Monroe sighed as his phone vibrated, drawing him from his selection of zucchini.
"Hey, sorry I won't be home in time for supper. I have to drop by Nina's since Joey still isn't feeling well." The text was from Rosalee.
He startled at a loud noise, looking up and around from the phone for its source.
An old woman's cart had hit the end cap of the next aisle, cans clattering everywhere.
Onlookers, who'd turned to see what the commotion was, went back to what they were doing.
Among them, were two guys, with a cart stacked with beer, frozen pie slices, a package of baloney and some funyuns were having a discussion in low voices beside the apples. They looked up surreptitiously, several times, toward the zucchini. Arguing? Maybe they're were having relationship problems. Going by the looks of their cart, they certainly weren't talking about the merit of different varieties of apples. Definitely not the fruit and veggies types. Besides, why else would two guys be getting groceries together?
Definitely a couple, he decided, as he carried on toward the locally grown section.
…..
He heard a car pull up. The smell of gas and fumes like from an old car, a stench his neighbors' newer efficient models didn't suffer so much. But there was another smell, the vague lingering dash of beer, the stench of fries and burgers that lingered in peoples' pores, like they'd been soaking their insides in bad diner food for years, on top of the normal smells of sweat and human. And…that other smell…the volatile hint of something aggressive—
Something was scratching in the door, rasping inside the tumblers—
No, someone was picking the lock! He leapt back from the work table, adrenaline pumping. He raced across the house out into the living room to the door—no, too late. It was swinging open.
Two guys appeared in the open door, the shorter one in front, for a split second, a look of confusion crossed his face, as he muttered irately to the tall fellow behind him. "I thought you said he wasn't home!"
Who the hell are you, he wondered, stepping toward them from the shadow that draped the living room, agitation growing. Robbers? Why did they look familiar? He could feel a Wogue coming on, but fought it. Some stupid druggies trying to rob a house didn't deserve to get their faces ripped off, which was what would happen if he let loose like the time he protected Nick's Aunt….
""Hey, this doesn't have to be ugly. You really don't want to fight me—"
He stopped as a spray of water hit him in the face from the intruders' direction. He growled as he flicked water from his eyes, which he could tell were changing. The two looked somewhat startled, yet expectant, like they'd anticipated something more.
"Let's get this straight, you red eyed freak. We don't care if you're a heavy hitter. We've dealt with bigger! How about Abbadon, heard of her?" the shorter guy retorted, brandishing a long silver blade.
Oh, shit. It hit him with all the force of a runaway freight train. "Wait, you can see me—are you—"
"I don't know exactly what you're playing at, but you can do it the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you're coming with us," the tall one said.
"I'm not playing at anything! Get OUT!" Monroe lunged forwards at them, feeling himself shift into a fuller Wogue. They scrambled backwards into the yard, throwing a knife in his direction. He ducked as it rushed past him.
The shorter guy was at him now, trying to stab him. He blocked a blow to the face by grabbing the arm at the wrist. The guy howled, something popping up the arm, as Monroe jerked forcefully to the side, throwing him to the ground. The other man jabbed a dagger at him, which landed a slice to his hip. He recoiled, rolling to the side as the man unsheathed a larger blade from his belt, rearing back, about to stab him when a lateral impact sent him sprawling under a smaller, fox-like Wessen form. Rosalee…
