by Raven Snow
“Werewolves of Waresville”
Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery
Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 7
Raven Snow
© 2016
Raven Snow
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received it directly from the author you are reading a pirated copy. If you have downloaded an illegal copy of this book & enjoyed it, please consider purchasing a legal copy. Your respect & support encourages me to continue writing & producing high quality books for you. Copyright 2016 Raven Snow.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover images are licensed stock photos, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.
Edition v1.00 (2016.09.24)
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
Wyatt refused to put disco music on the radio, and I questioned why I was marrying a man with no taste for the classics. Instead, he turned the dial to a news channel—yuck—as we sped away from the Funky Wheel, a 70s themed disco skate that I'd inherited from the late father I never knew. Stoner Stan and my formidable bouncer, Jeb, waved to me from outside. Today was supposed to be the annual cleaning day, and I was ecstatic to miss out on it.
In the backseat, Wyatt's biological son and soon to be mine by marriage, bounced around like I'd given him a pint of sugar before we got in the car. As a matter of fact, I had fed him some of the new candy we'd gotten in this morning, but I didn't think that had anything to do with his excitement.
"I'm getting a puppy!" Cooper screeched from the backseat.
Smiling, Wyatt's icy blue eyes that he shared with his son sparkled. The two of them also had the same shade of brown hair, though Wyatt's was cut short, and Cooper's was kept a little longer and unruly.
"You're getting a dog," I told Cooper. "Your father is afraid of puppies."
"And of what they'll do to my carpet."
As we were about to turn off the highway, a pack of bikers roared past us. They were taking up so much of the road that Wyatt almost had to swerve out of the way. Muttering under his breath, I could see my detective fiancé was struggling with the urge to turn the car around and go give them a ticket. In the backseat, Cooper was frowning. I didn't know how I'd managed to wind up with two sticklers for the rules.
The county animal shelter was small and a little depressing. The tin walls tilted to the right, and the sound of dogs barking could be heard even in the parking lot. We were greeted with warm enough smiles though, and a young attendant took us to the rows upon rows of cages to have a look around.
"Remember, Coop," Wyatt said, looking uneasy at all the dirt. "You don't have to get one today if you don't see one you absolutely love."
Nodding, the eleven-year-old continued on, looking in each cage and presenting his fingers to lick. His face was so solemn I almost laughed. Cooper was going through this phase where he took everything his father said as gospel; he had been ever since I'd known him. I was steadily trying to break him of it without much luck.
We passed golden retriever mixes, sad-looking pit bulls by the dozens, and a couple of little yappers that I eyed with longing. A small dog wouldn't slobber all over me and hog the bed. But, alas, Cooper walked right past them without interest.
"Your son is just as picky as you," I whispered to Wyatt.
He smiled, grabbing my waist, and pulled me back for a moment while Cooper searched on. "I know what I like."
"Oh?"
"Mom! Dad!" Cooper yelled, sprinting around the corner and almost barreling into us. "I found him!"
Wyatt untangled himself from me, ruffling Cooper’s hair and following him to the cage he'd pointed at. I stayed behind for a moment, frozen in my tracks, a million panicked thoughts rocketing around my head.
Cooper had just called me mom.
Wyatt had to come back and grab me, telling me lowly and with too much amusement “not to freak out.”
“Who’s freaking out?” I hissed, letting him tow me along.
When we came to a dead stop in front of the dog Cooper had chosen, all thoughts of Cooper’s slip fled from my mind. I stood there for a moment, staring at the animal in the cage with a dumb sort of amazement, a slow smile taking over my face.
“That’s the one you want,” Wyatt said dully, his fists clenching and unclenching at his side.
“Isn’t he perfect?” Cooper asked, eyes wide and on the dog.
What he was, was hideous, huge, and mangy. The sandy colored animal had to weigh as much as me—maybe as much as Wyatt. It stood as high as my abdomen with big, sharp teeth.
The image of his size and muscles was ruined when the dog flopped onto its side, tongue falling out of its gaping mouth, revealing its belly for rubs. The poor creature had visible ribs and mats all over its body, but mistreatment didn’t seem to have affected the dog’s temperament any.
Upon seeing the dog shed and drool on the ground, Wyatt stiffened beside me. I patted him absently. The man was caught between his promise to Cooper that he could have whatever dog he wanted and his love of his pristine furniture and carpet.
In the end, the promise weighed heavier on Wyatt’s mind, and we told the attendant we’d be taking the behemoth. She blinked, looking between us and the dog, then informed us that he’d been here for months with no takers. Before that, someone had found him wandering in the woods, filthy.
At that, Wyatt made a sound that was strangely like a whimper, and I decided to hurry the process along before he could change his mind.
While we signed the paperwork, Cooper stared at his new dog with longing, like the dog had the answers to life. It’d have been endearing if the thing wasn’t so ugly and fearsome. My cat would not be pleased.
“Does he have a name?” I asked the woman as she went to release the dog from the cage.
“We’ve been calling him ‘that big dog.’”
“That has
a certain ring to it.”
Cooper pulled a treat from his pocket as the cage slid open, and ‘that big dog’ fell upon him, ravenous. When he was done with the treat, he continued to lick Cooper within an inch of his life, tackling the boy to the ground, though he was almost as tall as him.
“Let’s call him Biscuit,” Cooper giggled. “He seems to like them.”
Biscuit took a break from Cooper and came over to slobber all over my exposed legs. Raising an eyebrow, I patted him wearily on the head, mostly looking for fleas.
“Why not call him Human Flesh? He seems to like that too.”
But Cooper couldn’t be convinced that Biscuit didn’t suit the sandy-colored timber wolf, and we all squeezed into the car with the thing. By the time we reached the house, the car and the people in it were covered in slobber. Taking in the state of Wyatt’s “casual” suit, I wondered if this was enough to make a grown man cry.
Whale, my familiar and booster of my witch powers when I let him be, was waiting for us at the front door, orange hair on edge. He took one look at the creature bounding up the steps to meet him, hissed, and sprinted off into the house. Biscuit stopped mid-stride, cocking his head. He stared after my retreating cat with confusion.
I patted his head on my way inside. “Get used to that reaction, dog.”
While Cooper destroyed the living room with the help of his new pal, I headed up to the bedroom I shared with Wyatt and put on my disco shorts. The neon green wig followed suit, and I donned my beaten, old skates.
Wyatt sunk onto the bed, watching me dress with some appreciation, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. “I’ll have to vacuum three times a day.”
“More, probably,” I told him, enjoying his dismay. Wyatt was perpetually unruffled.
“I thought Jeb was running the Funky Wheel tonight,” he said, eyeing the uniform.
Jeb, my intimidating bouncer, had agreed to watch the place whenever I needed it. Apart from the concession stand—which Stoner Stan ran into the ground every night—the disco skate practically ran itself.
“You just want me here to keep your misery company,” I said. “Too bad, because I feel the need to shake my tail bone.”
A foul mood settled over Wyatt for the next couple minutes, and I was forced to kiss his frown away at the front door. Before I could skate off into the night, however, he pulled me back by the forearm. My skates made squeaking noises against the linoleum.
He raised an eyebrow. “Forgetting something?”
Biting my lip to keep from teasing him, I fished my green engagement ring from the pocket of my shorts—the only place it was safe from Biscuit’s slobber. It slipped easily onto my finger, the fit perfect.
“Everyone knows we’re engaged,” I told him, butterflies wreaking havoc on my insides. “No need to mark your territory.”
He pressed a kiss to my nose. “All the same.”
Biscuit, seemingly concerned with the lack of attention he’d given us in the last two seconds, bounded over. Slipping through the door and shutting it firmly behind me, I left Wyatt to his slobbery fate. On the other side of the sturdy wood, I could hear a tail banging against the coffee table.
The Funky Wheel is by no means the cool club that the entire town worships. For the most part, my business includes middle-aged people trying to relive the glory days and teenagers who are out of places that stay open after nine. Because of the second half of my clients, the sign my father put up—"costumes required"—is no longer enforced. Money is money, even if it doesn't come from the pocket of some rocking bell-bottom pants.
Jeb was waiting for me at the front door, tall and muscular as ever. He looked like he belonged on the docks somewhere, gambling and terrorizing the female population. Instead, I'd hired him on sight not long after he arrived in Waresville, though he couldn't even give me a last name or a social security number. Wyatt figured that meant he had an extensive record. I always pointed out that it probably wasn't as well-developed as mine.
Rolling along the threadbare, purple carpet, I went up to the DJ's corner right on the edge of the circular, half wall that enclosed the rink. It matched the purple of the carpet well, but clashed horribly with the red booths and the peach colored floor people skated on.
Just as I was about to ask about his whereabouts, Stoner Stan emerged from the men's bathroom, smoke escaping from the open door. His eyes, lined with wrinkles now after so many years of Funky service, were bloodshot, and he eyed the turning hot dogs behind the concession stand with reverence. He was the reason that particular bathroom always smelled of Woodstock.
"How about we try to burn only half of what we make tonight?" I rapped my knuckles on the counter to get his attention.
Blinking slowly, he said, "It's good to have goals, man. You should be one of those motivational speakers."
After poking my head in to check on Amber, my teenager cashier who worked the ticket booth, I skated around with the customers. It was a slow night, customers only trickling in occasionally and not staying long. Thankfully for my wallet, it wasn't like this every night.
Around the time the clock hit the midnight marker, I heard the roaring of engines outside. Rolling into the office, I peered over Amber's shoulder and out into the parking lot. Four bikes, primarily the color of the starless night, had pulled up next to a couple minivans. One woman who was about to come in got one good look at the four riders, got back in her car, and sped away.
"Do I sell them tickets?" Amber asked quietly, pushing her glasses up her face.
I rolled my eyes. "You Waresvillians are such snobs. Yes, sell them tickets, my little elitist."
"My mama taught me not to make friends with their sort."
"And yet you go out with that common thief and warlock."
She shot me a shy smile. "Ace is just misunderstood."
This time, I rolled my eyes after I was out of her line of sight. It wouldn't do to let on how much her mother and I hated her boyfriend, giving them some kind of Romeo and Juliet complex. While I was wary of all magic, choosing not to practice it though I'd been born a witch, I didn't just hate "Ace" because he used the powers I was afraid of. He was also a pompous little jerk.
"Before you ask," I told Jeb, "yes, I want you to let them in."
Jeb shook his head, his stern bouncer face intact. "People like them are trouble."
"And you of course know this, because you've spent a lot of time with these four in particular."
That got me a smile. "You have a bad habit of picking up strays, Miss Foxxy."
Foxxy was a stage name, and one I'd finally gotten Jeb to use without his face going all red. Like Wyatt, he had a southern sense of manners that included never swearing around me and shying away from "disrespectful" utterances. I grew up in Miami, which really can't be considered part of the south, and so I had no such expectations.
The four bikers breezed into my disco skate like rhinos barreling through a wall. Everyone stopped to stare at them, eyes comically wide. Some customers even had the nerve to leave. It was interesting that a town as mystical and atypical as Waresville could still be so white picket fence.
Not bothering to pick up skates, the group settled into one of the booths near the concession stand. They didn't quite keep to themselves, either, looking around at the other patrons openly. The looks were hardly what I'd call friendly; there was something inherently predatory about them.
But really, it took more than a few harsh glares to put me off the scent. I sped over there, taking a pen and pad out of my back pocket. Most people just went up to the bar for what they wanted, but as these were newcomers, they wouldn't know that.
"Can I get you folks anything?"
The first one to look at me held my gaze, almost trapping me there. Though he was built more like a swimmer to the other's linebacker, there was an unmistakable air of power around him. He wore leather like the others, but I noticed the bandana around his head sported daisies. Love a man who can accessorize.
"Yo
u're either very brave or very stupid," he said, "to approach."
Knowing he was mocking my scared customers as much as me, I put on my most dazzling smile. "Mostly stupid."
"Send this...woman...away," another of them hissed at the leader. He had a thick German accent, a potbelly, and he clearly wanted to call me something offensive. Oil stains covered his clothes.
"Don't mind him," the only female of the bunch spoke up. "Butch just hates...kitties."
Butch turned red, about to yell at the muscular woman, but the leader held up his hand. He smiled at me and apologized for the behavior, introducing each of his group.
The woman in the leather and cowboy boots was called Felly. Her eyes slid over me with just as much friendliness as the woman-hater, Butch, had. The leader was called Daniel. Lastly, the one I hadn't mentioned, because his stare unnerved me the most, was Boone. Unlike the others, he watched me in a way that was barely human, a look that would've been more at home deep in the woods. It was that look that really gave them away.
Smiling for real now, I leaned my hip against the booth, deliberately getting closer to Butch who stiffened in distaste. "It's been awhile since we had any werewolves in town."
Three of them tensed, ready for a fight, but Daniel only laughed, diffusing his pack's deadly intentions. "Excuse them. We're used to living in secrecy." To his pack, he said, "You'll find very few people in this town don't know about our existence."
"If any," I agreed.
He turned his powerful gaze back to me. "But it is curious that you spotted us so easily. What are you?"
I knew what he was asking, though it made me want to tense up. I kept my body deliberately relaxed so as not to give away my discomfort. "I investigate supernatural crimes," I said, giving him the answer he hadn't asked for.
He was polite enough not to call me on it though. "Let us hope there is no need for your expertise, then, while we are in town. We didn't come for trouble."
