reached out gripping Dugger's shoulder for moments. "Like we discussed, I'll be hanging with the posse, in case you and Ewan need a rescue team."
"Appreciate the backup, mate."
As dingo, Dugger peeked around the corner of the biker bar, sniffing the wind. The low-level ratbags he'd been waiting for saturated the air with cheap booze and cheaper pizza. His nose wrinkled of its own accord. Yeah, crikey, the wind-driven odors were stronger than werewolf piss, and their van's exhaust.
On alert, Dugger crouched into a ready-to-spring position. He was counting on the young whackers being amateur kidnappers with all the speed and senses of a beer-drunk slug. That was the intel Dante had telepathed to him minutes earlier.
Yeah, there. Lights off, the van crept toward the bar's entrance, but halted like a giant cockroach afraid of the minimal light splashing over the long lineup of Harleys. Hearing Ewan step outside, Dugger snatched his Crocodile Dundee blade between his teeth.
Staying low, he stealthily moved around the corner. With his gaze trained on the action, Dugger watched the scumbags throw the canvas bag over Ewan's head. At that instant, he raced for the back of the van.
Missing a tangle of legs as the crew wrestled Ewan toward the van, Dugger leapt inside. Righto, barely above age ankle biters! The collection of duffel bags shoved against one side offered the perfect cover.
Dugger sprang over them, quickly burying himself behind the highest part of the pile. While Ewan did his token resistance thing, Dugger twisted into the best position to watch his hapless prey. Staring through the small space between the duffel bags, he scoped out the layout, then focused on his own facial, scent, and voice recognition via good ole brain power.
Yeah, likely college kids on a "Supernatural" slayer-type mission. But who was the bloody blighter conning them?
Dugger listened to Ewan charm up the sheila, one ear pricked for clues that could tell him the identity of the bad bloke or blokes behind scenes. Could be a scumbaggery mad-scientist type involved, no tellin'. Those lunatic buggers were always breaking-bad news. He'd hike leg on them and give a good long piss any day.
Werewolf? So, the minions didn't own a fancy clue who or what they'd bagged. Dugger tightened his jaws on the blade handle. No use lettin' anyone get the proper drop on him.
Have a Magickal Shapeshifting New Year...
Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance