“You know, I can understand killing a human, but dogs? That's just excessive,” Misha complained, shaking his head as he looked up to the scene in front of us.

  Set up in a coffee shop of all things, the only reason I could think that we’d been asked to make sure this wasn’t supernatural was how fucking weird it was. The owner, some half-one, some human, staked on a spike that had been bolted into the ground, naked with his chest ripped open. Around him four large dogs had been killed and posed as well, luckily not staked, and the numbers 1:4 had been written on the wall in blood.

  Not exactly a new sight to me, having seen half-ones with more pieces ripped out of them, I was still surprised Misha had no trouble with it.

  At the moment my mentor was standing behind the counter, making a latte while I walked around the room. His undercut brown hair still messy from being woken up so early in the morning — at one in the afternoon — and his cheap looking brown button down unevenly fastened, the man looked exhausted. Only his fresh shaven face still looking cared for, and the cheap cologne that supposedly smelled of sea breeze did little to hide the smell of sex and beer on him.

  Misha was supposed to be my parole officer, help stop me getting in trouble and help me blend in with mortals. Instead this had become the behavior expected of him, and I couldn’t even say it was a cycle I was surprised by. Disappear for days at a time, come back smelling like he did now and sleep just as long, and then maybe bring me along on a job instead of leaving me at home.

  Not often something happened, I was nonetheless forced to help when it did as part of my terms. A vampire draining homeless people, a new werewolf that got sent to some Covenant on the beach, once a witch who was selling “male enhancement salves” to half-ones which was a waste of six hours finding and confronting. Normally small things I stood in the background of, this was the first time in almost a year it’d been so…theatric.

  “The guy’s missing his heart,” I said, walking close to the staked body as I looked into the rib cage.

  Ripped open, it was something I’d seen more than once before as a werewolf, from my time before I’d left the Purists. The skin and muscle cut away, ribs initially cracked from the claw’s force, then gripped and wrenched with inhuman strength. Technically the body was missing a few organs, most of them piled at his feet, but it was obvious the heart wasn’t among them.

  It might have smelled delicious, even if I’d need to hide the fact, if it wasn’t for the fact the room was sprayed in so much air freshener to make me feel nauseous.

  “Well, I figured the heart missing was to be expected, shredded up as he was,” Misha admitted, frowning as he slapped the machine he was working a few times, “lattes like, half milk half espresso right? It’s like if a screwdriver was coffee and milk?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I admitted with a shake of my head, crouching low as I tried to poke through the organs. No obvious claw marks, except a few nicks on the intestines that might have just as easily been a knife or bolt cutter.

  “You’ve had a latte, right Mary?” Misha asked, frowning as he squeezed a lid on his cup and watched me work, “come on, what’s your poison, beautiful? Vanilla, caramel, I think I saw some pumpkin spice flavoring back here. You have to have a preference.”

  I had to roll my eyes at the fake compliments, knowing full well no one was ever going to call me that truthfully. As much as I knew Misha was trying to make me feel a little better, five years in the woods and almost a year not sure what I was doing hadn’t exactly left me good looking.

  My body was thin, to the point my face looked shallow and when I wasn’t wearing a shirt one could count my ribs. I was pale, not even sure why since werewolves couldn’t get sick, and had a constant translucent look to me. My brown eyes were ringed in darkness, and my long curly auburn hair, coming to my shoulders even if I knew it should have been longer, was matted and knotted into an almost singular mass.

  My clothes weren’t much better. Cheap as possible underclothes aside, I wore a black t-shirt I bought in bags of five, usually covered in cat hair, faded blue jeans I found at thrift stores, boots I bought from surplus stores, and my dad’s old jacket. The only variation being when I slept in sweatpants, or wore no jacket and long sleeved shirts

  The jacket, a leather biker’s jacket that looked like it was from a fifties biker, was the miracle of it all though. Somehow surviving someone long enough for my dad to get it, and surviving a hunter’s life with him long enough for me to get it gifted. Made up of more patches than original leather, and one of the sleeves roughly sewn back into place, it was one of the few comforts from my old home I had left.

  “What do you think? Supernatural, half-one?” I asked, walking beside him with a small sigh, “could be a dinosaur for all I know, I mean, who knows what they did to prey?”

  He didn’t laugh at that, no one ever laughed at my jokes, and instead went about making another coffee as he muttered, “what’s a half-one- wait nevermind, human. Either way, I’m not seeing a ton that makes me think it’s supernatural, do you?”

  I considered not answering at first, wanting to avoid saying absolutely anything that connected me to the Purists. Instead I shook my head and, pointing at the chest, admitted, “the way the ribs look seems familiar to a werewolf thing, but…well, I can’t be sure. You know?”

  “I’ll take a few pictures in case anything comes up again, tell The Lady we’ll need a clean up team,” Misha said, placing a lid on the cup he was mixing and holding it out to be. I watched it in confusion for a moment and, with a twirl of his hand, he said, “pumpkin spice. Look, every girl I know is into this shit, we need to get you a few things you like to do besides sitting in your room talking to the walls and running around the woods. You’re this hopeless in December, I’m gonna need to show you thirty movies about women cheating on their boyfriends with Christmas tree farmers.”

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  I nodded, slowly taking the cup from him as I took a small sip, my face scrunching up as the flavor hit me. My senses heightened since becoming a werewolf at fifteen, everything had smelled and tasted so much stronger than I’d ever remembered. Normal coffee was already strong, Misha’s somehow tasted even worse and the pumpkin taste was nearly overwhelming in a way I wasn’t sure if it was good or not.

  Misha seemed to catch on, and let out a small laugh as he asked, “not a fan?”

  “It’s a little strong,” I admitted, coughing a few times as I covered my mouth, “I’m just gonna…see if I get used to that by the time it’s done.”

  “Eh, give it a shot, worst case scenario you’re not a latte girl,” the man said, sipping his own cup as he took out his phone and said, “You want to wait outside, Mary? I’ll handle calling The Lady and everything.”

  “Oh, yeah sure,” I muttered, frowning as I looked around the room, “no idea how the half-one police are going to handle this. This looks horrid.”

  “Forgot this was your first scene where the body wasn’t already collected for us, the humans don’t get to see this,” the man admitted with a low laugh, shaking his head as he walked over to begin taking the pictures. I furrowed my brow at the thought, and he explained without prodding, “we’ve gotten our fingerprints all over the place, and it’ll raise a lot of questions of who got here before the investigators if we let them see this. No, this guy’s getting cremated and scattered across ten urns, or someone’s finding his body face down in the river in a few weeks where no one can tell what happened.”

  I was about to say it was fucked up, before realizing I had no leg to stand on when it came to that sort of thing. Instead I, thinking about it for a moment, asked, “so he just disappears?”

  Misha shrugged, obviously a little uncomfortable with the question even as he admitted, “sometimes? Most of the time it’s written off suicide or accident or something, but you can’t always do that. It’s going to depend on The Lady’s mood and who's got an opening on the calendar.”

  I left it at that, letting the man know I’d be on my way as I left the coffee shop and walked out onto the Richmond streets. Approaching evening and not the most popular part of the city, things had begun dying down naturally. The Lady’s men had already put paper over the windows and door, and a large closed sign up as well, I barely had to hide myself as I slid out.

  The city smelled stale, no real other way to put it, with gas and people and filth filling its entire being in this part. Not a good place for anything really, there were no added scents on the air except apartments and people who came to small businesses. It was quiet though, and in its own way relaxing as I took a moment to enjoy everything before walking to the alley next to the building.

  A quick glance to the door to make sure Misha hadn’t come out yet, and I walked down the corridor, trying to ignore the piss and garbage that filled the air. Looking to the ground, making my way to the backdoor, I walked until I saw a rat eating an old slice of pizza.

  It stopped only briefly, looking up at me nervously before I asked, “do you hang around here often?”

  Maybe I do, the rat said, slowly crouching low, ready to run, who’s asking?

  “I’m not going to steal your pizza, I just want to know if you saw anything suspicious here the last day,” I said, gesturing to the building beside me, “any screams, any monstrous looking creatures, people you don’t recognize?”

  Nothing too weird, the rat said, tilting his head as he looked me over, guy went in last night, right after the people usually stop going in. Heard some crashing and stuff, he came out with the trash instead of the normal guy and made some phone call before leaving.

  Well, that wasn’t too helpful, but it definitely gave a few extra details in case something did happen again. Guy was tidy, maybe doing this as a job or for pay, but who knew there, that could help out.

  How I’d reveal that information if I needed to I had no fucking idea, but that was a problem for future me.

  The problem was still turning in my head when Misha spoke up, asking, “did you find something?”

  I nearly jumped, spinning around as I saw him standing at the entrance to the alley, coffee in one hand and something in the other. Clearing my throat a moment, I sipped my coffee and told him, “I just thought I'd look for any signs of blood, didn’t see anything. Just some rats.”

  Talking to animals was a rare ability for a werewolf, to the point I’d only ever heard stories of other werewolves being able to do so. Afraid of the idea of it being considered Purist, or just weird enough people trusted me even less, I’d done my best to hide it thus far. Even with Misha as my only real friend, it felt too dangerous to take that final step and tell him the truth.

  Walking slowly out of the alley I tried to look normal as possible, and Misha barely even looked up at me as he took a few steps down the sidewalk. Setting his coffee down on the ledge of one the shop’s windows he turned back to face me and, fanning through money in his hand, told me, “lesson of the day: supplementing your income on this job. Two-hundred and seventy three for me, two-hundred and seventy four for you. Always check the register, always check the backroom for an emergency safe that can be broken open by slamming it into the ground a few times, and never say I don’t do anything for you.”

  “And here I thought these days of making money like this were behind me,” I muttered, turning the cash over in my hand with a morbid smile.

  The Lady paid two hundred a month as my allowance, at least taking care of my food and shelter while she did, and Misha gave me more than that from one job. While I’d once scavenged for money myself, at least when I needed the cash, I’d never imagined it’d prove a better choice for making money than semi honest living outside the Purists.

  Honestly, grateful as I needed to be for being, well, not executed, maybe I needed to talk to her about that.

  “Alright, The Lady wanted to have your parole meeting just after sundown, did you have anywhere else you needed to be?” Misha asked, picking his coffee back up as he slipped his money into his wallet and I slipped my own in my bra.

  Having already told him, and not surprised he forgot over the murder, I reminded him, “Vergil wanted to talk to me, I think he found out my birthday’s coming up and, well, he said he had something for me.”

  “Oh, hey, congratulations. Tell me when, I’ll grab donuts,” Misha said, raising his cup to me, “one of Vergil's workers left her book in my car anyway. I told her I’d try and run it by her next time I was in the area.”

  “I thought you said you were done with bartenders?” I asked, remembering the long complaint he’d made on the matter.

  “See, she’s not a bartender, she works at a club and happens to be hired behind a bar,” Misha countered with a raised finger, even as I sipped my coffee and shook my head.

  Great, needed to convince someone I deserved to keep living, have to probably deal with people trying to celebrate my birthday, and was probably getting a long explanation on what justified this hookup.

  Like this day couldn’t get any worse