WEREWOLVES MAY CRY

Chapter 2 - Teeth in the Dark

### Chapter Two – Teeth in the Dark ###

Chicago mornings were worse than Chicago nights. Nights were honest about their filth. They wore darkness like a mask, hid the blood and the screams behind neon lights and sirens. Mornings, though they tried to pretend the city was normal.

Bryan hated mornings.

The diner on Halsted reeked of burnt bacon and cheap coffee. Grease lined the windows, trapping the stench like a curse. Bryan sat in the booth opposite Pa. Clever, stabbing at his eggs with a fork like they offended him.

Clever didn’t notice. He was too busy counting a lot of bills, lips pursed, squinting through smudged glasses. The man rubbed his bald hair backwards, leaving greasy strands dangling over his wide forehead. His suit was the kind of brown that looked like it had been dragged through every alley in the city.

“You did good last night, kid,” Clever said, licking his finger and flipping another bill. “Real good. Two bodies and a half-dead mutt left squealing. Word’s already spreading. Fear’s good for business.”

Bryan sipped his coffee, pulling a face at the taste. “Fear’s also good for ulcers. Have you ever thought of investing in something normal, like real estate?”

Clever scorned a smile, showing teeth too yellow for his age. “And miss out on the fun of watching wolves piss themselves when your name comes up? Not a chance.”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “It’s not my name. It’s yours. I’m just the idiot you send to do the dirty work.”

“Correction,” Clever said, wagging a greasy finger. “You’re the idiot I pay to do the dirty work.”

Bryan let the silence hang for a second, then leaned forward. “Do you ever wonder why I do it?”

Clever chuckled. “Money. Free food. Roof over your head. That about covers it.”

Bryan stabbed another piece of egg. “Wrong.”

Clever raised an eyebrow. “Then why?”

Bryan’s jaw tightened. His chest felt heavier, like a shadow pressing down on him. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a long sip of coffee, trying to swallow down the bitterness that wasn’t from the drink.

Finally, he muttered, “Because they took everything. And I want to return the favor.”

Clever studied him for a moment, the humor fading from his face. Then, almost too casually, he shrugged and squeezed the money into his jacket pocket.

“Well,” he said, standing, “whatever your reason, keep it sharp. Hate dulls fast if you don’t use it.”

—

The day dragged on. Bryan spent it running errands for Clever, dropping off “packages” that were probably weapons, bribes, or even worse. By the time night fell, he was back in the small apartment above Clever’s pawn shop.

The apartment was barely bigger than a closet. The paint peeled from the walls, the radiator hissed like it was dying, and the single window looked out over a dumpster. But it was home. For now.

Bryan sat at the desk, cleaning his crossbow. His hands moved automatically wiping the string, oiled the trigger, sharpen the bolts. He tried not to think, but his mind betrayed him.

The man from last night.

Your father.

Bryan’s grip tightened on the bolt until his knuckles turned white. His pulse striked his ears.

“My father’s dead,” he muttered to himself. “He’s dead. He has to be.”

But the words didn’t stick. They felt flimsy, like tissue paper against the storm in his chest.

The cry came back to him then—the howl. Long, low, pulling at something deep inside his bones. He’d felt it resonate, like an echo of something he couldn’t name.

He squeezed the thought away and loaded the bolt with more force than necessary.

—

On the other side of the city, Mayer Christabel stood in the training hall of the hunter’s compound. The building was hidden beneath an abandoned church, its entrance a trapdoor under the altar.

Sweat glistened on her brow as she drove her knife into the wooden dummy, pulling it out with a clean twist. Around her, other hunters practiced with rifles, crossbows, and silver blades, the clanging echoing against stone walls.

She moved like liquid steel, sharp, efficient, deadly. But her mind wasn’t on the blade. It was on him.

The boy from the warehouse.

He’d looked at her with arrogance, but beneath it… there’d been something else. Something raw. His reflexes weren’t normal. His movements weren’t just human.

She shook the thought away when a voice cut through the hall.

“Mayer.”

Her mentor. Owen Zender.

He stood near the doorway, arms crossed. Broad-shouldered, silver in his hair, eyes that burned like coals. He radiated authority, the kind that could silence a room with a glance.

Mayer straightened, tucking the blade at her side. “Sir.”

Owen studied her. “You hesitate.”

“No, sir.”

“Yes,” he said, voice calm but unyielding. “I saw it in your eyes last night. You had the boy in your sights. You didn’t pull the trigger.”

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I shot the target you gave me.”

“The man, yes.” Owen stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “But not the boy.”

Mayer’s fingers twitched at her side. “He wasn’t the mission sir.”

“He was more than the mission.” Owen’s voice dropped lower, heavy with meaning. “That boy is not what he seems. You’ll stay close to him. Watch him. If he becomes a threat, drop his head off.”

Mayer nodded, though something twisted in her chest.

---

Back in the pawn shop apartment, Bryan tossed and turned in bed. Sleep clawed at him, dragging him into memories he didn’t want.

His mother’s scream again. Her face lit by moonlight, terror in her eyes. The crash of wood. The shadow at the door.

“Run, Bryan! Take your brother!”

But he hadn’t. He’d frozen. He’d watched as claws tore through the room, as his mother fell, blood painting the floor.

Bryan shot upright, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. His hands shook as he pressed them against his face.

He whispered into the dark, voice cracking. “I’ll kill him. Whoever he is. I’ll kill him.”

From outside, another howl cut through the night. Louder this time. Closer.

Bryan froze.

It wasn’t just a sound. It was a summons. And it was meant for him.

He stumbled to the window, heart hammering. The alley below was empty. Nothing moved. But the howl still echoed in his bones, vibrating through his ribs like a second heartbeat.

Behind him, the floor creaked.

Bryan spun, crossbow in hand, but the apartment was empty.

Still, he could feel it, someone had been there. Watching. Breathing the same air.

And then he smelled it.

Not garbage. Not grease.

Blood.

Fresh.