October 2024 WipWordSearch Excerpts Week 3

“I rather don’t like you #fixing up the people I’m trying to kill. It makes this a lot more difficult than it should be. This would’ve been over quicker without your annoying meddling.“

Ernest was unlike any vampire Thomas had ever encountered. He was as physically imposing as Jericho, #faster than Lawrence, and had an affinity for murderous violence that could make the Boston Boys collectively shudder.

Thomas tapped the bar with his fingers, #frowning at the healed skin. “You can’t be serious. A witch creates the first vampire and the first werewolf in one go? That’s too perfect.”

His life, his humanity had been stolen from him—snatched by a bloodthirsty freak that couldn’t #finish the job.

Thomas raced along at full speed without a drop of sweat.

The speed, the stamina—it was exhilarating. Not to mention the strength he could feel propelling him #forward.

A saline and blood drip hung at her bedside, the needle taped #firm in her unbandaged wrist. She was alive, but she looked terrible.

Six deep breaths and a sliver of control returned to him. After a seventh breath, he shivered. He couldn’t freak out every time someone wore a symbol that bothered him. In his pocket, he closed his #fist around Lawrence’s collapsible umbrella.

“#Forget what?” Thomas spat, reaching for the glass. “That I’ve thrown away everything I’ve worked toward? That I can’t become the surgeon I’ve wanted to be? Or should I try to #forget I become a goddamn monster when someone gets a paper cut?”

With tears flooding her vision, Clara turned and sprinted down the street. If only she could get far enough away, maybe she could #fix this. If she could leave behind this crazy, horrible situation, maybe she wouldn’t have to face it.

This group was larger than the last, but they were not moving #fast. Clara loped through the forest, weaving in and out of trees. The moon filtered through the leaves creating little pools of silver light cascading over the underbrush. She was going to want to do this again.

This whirlwind of scents was normal for the café, but she froze not two steps from the door. A slow #frown tugged at her lips, and she took in a much deeper breath through her nose, her mind processing the olfactory information.

Sean’s scent was stale here, too.

Sean stopped talking, but the hard look in his eyes made Clara sure he wasn’t #finished yet. She kept silent. Words were hard. Maybe if she showed she was willing to listen, he would keep going.

She needed him to keep going.

In a dozen bounds, she was on top of it. Clara’s haunches bunched and she sprang #forward while the beast inside howled with pleasure.

A roar of surprise, agony, and sheer fury erupted from the injured Howler, who immediately tried to shake off his attacker. Clara held on #firm.

Her hands clenched into #fists that trembled with the thought. A strangled noise caught in her throat as she locked her jaw down, refusing to give into her reflexive need to scream her rage and frustration to the sky. She needed to curse. She needed to yell until her voice was hoarse and broken from the weight of her heartbreak.

This entire property was nothing but a wasteland of a forgotten industry that had been streamlined by machines, now nothing more than the stomping grounds of things that polite and modern society liked to #forget.