Hair, Greg - Werewolf 01 Read Free

rustling about his head. The December air rushing in wasn’t a problem. Extreme cold doesn’t bother werewolves.
    Landon, looking human ninety-nine percent of the time, was always a werewolf. That is to say, there were never times when the wolf inside didn’t make its presence known, even when he performed innocuous tasks such as grocery shopping. Every time he entered his favorite Kroger, even when he had was there for something else, he stopped at the meat department. There he stood, salivating, mouth closed, at the red, raw flesh lying just beyond the glass. Yes, even when he looked normal, even when he wasn’t moving among shadows, but stood in the light, the werewolf was there, itself like a shadow.
    He drove until he reached a bar called the Outlook Inn. Parking on a side street, he flashed his license to the young, bald man checking IDs at the door and proceeded to a seat at the bar.
    “What’s the occasion?” asked the bartender, noticing what was left of the customer’s attire.
    “A wedding,” answered Landon, hoping the guy would simply ask what drink he wanted, make it, and go away.
    “Were you the groom?” the man persisted. “I’d say you’re not off to a good start if you’re here alone on your wedding night,” he said, laughing.
    “No, not the groom.”
    “How was it?”
    The bartender wasn’t going away. Ten other people sitting at the bar and the bartender focused on Landon. Then he noticed that everyone else had glasses or bottles in front of them, and they were all at least half-full. The man looked like he belonged in a nineties grunge band. Landon thought about the bartender’s last question. How was it? Then he practiced his answer in his head. Well, let’s see. I turned into a werewolf and killed a man who kidnapped a little boy.
    “It was fine. Shot of Jameson,” he ended up saying. He knew the bartender was just doing his job.
    Landon put the shot glass to his lips and felt the warmth of the liquid as it ran down his throat. He wasn’t a big whiskey drinker, but when he did drink it, Jameson was his top choice. He ordered a Guinness and walked around to the room on the other side of the bar that contained pool tables and a jukebox.
    His phone rang. “Sorry, I forgot to call. The boy is secure; the threat eliminated. I’ll be ready for the next assignment tomorrow.” Landon abruptly hung up.
    He walked over and looked through the song selection. There was hardly a CD he didn’t know. The jukebox was one of the things for which the Outlook Inn was known. Much of the music it contained was from the alternative side of the nineties. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Counting Crowes, Dave Matthews Band, Gin Blossoms, Live, they were all here. He scanned each one, looking for something specific—and stopped.
    It wasn’t long before the first lyrics to Love Spit Love’s “Am I Wrong” permeated the bar— There’s too much that I keep to myself…It’s like glass, when we break, I wish no one in my place . Richard Butler’s gravel voice echoed Landon’s feelings with the perfect pitch. He swallowed the first sip of Guinness of the night, and though he didn’t consciously go looking for the memories, they inevitably found him.
    He thought about a dream he had when he was around the age of five, one that, for one reason or another, haunted him to this day. He stood in a lush, emerald green field surrounded by rolling hills. On one of those hills in the distance, a castle perched under a cloudy sky, a stone beacon for all travelers in the sea of green. Standing there, the cool wind rushing about him, three adults dressed in ancient druid clothing, approached.
    As they drew closer he could see that two dark-haired men flanked a woman with dark red hair. They stopped about ten feet from him as a fear began to slowly fill his mind. Then the woman spoke, “Do not be afraid; you are one of us.” He immediately awoke and never again experienced that same dream. Only later in life, while