I have him. He is right there in my cross hairs, then I blink and he’s gone. I scan the area with my night vision scope. He has disappeared, along with the other one.
“Bloody werewolves,” I mutter.
I sling my recurve bow over my shoulder, check my quiver and climb down from the tree I have been sitting in for the past hour. My butt has gone numb and I’m going to be picking burrs out of my hair for weeks.
It is a cold night in October. A thin mist has rolled in, obscuring my vision. I guess it makes this more of a challenge. Zipping up my leather jacket to my chin, I load my bow. My fingers are frozen and I fumble the arrow. Swearing under my breath, I finally get it loaded. There is no way I’m letting these two get away.
Eden is hunter territory, has been for over thirty years since my grandfather drove the last pack out and they have no right to be here. There are clear boundaries and they know the penalty for crossing them. And if they’ve forgotten, I will gladly remind them.
My booted feet make no sound as I move across the forest floor. There is hardly any light since it is a new moon tonight, hence their partially transformed shape.
Wolves can shift at will, but only at night. On the night of the new moon, it is impossible for them to shift all the way. It doesn’t make them any less dangerous or ugly for that matter. They keep the claws and teeth along with their human skins.
Probably why they are being so ballsy.
As werewolves their instincts and sense of smell would tell them this was a no go area. Half transformed as they are, means they still maintain their ability to think. What there is of it.
I don’t like them being on my turf, especially since they know who my father is, his reputation. Word must have spread about his injuries and since he has been out of action for the past seven months, they have decided to test the boundaries.
A branch snaps twenty feet ahead. All thought ceases as I wait. I hold my breath, arms tense, ready to release the arrow. My hands are perfectly still.
Hunting requires patience. It is the only part of my life where I have any and with good reason. Move too late, you’re dead. Move too soon, you give away your position and it ends the same.
One of them creeps forward, sniffing the air. My scent is all over this forest, so it won’t help him.
Hunting 101, it is almost impossible to disguise your scent from a werewolf, but if it’s everywhere, then they have difficulty picking up a distinct trail. I wait until he is fully in my line of sight, then I release the arrow.
It penetrates his right shoulder and he cries out, the sound is more of a roar than a scream. I expect it to drive off the other one, but instead he comes to the first one’s aid. He hurtles from the trees, heading straight for me.
No time to reload, I drop the bow and when he hits me, I use his own momentum to throw him. We flip over and I land on top of him.
I drive a knee into his solar plexus and swing the knife I keep on my belt, towards his throat. He swipes the knife away and shoves me hard. I fall back onto the ground.
Rolling away, I get to my feet, already squaring off against him. In this light, I can only make out his outline, but I can tell from his stance that he wants a fight. Good, I do too.
Now the adrenaline is flowing, the wolf takes over and when that happens, he loses any fighting finesse he had. He swings wildly at me. I dodge each blow knowing that if one of them connects it could cause major damage. I spin out of his reach, but his claws catch me in the shoulder, tearing at flesh and my new leather jacket. He swings again. I duck under his arm and slash out with the knife I keep in my sleeve. I have a lot of knives. I cut his thigh which makes him back off. The cut isn’t deep, but the knife is laced with silver dust, which will irritate the wound and prevent it from healing.
His friend has managed to break the arrow shaft, but the head is still in his shoulder. A little design of my father’s. Upon contact, the head expands, trapping it in the flesh and making it extremely difficult to remove. At least in any way that doesn’t involve cutting it out.
A howl sounds in the distance, drawing both their attentions. They back away. The one I was fighting hesitates.
“You stay, you die. Your choice,” I say.
He gives me a low growl then takes off after his friend. Cowards.
I did plan on killing one and letting the other go as a warning, but I think I have made my point. Eden is still under the protection of hunters. Well, hunter. Since I’m out here alone.
I asked Dad once why Weres were so hell bent on coming back here. He told me that to certain packs, Eden is considered their ancestral home. They had lived here for centuries before we arrived. One thing is for sure, the death rate certainly went down after we took over.
I retrieve my weapons and head for home, trying to ignore my throbbing shoulder. Contrary to what the movies tell us, a scratch or a bite from a werewolf won’t turn you into one. Werewolves are born, not made. One of Mother Nature’s little quirks. I like to think she has a wicked sense of humor.
A short while later, Eden Manor comes into view. It is a ten bedroom mini mansion on the edge of the forest. With room underneath for a state of the art lab, that dad had commissioned complete with a containment area for Weres. We have lived in many houses over the years and all of them have been big. The house itself is one of the original buildings built by the town founder. To me it’s just another old, musty building in a long line, but Dad likes his luxuries. He can afford it. The government has paid Dad a lot of money over the years to eliminate Weres. While the government would never admit it publicly, werewolves are a big problem across the globe. Most attacks are covered up as bear attacks or other wild animals. Since most packs stick to dense forests and other deserted areas, it is easy to write them off. Not many people automatically think Werewolf when there is an attack.
Dad has traveled all over the world. Now with his injuries, he is only doing consulting work.
We have been in Eden for nearly nine months. One of our longest stays anywhere. Since Dad is ‘convalescing’, he says I can finish my senior year here.
As I approach the house, I can see lights on downstairs. Great, someone is still up.
I stash my bow in the tool shed and hide my knives in my jacket before heading inside.
The family is in the living room gathered around the fireplace. It’s usually only Dad and my stepmother Anne, but tonight we have visitors. My uncle Victor and his three children Kristinna, Charlotte and Owen. Three of the most spoilt morons on the planet. The two girls are older than I am and Owen is sixteen. The girls are tall with dark hair like their father. My hair is dark too, but I have a lighter complexion than they do, from my mother. Owen is blonde like his mother, some supermodel from Finland I heard. I have never seen Uncle Victor in a long term relationship with anyone. Other than his bookie.
All eyes are on me as I enter the house. I try to act casual, hoping they don’t notice my wound. I say hello to everyone.
“Ah, here she is,” Dad announces, “Did you have a good night?”
I nod, “Yeah, just hanging out with the girls.”
Anne sweeps across the room, the ice queen, tall and regal with ash blonde hair. She steps up to me and tugs a leaf from my hair.
“Your daughter has been hunting,” she says. She never misses an opportunity to show me up. Crossing the room, she perches on the arm of the chair my father is sitting in. She gives me a malicious grin.
“No, it’s not what you think. I was out with a guy.”
Most fathers would lose it hearing that their seventeen-year-old daughter was fooling around with some guy, but for Dad, finding out I was hunting was much worse. I wait for him to start yelling, but instead he smiles benignly.
“A wasted trip I imagine, considering there are no more Weres in Eden.”
I try looking embarrassed, like he’s right, “Sorry, Dad,” I mutter.
“It’s late.” His tone is firm. Apparently, my cousins don’t have a curfew.
He shifts in his chair and I see him wince. His clothes hide most of his wounds, but not all of them healed well. He was ambushed during a raid and a group of Weres separated him from the rest of the team. He took out three of them, but was cut up pretty bad. The rest of the team just got him out in time. I think it shook him more than he likes to admit.
I say goodnight and head for the stairs, glad for the pass.
“Cheyenne?”
Or not? I turn back to him.
“Yeah, dad?”
“Good news. Your brother is coming home.”
“He is? When?”
“Any day now.”
I can’t wait to see Jared. It’s been five months since he was last home. He’s five years older than me and Dad’s second in command. He’s one of the most skilled hunters in the world and he taught me everything he knows, against Dad’s wishes. Despite all the moving around, Dad has always pushed me to live a normal life. My mother died when I was eleven, killed in a carjacking. She knew what my father was, but tried to shield me from the life. Since her death Dad has tried to do the same. After his ‘accident’, he’s even more adamant. The only reason he didn’t yell at me just now, is because he is trying to save face in front of the family. I don’t even know why they are here, although it probably has something to do with Uncle Victor needing money.
Once every couple of months he shows up, looking for a handout. He tries to pass it off as a family get-together, but I know otherwise. I think Dad does too, but he still gives him the money. His problem, not mine. I hope they aren’t staying long.
I head to my bedroom in the East wing. Yes, the house has wings. Pretentious I know.
After a quick shower, I bandage my shoulder. The wound isn’t deep, so I doubt I need stitches, but it hurts like hell.
I pull on a nightshirt, wincing as I raise my arm. Maybe I should get it looked at in the morning.
I pack my weapons away into a case that I keep hidden under the bed. As I lift it off the dresser, I knock my mom’s picture off onto the ground. I pick it up to discover I have broken the butterfly shaped frame.
“Sorry, mom,” I say. The picture is of her and me on my first day of kindergarten. I lift the pieces wondering if I can glue it back together.
We lived here in town before and I started kindergarten in Eden Elementary school. We didn’t stay long though and I have very few memories of that time. I do remember that I was obsessed with butterflies back then, so mom bought me the frame.
I set it back on the dresser and get into bed. I can fix it tomorrow.
As I drift off, I hear another howl. Despite what dad thinks, the Weres are still out there. And closer than he thinks.​

Blurb:
Brax, by nature, is a loner, a badger shifter who keeps to himself and his nose out of everyone's business. That is, until Elle showed up in the fight club he worked out in, starting fights and searching for help to get back her son. His life took a sharp turn. He ended up with everything turned upside down.
Elle, born into one of the most dangerous werewolf packs in Canada, couldn’t shift and had been used for breeding before being tossed out on her ear. She had learned the hard way to survive, and now she was returning for her son, no matter the cost. She gained help from an unlikely badger before everything went completely wrong.
The pack she had come from was playing a much more dangerous game, and they discovered it went further than just trying to get her son back. Join Brax and Elle on a supernatural ride to save her son and the heart of a neutral shifter city and their lives.

Excerpt:
Chapter One-

Wolfe’s Cove stretched its narrow mouth wide, devouring Brax in layers of darkness and stale underground air. The distant, dirty pulse of the club quickened as he approached, absorbing him into its relentless rhythm. A constellation of neon graffiti stained the passageway, the concrete beneath his feet gritty with a history of broken bottles and furtive exchanges. Inside, the room teemed with the press of bodies and an edgy hum of conversation, patrons perched in wait or curled in dark corners. Brax stepped through the entrance, boots landing heavy as he surveyed the familiar chaos. It took only seconds for his eyes to land on the newest quarrel. A vampire baring his fangs at a werewolf, leaning in with a menacing snarl. The wolf stood poised for a fight, muscles tensed, while the vampire’s smirk held a sharp promise. Brax’s eyes narrowed, his mouth set. With a short breath and a practiced, forceful gait, he headed for the battered metal bar.
The floor thrummed under his boots as he moved through the crowd, past leather-jacketed patrons and clusters of lounging demons. The harsh glow of scattered bulbs lit the scene with flickering indifference, throwing shadows against walls lined with worn posters and defunct speakers. Voices mixed with the heavy bass, a confusing harmony of intent.
“You think you can just—?” The werewolf’s words were a low growl, almost lost beneath the music.
“I know I can,” the vampire cut in, eyes bright with a taunt that danced just out of reach.
Brax closed the distance, his presence casting a sudden, heavy pause over the standoff. The wolf’s nostrils flared, catching Brax’s scent. His gaze flickered, uncertain.
“Move along,” Brax commanded, voice edged with a growl of its own. The wolf’s posture wavered, but his hackles remained half-raised.
“This doesn’t concern you,” the vampire spat, yet his bravado faltered under Brax’s unwavering stare.
“Yeah? Then it’s got nothing to do with him either,” Brax said, nodding toward the wolf. “So, back off. Everyone.” His gestures were clipped and final.
A tense moment lingered, charged before the werewolf took a grudging breath. “Whatever. Not worth it.” He turned, disappearing into the throng with an angry shove of shoulders.
The vampire watched him retreat, eyes narrowed, then scoffed and melded back into the crowd.
Brax’s shoulders eased just a fraction. He watched until the vampire vanished completely, swallowed by the music and motion. The bartender, Leon, shot him a grateful look from behind the stack of scratched glassware.
Shifters leaned in clusters, some animated and others lost to their thoughts. Demons perched high on rafters, peering down with wry interest. Brax caught the glint of a whispered exchange between a fox shifter and a witch near a shadowy corner. The woman’s face was set, the man’s expression restless, shifting with barely contained energy.
“Word’s out. They’re planning something big,” the witch said, voice a thread of tension weaving through the music.
The fox glanced around, nerves sparking like static. “Non-shifters?” he asked, the question hanging, electric.
“Not just them,” she answered, folding her arms tight.
Their words dissolved into the crowd’s murmur, and Brax’s mind kicked into overdrive, piecing together the fragments. Conversations flickered around him like fireflies, just out of grasp. A pair of demon twins muttered something about the city council, their expressions edged with distrust. Another group, this one a tangle of species, nodded sharply to each other as though deciding on an unspoken pact.
He moved further into the room, collecting whispers and watching the rise and fall of the club’s shifting loyalties. A flash of silver hair caught his eye—familiar, but only just—and was gone before he could lock it down.
“Purges don’t just happen,” a haggard voice said, snagging Brax’s focus back. A scarred vampire, older than the rest, hunched over a cigarette that burned forgotten between his fingers.
“Exactly,” a red-haired succubus replied. “That’s why we’re clearing out. While we still can.” Her lips twisted into something that might have been a smile, bitter and fleeting.
The vampire snorted, dismissive but with an edge of concern. “This city’s survived worse. This club, too. Konnor won’t let—”
Brax shifted closer as if proximity might crystallize their intentions. He watched their exchange with the sharp, observing silence that turned glances into information.
“You think the lions can hold back a flood?” The succubus cut him off, her voice sharp and high, and Brax felt the words hook in and pull, setting the hairs on his neck to rise.
He scanned the room again, and a dark realization settled in his gut. The patterns of the night pointed to a tide ready to break—a current that threatened more than the club’s usual wild chaos.
Brax’s jaw tightened, thoughts turning inward as he weighed the risks and rewards of staying put against the call to survive. A solitary choice he’d made again and again, but something about this time felt different, tugging with an insistence that defied nature’s instincts. He moved up the stairs, the bass and muttered voices growing faint behind him as he decided to dig deeper and deeper still.
Brax stood above the club, perched like a falcon on the high, rotting scaffold that ran the length of the ceiling. From there, the scene unfolded below him, a breeding ground of chaos and shifting loyalties. The music thudded loud and constant, the bass a quickening pulse that vibrated through the wood and into his bones. He watched the pack of rowdy shifters on the dance floor, their shifting shapes blurring under purple, red, and blue strobes. From the corner, the club’s owner, Konnor Dupont, caught Brax’s eye, but the lion shifter remained cloistered with a shadow-cloaked figure, their intense conversation a clear message to keep his distance. Brax let his gaze sweep the room, a practiced survey for trouble, but his eyes snagged on a commotion below. The fierce blonde was back, locked in combat with the werewolf. The scene bit into him, tearing the night’s intentions wide open.
Below, Konnor’s expression was taut, his eyes sharp as he spoke to the hidden figure. Their discussion had a feral urgency, hands punctuating points with quick, sharp movements. Brax shifted his weight on the scaffold, trying to read the exchange, but the dark figure stayed carefully concealed, making it impossible to catch a clear view.
Brax scanned the room again, watching the crowd move in disjointed waves, some breaking toward the bar, others clustering in agitated groups. A wiry man jabbed the air with a finger, his words about non-shifters finding quick agreement. Brax watched a burly shifter, bear by the looks of him, slamming his fist into his palm as if in eager punctuation.
“Bite me,” a cat-eyed demon shouted at a rival crew, his bravado like a lit fuse waiting to blow.
Near the stage, an owl shifter and a willowy sorceress eyed each other with suspicion, their confrontation dissolving as the sorceress turned on her heel. The club’s tension spiked high, building towards an unsteady crescendo.
Brax dropped down, landing in the middle of the chaos. His presence sent ripples through the gathered patrons, each calculating the potential for escalation. He made his rounds, shoulders square, steps deliberately. The short-haired blonde flitted at the edge of his awareness, a glimpse he couldn’t hold, drawing him toward the bar.
His attention flicked back to Konnor, who now paced with restrained energy, the cloaked figure holding their ground. Their hushed but animated discussion seemed like more than club politics at play. Brax felt the tug of curiosity, the pull of something new beneath the old conflicts.
“Out of my face,” a blue-haired vamp shouted, voice cutting over the bass. A riot of sound and movement spread out, catching more bodies and more blood up for grabs.
A rat shifter ducked as a bottle sailed past him, a fractured chorus of laughs echoing his escape. Brax kept moving, eyeing the room intently and cataloging the budding skirmishes.
Whispers grew louder as he neared the bar. “Purge night,” a dragonkin said, her voice a rush of smoke and doubt.
“We’ll be gone before then,” another replied, eyes scanning for eavesdroppers.
Brax edged closer, instincts guiding him toward the storm before it broke. Chairs flew, and the night’s fragile alliances snapped.
The werewolf’s furious roar pierced the noise as he lunged, tangling with the platinum blonde in a swift, violent surge. Her movements were quicksilver, matching the wolf with agile, fierce strength. Brax watched as she twisted away from the wolf’s reach, a well-aimed kick staggering him back. She dodged a swing that shattered the wall behind her, spinning low and fast. Brax moved to intervene, the woman’s desperation pulling him in. She smelled of wolf but not of wolf at the same time.
The werewolf lunged again, claws sharp under the club’s erratic lights. She met his charge head-on, ducking beneath his strike and driving a stiff elbow into his side. Brax arrived just as the wolf shook off the hit and sprang again. His voice cut through the clamor, a commanding bark. “Enough!”
The wolf hesitated, mid-strike, torn between rage and Brax’s authority.
“You know where this goes,” Brax said, eyes locked on the wolf.
With a snarl that promised future reckoning, the werewolf pulled back, fists tight at his sides, and faded into the crowd.
Brax turned to the woman. Her breath came fast, her shoulders heaving, and her eyes bright and defiant as they locked onto his. He was closer now, caught by her fierce presence.
She pushed tangled hair from her face, and he saw the full force of her anger. “I had him,” she said, not backing down. “I needed to take him.”
“Seemed like it,” Brax replied with a dry note.
“Didn’t need saving,” she added, arms crossed and feet planted.
“I didn’t save you,” he said. “I saved him.” He jerked his head toward the crowd where the wolf had vanished.
She gave a short, sharp laugh; amusement danced in her eyes. “Lucky dog, then.”
They stood during the chaos, an island of stillness in the charged, churning sea of bodies. Brax’s solitude tugged at him, urging distance, but the woman’s raw presence challenged the call.
“Brax,” he said finally, filling the space between them with the weight of his name.
She regarded him with an unreadable look, a hint of something more than combat glinting in her gaze. “Elle,” she replied.
Nearby, Konnor’s conversation suddenly stopped, the lion shifter’s head snapping up to find Brax with the blonde. The cloaked figure melted into the crowd, leaving Konnor suspiciously standing alone.
The music rose again as Brax returned to Elle, the club’s seething energy momentarily distant.
“Looks like you pissed off the right people,” he said, noting Konnor’s pointed attention.
She followed his gaze. “Not just here.” A sardonic edge colored her words, but Brax sensed urgency and a deeper current underneath.
A stray bottle skidded past, rolling to a stop at Brax’s feet, a noisy reminder of the still-simmering chaos around them.
“So, what happens next?” he asked, compelled by more than the usual need to know.
Elle’s eyes sparked with an emotion Brax couldn’t quite pin down, something between determination and reckless invitation. “Depends on if you’re done saving stray dogs for the night,” she said.
Brax felt the familiar pull of old instincts, the call to stay unentangled and out of sight. But Elle’s challenge—and the potential of her fight—refused to let him step back. He pushed past the pull of solitude, surprising himself with his reply. “Let’s find out.”

1) Tell us about your book/series

Although my book series Feral Rebirth involves vampires, my Consorting with the Shadow: Phantasms and the Dark Side of Female Consciousness book (a collection of essays and short fiction about women in horror) includes a discussion of the shapeshifter archetype in the films Ginger Snaps, Cat People, and Black Swan. I focus on female shapeshifters.

2) What type of shifter do you write about and why?

In that book I write about the female characters from those films, who shapeshift into a werewolf (Ginger Snaps), a cat (Cat People), and a black swan ballerina. I chose to write about these films because they depict different types of animal transformations and reveal the positive as well as negative aspects of shapeshifting.

3) Tell us something interesting or unusual about your main character

I love all three of these female shapeshifters (the werewolf, the cat, and the black swan) because they express rage and feral autonomy, reveling in their animal aspects and the freedom to transcend their human female form.

4) If you could turn into any animal, what would it be and why?

A semi-feral cat who could exist independently from humans but who also could partake in some of the comforts domestic cats have. As a cat, I would be free to express my wild nature, bare my fangs and claws, maybe even become part of a shapeshifting cat colony. In feline form, I would be more agile, break free temporarily from my human consciousness and human expectations, especially the ones restricting women.
​
5) What will you be working on next?

My next project will be editing the anthology Life, Death, and Transmutation: A Charity Anthology of Dark Nature Poetry and Fiction, for which I have contributed two poems

 GriddleboneDebbie Manber Kupfer
From the world of P.A.W.S.​

The werecat padded silently across the cobbles of the dark Vienna street. It was deserted now, but Griddlebone knew it would soon be filled with bootsteps and cries, gunshots and blood. They were slated to come at dawn, to cleanse this last Jewish neighborhood of its vermin, so that the proper folk of Vienna could finally live Judenfrei.
Inside the darkened houses, the residents huddled in fear. The news of the transport had only come hours before, and some still couldn’t believe it. They had been fooling themselves for months, believing this one insignificant street could survive in its own little bubble, that somehow God would protect them.
They readied themselves with what few valuables they had left. Maybe they could still bribe the Nazi soldiers. Maybe there was still a way out.
The werecat flexed his claws, as he waited in the shadows. Griddlebone wished he could rescue them all, but his orders were clear. He could only take one. They needed to be the right age too – a teenager would be good, strong enough to fight, strong enough to survive the turning.
As the first rays of light caught the cobblestones, Griddlebone felt the bootsteps echoing down the street. Soon. His tail swished back and forth in anticipation. Within minutes, the first soldier came into view. The werecat was all but invisible to the soldiers, his mottled grey coat blending perfectly with the cold grey street.
At the same time as the first soldiers appeared on foot, a silver-grey truck arrived on the street and parked in front of the buildings, waiting for its human cargo.
As the Gestapo soldiers marched past the werecat’s hiding place, he longed to dig his claws into their ankles, to hear them scream with pain. Not yet, Griddlebone, not yet.
The soldiers reached the first house. They banged on the doors.
“Juden, Heraus, Heraus! Schnell, schnell! – Everybody out of there, quickly, quickly.”
At first there was silence. Griddlebone held his breath, waiting. And then, slowly, they came out, squinting in the light of the dawn. They had been inside for so long, sitting in the darkness. They looked like ancient patriarchs held in suspended animation from biblical times. The man had a long white beard and was wearing a prayer shawl. The woman had her head covered and bent. She held out something to the soldiers. The werecat stole closer to get a better look. It was a silver candlestick. The frightened woman offered it to the soldier.
The soldier laughed. He grabbed it and shoved it in his bag, then roughly pulled the old woman forward. She tripped and fell onto the hard cobble street. The soldier kicked her, and she cried out in pain. Throughout this, her husband was bobbing up and down in prayer, praying that God would take them before these Nazis did. His prayers were not answered, and the soldiers forced the old couple into the waiting truck.
More soldiers arrived now and pushed their way into the buildings. The next house held a young family, a mother and father, with two small terrified children. The mother clutched a baby girl in her arms. As they boarded the truck, the baby started crying. The nearest soldier grabbed her from her mother’s arms and flung her with full force into the solid concrete wall. The baby stopped crying. The mother screamed. A Nazi soldier silenced the mother with his gun. The father and his remaining children climbed quietly into the truck, trying not to look back.
The werecat stalked over to the baby. He nudged her gently with his nose, but it was too late, and, in any case, how would his clan have been able to care for a baby? They could barely find enough food for their own kittens these days.
Griddlebone continued watching the parade of Jews being evicted from their buildings. They had been told they were being rehoused, that their homes were needed for the war effort. As patriotic Austrians, surely they understood?
Griddlebone knew that most of these Jews would end up in the concentration camps, if they even survived the transport. A second shot filled the air; a young man this time. He had tried to run, but the soldier had used him for target practice.
Still the werecat watched and waited.
There she was, straggling at the back of another family, the girl he’d been watching for the last few weeks. She looked around with wary eyes and caught sight of the cat on the corner of the street. The cat had been her friend. She would sneak out and give him scraps to eat from her own meager portion. Now the cat was watching her with big orange eyes.
It was strange, she wasn’t scared, despite the soldiers and the guns and the screaming. Of all those here, she thought, looking around at the collection of frightened Jews, she felt that she had the best chance of surviving. She held her head upright and stared straight into the eyes of the Nazi soldiers.
Yes, thought Griddlebone, watching her, I’ve chosen rightly. Esther is strong, a survivor.
Silently Griddlebone sent his message to the rest of the clan members, who were waiting in the shadows. They moved into the previously agreed positions on the street corners. They readied themselves to pounce.
Each cat started out as an insignificant street cat, but slowly they began changing and growing into wildcats that resembled tigers more than tabbies. On Griddlebone’s signal, they launched themselves onto the Nazi soldiers – ripping at them with fearsome teeth and claws.
The soldiers shrieked in fear and fired at the cats, but the felines were far swifter than any of the men. They dodged the bullets with ease, dancing around them, taunting their enemies with their agility. Within just a few minutes, two soldiers had fallen to the werecats. The remaining cut their losses, and quickly shoved the terrified Jews into the transport. They jumped onto the truck and fled.
While the werecats attacked the soldiers, Griddlebone beckoned to the girl. Instinctively, she followed him into the shadows and ran after him through the streets until the howling and screaming was far behind them.
Finally they arrived at an old warehouse. Griddlebone stopped at the door and nudged it with his nose. It creaked open, and the two of them walked in.
The room was filled with yowls and growls . . . and laughter. It was a strange mix that met Esther’s eyes. There were many different cats. Some she supposed were werecats like Griddlebone, but amongst the cats were humans, mostly children about her age. They were sitting in groups – some playing card games or chess, others just talking.
She turned to the old cat. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Headquarters,” he said, his voice echoing in her head. “It isn’t much, but it’s our home.”
“What about my family?” asked Esther, “My friends?”
“I’m sorry,” said Griddlebone, “the Nazis have taken them on the transport. There was nothing we could do. I would love to save everyone, but we cannot. We are lucky if we rescue one person from each transport.”
“Where will they take them?” she asked.
“To the ghetto, but there are rumors that they don’t stay there for long. The Nazis have set up concentration camps, and most that enter those never leave.”
“Just for the Jews?” said Esther.
“Mostly, but not all – also the gypsies, the Communists, the homosexuals, anyone that Hitler doesn’t deem to be pure.”
“And we can’t do anything?”
“We do what we can – everyone here has lost family.”
“Everyone?” asked Esther, looking at the mix of animals and humans in the room.
“Everyone,” answered Griddlebone.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Want to read more? Join Debbie’s newsletter and pick up a free copy of the complete story of Griddlebone.
Step into the world of P.A.W.S. – In paperback, ebook, audiobook or FREE on Kindle Unlimited