WIPWordSearch Excerpts November 2023 Week 2

In an attempt to gather his courage, Thomas looked at each of his friends, trying to predict how they would #react. They weren’t going to believe him. How could they? He didn’t believe it himself at first.

He threw an elbow into a black figure and made contact with something—hopefully the attacker’s face. Rather than being #released, the attacker dug his fingers in Thomas’ shoulder deeper. A cry of pain tore through Thomas, and he was certain his clavicle would fracture under the pressure.

I have asked you here in the hope to remind you the treaty has been broken with the killing and #reckless turning of humans. The peace has been thoroughly rejected. War has come to this city, and with it the hope our species will be kept hidden from those who walk openly in the sun has been jeopardized.

Thomas rinsed corn next to Artemis. As they worked, Artemis talked less and #refused to return Thomas’ attempts of catching her eye. She glared at her own cutting board, and when she left the kitchen to fetch something she’d forgotten, the bounce in her step was missing.

He screamed and stumbled backward. His full hand was red, and where he’d touched the door the skin had burned away, #revealing scorched bone, muscle, and ligaments.

It was too much. He was at his limit. The blood danced before his eyes. It was time to let go. He’d already drank it before, #right? And he was ravenous. . . .

Clenching his eyes shut tight, Thomas raised his glass with shaking hands and parted his lips, self-loathing etched into every movement.

As his friends swapped embarrassing stories from Thomas’ adolescent years, Thomas felt a small, #repeating vibration near his hip. The vibrations were quiet, probably going unnoticed by Thomas’ human friends. Julia tensed her leg, her thigh tight against Thomas’ leg.

A sense of #relief flooded through Thomas as he heard Artemis’ voice. He reached down, twisted the knob again, and gave the door a gentle push. This time it opened with ease, the warm scents of chocolate brownies and cookies blasting him.

She could smell the rival pack.

The #reaction from her bestial psyche was so violent, so fierce that even lacking a physical form in the realm of shared consciousness, the human side of Clara flinched.

There was the lovely scent of old paper wafting from the used book section, the sharper tang of fresh print in the new #releases shelf, and the faded lemony hint of the wood polish the employees use to make their oak bookshelves glisten each morning.

He was rumored to be more demon than vampire, though he #refused to drink blood straight from the vein like other associates of the Red Lightning Pub. That didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in the jugular veins of his enemies.

An unknown light source dimly #revealed molding plants in pewter bowls crowding several tables, a bookshelf displaying an odd collection of bottles with murky substances, chairs groaning under the weight of bizarre stones and crystals, and all sorts of strange symbols hanging from wires running along the ceiling.

Control over the beast was highly dependent on a stable mentality, and #right now, Clara’s mind was in turmoil.

She could do this. Donald believed in her, and he wouldn’t have asked her if he didn’t think she could do it. Clara #repeated this to herself over and over until she almost believed it.

Flooded with #relief, Clara increased her pace to a lumbering shuffle. Climbing the stairs was difficult. Every time she lifted her leg, the cuts seared with pain. She made it with less effort than she’d anticipated, but she still nearly collapsed as she threw the door open.