Tracking werewolves under a harvest moon through a soy field was not my idea of good time. It was a job. It put fuel in the Winnebago. But a dark suspicion threatened in my gut as if to say, ‘Angela, you need to stop. Now.’ There was no need for a premonition. I knew how much of a shitstorm we walked into. I felt it in my bones.
Guillermo stalked tracks a few feet ahead of me towards a red barn. His black pants brushed the crops and kicked up a fresh earthy aroma. He had rolled the cuff of his white button down up his forearm, revealing silver-plated vambrace. His slicked-back black hair reminded me of men’s fashion in the fifties. The armor and double barrel, over-under shotgun marred the old-fashioned family-man demeanor.
Kaelanna walked beside him. Her fiery red curls bobbed in a high ponytail as she double-checked her six. “You good?” She squared her shoulders, as if it were necessary. She wore a stiff jean jacket. It came with square shoulders.