Page 4 of Waifs And Strays
I affected an offended expression. ‘No swearing!’
His eyes dropped. ‘Sorry.’
‘Just don’t do it again.’ I tried not to smile. ‘Any more questions?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Just one,’ he said eventually. ‘What’s your name?’
This time I didn’t try to hide my grin. Better late than never. ‘Kit,’ I told him. ‘Kit
McCafferty.’
Chapter
Two
Less than twenty-four hours passed before they came for him. They were faster than I’d expected, even allowing for the scent-driven skills of werewolf trackers.
I was in the garden pruning the old rosebush that had chosen to bloom all year round and keeping an eye out for She Who Hisses when the first one appeared.
She didn’t attempt to hide. She stalked down the road towards the house and took up position on the other side of the street, leaning against a lamp post and watching my every move. I ignored her. She wasn’t a threat, not yet.
By the time I was gathering the cuttings into a bag, another werewolf had joined her; now two sets of lupine eyes were following me. I ignored the prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
Dave, the old druid who lived in the small house next to my larger property, hobbled out of his front door. He hawked up a ball of phlegm and spat it in their direction before leaning over the rickety fence that separated us. ‘Somebody ought to do something about them,’ he said.
I guessed he wanted me to be that somebody but I wasn’tstupid enough to rise to the bait. ‘Morning, Dave,’ I said cheerfully. ‘How are you today?’
He scowled in response. I didn’t take offence: the deeper the scowl, the stronger Dave’s affection. As an ex-con who’d done serious time for armed robbery, he hadn’t smiled for decades and I suspected those particular facial muscles had atrophied.
‘Several of your wee furry bastards have been shitting in my garden again,’ he said.
‘My apologies for that,’ I offered, although I wasn’t really sorry at all. Cats were going to cat. ‘I’ll pick up a repellent spell at the market later today.’ A spell would be enough to keep them off his patch; it was a small price to pay for a quiet life.
As if on cue, He Who Crunches Bird Bones appeared through a gap in the fence on the other side of Dave’s garden. He raised his white head, looked around, then sauntered to the centre of the small lawn and squatted, cat fashion. I met his green eyes for a moment before returning my attention to Dave. ‘Is there anything else I can pick up for you while I’m out?’
‘Wolfsbane,’ he grunted.
‘That’s illegal,’ I said. As he well knew.
‘And?’ Dave looked again at the two werewolves across the road. ‘Trilby usually has some under the counter.’
Trilby sold everything under the counter, but I had a werewolf tenant so wolfsbane would not be a solution. I patted Dave’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure those two won’t hang around for long.’
His lip curled. ‘Not if they know what’s good for ’em.’
I wouldn’t disagree with him on that point. I waved a brief farewell and returned my attention to my rosebush. There was a hedge witch at the market who’d take the cuttings off my hands and give me a few quid in return. I didn’t care about the money but it was useful to remain on good terms with everyone in the community.
I tied the bag carefully. When I glanced back up, the two werewolves had vanished. A second later, I knew why.
‘I slept in,’ Nick said, with an abashed expression as he wandered outside. ‘It’s later than I thought.’ He shielded his eyes against the sun. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. You didn’t have to do that.’
I’d left some orange juice and cereal outside his door. A lot of cereal – he was a teenage werewolf, after all, and he could probably eat a horse for breakfast. As Mrs Jones down the street kept a couple of Shetland ponies in her garden, it seemed wise to pre-empt any more neighbourly disputes. Given Nick’s upbringing in the confines of normal human society in Glasgow, the ponies were probably safe but I didn’t want to chance it.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘You’ve not had the chance to go shopping yet so I figured breakfast was the least I could do.’
He coughed delicately, which was out of odds with his personality. ‘I am not very, uh, adept at cooking.’ He ran a discomfited finger under his collar.
Nick was going to have to learn to be more direct. ‘You’d like to borrow a cookbook?’ I asked. ‘I have several. You’re very welcome to them.’
