Marcus Pelegrimas - Teeth of Beasts

The male hopped onto a Dumpster and changed into his alley cat form so quickly that his claws sparked against the metal. He gripped the edge in preparation to fling himself at Cole, but was stopped by a sharp snarl from the leader. As she turned, the female dropped to all fours and allowed her leopard fur to explode from her pores. The snarl turned into a lingering growl as she craned her neck to sweep a warning glare at all the other Mongrels. By the time she’d fixed her gaze back onto the alley cat, her sleek body had gained enough muscle to make her the largest creature in that alley.

Several of the Mongrels on the ledge above gripped the dirty bricks with their front paws and tensed the muscles in their legs. Before they could jump down, a bottle flew up to smash against the side of the building.

“Hey pussies! You gonna hide up there or come down to rub against my leg? I may even have a rubber mouse for you to chase.”

The man who shouted up at the ledge was the one who’d thrown the bottle. Walking in a confident gait that caused his heavy black boots to knock loudly against the pavement, he stepped into the light cast from a bulb connected to one of the single-car garages. He was a few inches taller than Cole, had wide shoulders and a thick torso wrapped inside a jacket that looked as if it had been stitched together from mismatched pieces of material. Despite the size of his body, his head looked just a little too big for it. Gray stubble sprang from his face and scalp, as though he’d used the same shears to trim his chin and dome. A wide smile displayed a set of blocky, uneven teeth as he reached under his jacket to produce a handgun that Cole recognized as a Sig Sauer P220. Slowly raising the .45 caliber handgun, the big ugly man said, “Find somewhere else to be or I start making some real noise.”

A low growl rolled through the shadows, coming from the combined throats of all the Mongrels gathered there. Cole could see several sets of glittering eyes surveying their surroundings. After another snarl that sounded like an exhalation from the earth itself, the Mongrels on the ledge scaled the wall, hopped onto the roof and disappeared. Only one remained for a few extra seconds. Its head drooped down and loosely swung from its neck as it gazed upon the alley from its perch upon the ledge. Panting in what sounded like a rambling mutter, it leapt out of sight.

Keeping low against the ground, the were–alley cat backed nervously toward the garage nearest to the street. The leader was in full leopard form, and she paced in a tight line, back and forth, clawing at the pavement. Finally, she stopped and let out a noise that didn’t sound like a growl, snarl, or anything else a mundane animal would make. Once that signal was given, both of the remaining Mongrels scaled the closest wall and were gone.

Extending his arms as if he’d forgotten about the shapeshifters as well as the gun in his hand, the man in the leather jacket said, “That’s my Bloodhound! Barely off the road and already stirring up the shit.”

Paige not only smiled at the big guy, but she did so in a way that made her look like someone who was completely incapable of knocking a werewolf down and gutting it. “Hello, Rico.”

Draping an arm around the back of Paige’s shoulders, Rico replied, “So that’d make you Cole?”

“That’s me. I’ve heard some good stories about you, Rico. Or should I say, Rrrrrico.”

Gripping Cole’s hand, Rico shook it as if about to yank it loose and hang it from his rearview mirror. “Don’t ever say my name like that again.”

If Cole could have pulled his hand away from the other man’s grip, he would have. Instead, he did his best to maintain his dignity and sputtered, “Paige…uh…said you’d think that was funny.”

Rico tightened his grip just enough to scrape Cole’s bones together. “Real nice partner you got here,” he said to Paige. “First sign of trouble and he throws you under the bus.”

“No, I did put him up to it,” she said. “I like to see him squirm. As for you,” she added while slapping Rico’s stomach, “there’s a little more puddin’ in the bowl, but I wouldn’t call you a bus just yet.”

Finally releasing Cole’s hand, Rico said, “She really knows how to build a man up, don’t she? I got some stories that might knock her down a few pegs.” Holstering his .45 and using that hand to point back toward Euclid Avenue, he added, “They’ll have to wait, though. I think we’re in trouble.”

Standing at the mouth of the side street was a skinny man of average height wearing a plain white cotton shirt hanging loosely over the waistband of a pair of faded olive drab fatigues. Unkempt silver hair and a pair of dark sunglasses made him look like someone who’d been out partying since before most of the nearby college crowd was born. To add another disjointed layer to his overall fashion statement, the old man carried a thick cane with a simple curved handle. A thin gray mustache looked as if it had been sketched above a tight frown. The scowl only deepened when a few kids wearing University of Missouri T-shirts tried to get a look down the side street.

“Dude!” one of the college kids protested as he was nudged by the old man’s cane.

Not only did the cane remain where it was, but the disheveled man connected to it pushed the kid away with as much effort as he would use to prevent a child from toddling into a busy street. “Move along,” he said.

The defiance on the young men’s faces was just a cheap mask, and all of them ambled along.

“The rest of you,” the older man said to the Skinners, “come with me.”

Dressel’s was a pub in every sense of the word. Everything from the uneven wooden planks on the floor to the dart-boards on the walls made the place feel like it had been lifted from the moors and placed into the Central West End. Cole followed everyone inside through a narrow door and was immediately greeted by the sight of a square bar surrounding an island of whiskey bottles populated by the bar-keep and an old tape player spouting Celtic music. Tables and chairs were practically knocking into each other in the confined space of the dimly lit room, most of which were either occupied or being shuffled around by bustling waitresses dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

“Maybe there’s more room up there,” he said, pointing toward a narrow set of stairs that led to a second floor.

“I already got a table,” the old man replied. He didn’t wait to discuss the matter, and when he sat down, he glared at the empty seats until they were filled.

Paige took the spot next to the old man, so Rico and Cole settled in across from them. Rico sat with his back against the wall and his legs pointed diagonally toward the front door, which meant Cole barely had any room for his feet beneath the worn wooden table.

Although he tried to be discreet, there was no easy way to get out of his harness. His weapon had already been shrunken down to its compact form, but it still caught the eye of one woman at another table, who watched him for a few seconds before losing interest. “So,” he mused, “is this some sort of Skinner bar? Do we all meet here because we’re welcomed or protected somehow?”

“No,” the old man replied. “We meet here because they make their own potato chips. They’re good. Also, the Central West End is normally quiet. This whole city used to be quiet until that mess in KC.”

Rico gave Cole a nudge and a thumbs-up to go along with it, which he ignored.

“You,” the old man said as he jabbed a finger at the big guy, “are damn lucky I was able to keep people away from that scene you created.”

“I created?” Rico said. “I was only there to pull these two out of the fire.”