Show Me Your Teeth (5/?) tawabidsJuly 4 2011, 13:26:23 UTC
FUCK ME THIS PROMPT IS SO MUCH FUN ---
Erik didn't pick up another lead that night, or the next night. Shaw and his pack weren't stepping onto the land even in human form and all their scents grew older and more muddled the more Erik searched. He decided he needed a new strategy, and three days after his failed attempt to kill Shaw on the boat, he dressed himself up in his most presentable clothes and headed out for a drink.
The Rowan Stump was an old bar just north of Miami. It had originally been built above the beach, but as the land eroded and new harbors were dug into the sand, the Stump had been propped up on stilts of increasing sophistication until it stood directly over the oily water, at the end of a short jetty. At the turn of the century, the back steps had led down to a silver-sanded beach, but now they marched straight into the rubbish strewn ocean. Several boats ranging from small sloops to simple dinghies with crayfish traps sitting in their mucky bottoms were always moored there.
The ability to come and go by water (and thus avoid leaving an obvious scent trail) had made the Stump a popular spot for werewolves for decades now. Even its name, changed from "The Stone Toad" in nineteen-thirty-four, reflected the old adage that the shadow of a living Rowan tree repelled werewolves. Like most old wives' tales about werewolves - including the association with the full moon and the devil - it was nothing but superstition. (Erik remembered one occasion where a hotel-owner in Zurich had learned he was a werewolf and tried to drive him out with a crucifix made of Rowan branches. Erik had snatched the cross out of his hands, growling, “I’m Jewish, you twat. At least try a Star of David.”)
Tonight the Rowan Stump was about as busy as it ever got, with a handful of regular drinkers and a pair of tourists looking for local colour. Erik sat at the bar and made conversation with the bartender, a middle-aged werewolf who assumed he was heading to Louisiana in search of a new pack. When Erik dropped Shaw's name into the conversation, however, the bartender shut his mouth and his eyes grew narrow under his thick eyebrows. He didn't seem so interested in talking to Erik after that.
Erik sat and nursed a beer for a while, keeping his eyes open for anyone else who smelled canine and looked drunk enough to talk freely. A curvy blonde in a beige trench coat rubbed against his shoulder while she ordered a soda and a gin and tonic. She was expensively dressed for a wolf, and very young to be on her own - Shaw had always liked them young. But Erik didn’t think Shaw would let a pretty thing like that go drinking by herself.
He watched her saunter back to a booth at the front of the bar, and as she put the drinks down and flicked her hair over her shoulder, he saw something that made his gut ice over.
The man sitting across from her was the hunter. The one Erik had unwittingly saved two nights before. He was in a woolen vest and pinstriped shirt instead of charcoal grey sweats today, but Erik recognized those arrogant eyes. He even saw the wince in the man’s expression when he picked up his gin and tonic with his slashed arm.
Before he could think twice about it, Erik got up and walked towards the young couple. The bartender called after him, asking if he wanted the rest of his beer. Erik ignored him. He walked with his arms held a little away from his body, feeling the wolf writhe under his skin. He kept it in check.
He stopped a foot from the table where the blonde and the hunter sat. The two looked up at him, the hunter putting his hand up as the unshaded bulbs hanging from the ceiling shone in his eyes.
“Hello,” the hunter said cheerfully. “Nice to see you again. With some clothes on, this time.”
“Charles?” the blonde leaned forward over the table. “Who’s this?” Erik saw her nostrils flare, taking in his scent and the unmistakable tinge of wolf in him.
“Friend I made a few nights ago,” Charles said, smiling suavely at his companion.
“I’m not your friend,” Erik said, taking a step back. “Stand up.”
“Why?” Charles the hunter asked, but obligingly got to his feet.
Erik drew his fist back and slammed it into the hunter’s right eye.
---
Erik didn't pick up another lead that night, or the next night. Shaw and his pack weren't stepping onto the land even in human form and all their scents grew older and more muddled the more Erik searched. He decided he needed a new strategy, and three days after his failed attempt to kill Shaw on the boat, he dressed himself up in his most presentable clothes and headed out for a drink.
The Rowan Stump was an old bar just north of Miami. It had originally been built above the beach, but as the land eroded and new harbors were dug into the sand, the Stump had been propped up on stilts of increasing sophistication until it stood directly over the oily water, at the end of a short jetty. At the turn of the century, the back steps had led down to a silver-sanded beach, but now they marched straight into the rubbish strewn ocean. Several boats ranging from small sloops to simple dinghies with crayfish traps sitting in their mucky bottoms were always moored there.
The ability to come and go by water (and thus avoid leaving an obvious scent trail) had made the Stump a popular spot for werewolves for decades now. Even its name, changed from "The Stone Toad" in nineteen-thirty-four, reflected the old adage that the shadow of a living Rowan tree repelled werewolves. Like most old wives' tales about werewolves - including the association with the full moon and the devil - it was nothing but superstition. (Erik remembered one occasion where a hotel-owner in Zurich had learned he was a werewolf and tried to drive him out with a crucifix made of Rowan branches. Erik had snatched the cross out of his hands, growling, “I’m Jewish, you twat. At least try a Star of David.”)
Tonight the Rowan Stump was about as busy as it ever got, with a handful of regular drinkers and a pair of tourists looking for local colour. Erik sat at the bar and made conversation with the bartender, a middle-aged werewolf who assumed he was heading to Louisiana in search of a new pack. When Erik dropped Shaw's name into the conversation, however, the bartender shut his mouth and his eyes grew narrow under his thick eyebrows. He didn't seem so interested in talking to Erik after that.
Erik sat and nursed a beer for a while, keeping his eyes open for anyone else who smelled canine and looked drunk enough to talk freely. A curvy blonde in a beige trench coat rubbed against his shoulder while she ordered a soda and a gin and tonic. She was expensively dressed for a wolf, and very young to be on her own - Shaw had always liked them young. But Erik didn’t think Shaw would let a pretty thing like that go drinking by herself.
He watched her saunter back to a booth at the front of the bar, and as she put the drinks down and flicked her hair over her shoulder, he saw something that made his gut ice over.
The man sitting across from her was the hunter. The one Erik had unwittingly saved two nights before. He was in a woolen vest and pinstriped shirt instead of charcoal grey sweats today, but Erik recognized those arrogant eyes. He even saw the wince in the man’s expression when he picked up his gin and tonic with his slashed arm.
Before he could think twice about it, Erik got up and walked towards the young couple. The bartender called after him, asking if he wanted the rest of his beer. Erik ignored him. He walked with his arms held a little away from his body, feeling the wolf writhe under his skin. He kept it in check.
He stopped a foot from the table where the blonde and the hunter sat. The two looked up at him, the hunter putting his hand up as the unshaded bulbs hanging from the ceiling shone in his eyes.
“Hello,” the hunter said cheerfully. “Nice to see you again. With some clothes on, this time.”
“Charles?” the blonde leaned forward over the table. “Who’s this?” Erik saw her nostrils flare, taking in his scent and the unmistakable tinge of wolf in him.
“Friend I made a few nights ago,” Charles said, smiling suavely at his companion.
“I’m not your friend,” Erik said, taking a step back. “Stand up.”
“Why?” Charles the hunter asked, but obligingly got to his feet.
Erik drew his fist back and slammed it into the hunter’s right eye.
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