Chapter 11: I Ain't Been Droppin No Eaves

"Could I not have delivered a clearer message?" The blonde woman muttered to herself. She watched them sitting at the little metal table, the big strong Dyson still crying about his lost partner. It wasn't surprising. The fey shifter didn't cry about the loss of his fey slut, or the human sluts. No, he just picked another human slut, and he didn't even look past the fey slut to get to her.

She sat back in her chair, and fingered her pack of cigarettes. She wanted one, wanted one bad. They seemed to kill the hunger, at least for a little while. And, the human flesh she'd been eating wasn't enough.

God! The fey slut had been perfect. It was like a full meal at Christmas, one of those massive enough to make her sleep. And, she had slept. She slept for days. Well, it felt like days. Really it had only been twelve hours, and by the time she woke up, the hunger was back.

She'd wanted to eat the African fey, the one Dyson actually cried over. God, he would have tasted fantastic, just like the fey slut. But, she had needed the African fey. She needed him to deliver the box, and the finger. The finger was important. It should send Dyson down a deep well of remembrance.

God, the hunger!

She wanted to change, here in broad daylight. She wanted to change and tear Dyson apart, devour his flesh and drink his blood. But, that was the hunger talking. She didn't want to do that. She'd never do that. No, no, not to Dyson.

Why won't they open the damn box?

She sat back in her chair, pulled out a cigarette and sat it on the table. She stared at it. Then she pulled out her phone. It was an iPhone 5. Before, just before, she'd been enamored with technology, and back then she'd gotten an app to block her number. It was useful now. Even when all that mattered was the hunger.

Even when all that mattered was Dyson…

And, the hunger.

She punched Bo's number into the app, and pulled up her text message window and typed:

What are you waiting for? The Rapture?

The message sent, and two seconds later the two of them were up, and six feet away from the box. She almost laughed. It bubbled up inside her, climbing up her throat, and trying to force open her lips. The hunger stopped it.

The hunger made no room for joy.

Still they thought it was a bomb. That was laughable. What would a bomb do to a fey like Dyson. Nothing. It might splatter his little human slut all over the patio, but she would much rather do that herself. And, given time, she would.

She would.

A woman told them it was a text message tone when the phone beeped its reminder.

Finally, she was getting somewhere.

Her head started to itch and burn. It had been doing that since… she fingered the other box in her pocket. The one with a bright red ribbon around it. That box was important too.

But, still. The itch, the burn, it wanted to drive her mad. It wanted her to feed.

Silver.

She needed to feed to heal the wound. She needed to feed, to sleep.

Now was not the time. She picked up the cigarette, and set it to her lips. She set a flame to it and inhaled. The harsh smoke filled her lungs, and the need to feed, the need to change retreated. They didn't like the smoke. Something about the way the cigarette was made. Wolfs bane, maybe, if they put that in cigarettes nowadays. She didn't care how it worked. She just needed to clear her head. A moment to think.

They'd opened the box. The dark haired slut pulled out the phone looked at the text message, and set it aside.

"Really?" she muttered under her breath. She took a drag on the cigarette and burned her fingers. It was an instant of pain, long enough for her to drop the butt. She crushed it out with her boot, and looked at the two little patches of red on her fingers. They blistered up, popped, the dead skin fell away, pink flesh replaced it, it scarred, and then the scar faded.

Her head would do that soon, grow a whole new ear maybe. But, not until she fed. Not until she fed.

She looked back up, back up at the pair, right in time for the dark haired slut to lock eyes with her. They stared at one another for a single minute, a single fat minute that stretched into eternity.

Finally, they found the finger. But, the slut's wind was up now. She'd have to move. Find a new vantage point. She wanted Dyson to find her. But, not here. Not here. Things would get messy here.

"Miss," she said, calling a waitress over.

"Yes," the waitress cocked her head as she looked at the blonde woman. The waitress could tell something was wrong.

"Would you deliver this to that nervous looking man over there?" The blonde woman pulled the ribbon wrapped box out of her pocket, and pointed towards Dyson. "His name is Dyson Thornwood, and it's sort of an anniversary gift. I'm too nervous to deliver it myself."

The waitress looked back over her shoulder. She found Dyson as she felt the box pressed into her hand. "It looks like he's with someone, are you sure it's a good idea?"

"Don't worry about it," the blonde woman said. "It's a gift for her too." The blonde woman smiled. She watched a shudder travel through the waitress, an ancient shudder from the deepest part of her mind. The waitress didn't even notice it.

"Alright," she said looking back at the blonde woman.

The blonde woman watched the waitress leave. She had to deliver an order to the kitchen before she delivered the box. It was time for the blonde woman to make herself scarce.

She got up, and stuffed her hands into the deep pockets of her trench coat. In the pockets she felt them change, the horrendous pain of bones crunching and shifting, the infernal itching as she grew amber colored fur. The pain, itching, and the hunger were normal to her now, she didn't even flinch. She caught a little girl looking at her, at her pockets. Terror lit the little girl's face, and she looked up at the blonde woman. She smiled, just in time to show the little girl the shift of her mouth, and fangs. The little girl screamed.

Her parents looked around, confused, and all they saw was a woman with blonde hair and a trench coat walking back towards the kitchen.

She passed the waitress without noticing, and she made her way through the kitchen.

"You can't…" one of the cooks started to say. The hunger couldn't be denied any longer. Her paw/hand lashed out of her pocket and grabbed the man's jaw as he spoke. He mumbled something—was it a prayer—into her paw/hand, and pissed himself. She drug him with her.

No other employees caught sight of her and her lunch.

A security camera did.

She drug him out the back. He'd taken to screaming, she tightened her paw/hand and heard the satisfying crunch of his jaw. Tears filled his eyes, and his screams became an idiot half ramble. Begging for his life, she thought.

She kicked off her boots, her fee had already started to change. Her feet stretched, the toes became tipped in claws, and a single claw sprung from her heel. Glorious amber fur grew down her legs. She picked her boots up, and stuffed them into her pockets as best she could. Then she used her clawed feet and free paw/hand to carry her up to the roof. The cook's jaw almost came free. Almost.

Her ears started to change.

Her nose started to change.

She could smell it as the cooks sphincter let go, and hear his final shit as it splattered on the asphalt below.

She reached the roof, and heaved the cook over first. He rolled twice, and cried out from the pain and the blood loss. He started to scramble, crawling on his hands and knees. He tried garbled, useless, cries for help.

She smiled.

She hooked her claws over the lips of the building. Her feet moved, pulsed really, and she was in the air. She came down clean on the back of the cook. His spine snapped in a dozen places, but still he drew breath.

"Wait right here," she whispered through her changing mouth, the shift making her voice husky, and disturbingly sexual. "I want you alive."

She got off him, and began to strip, removing her coat, top, and bra in almost one motion. She slid her pants off, releasing the short little tail, and waggled her cute little ass for the cook. Once finished, she folded and stacked her clothes on top of her trench coat, she put the shoes on top, and tied the trench coat up around them, and pulled her phone out of the jacket's breast pocket. She walked to the edge of the roof, her transformation complete, and removed her glasses. She looked down at Dyson, and the human slut.

The waitress walked out of the building, and they still hadn't found the photos. They were fawning over her lovely letter.

"Read it and remember it, Dyson," she tried to say, it translated into a series of grunts and growls. Werewolves couldn't talk. So, she brought her cell phone up, and with very careful movements of her claws, she unlocked the phone, opened the app, and sent another message to Bo's phone:

Aren't we the sweet little love birds. But, hasn't the detective realized the black haired bitch is holding evidence.

She watched the human slut jump as she received the text. The werewolf smiled, more a grimace than any true look of pleasure.

The human slut was going to get her comeuppance. So was Dyson, in a way. But, the hunger couldn't be denied any longer.

The werewolf turned to the cook. His face trembled with a terror that should shake his entire body.

The morning light glinted off her yellowish-gold eyes like dull coins. The werewolf moved.

It became unspeakable.