Leader of the Pack
Tales of an Urban Werewolf
Chapter One
Most of the time, I'm not too crazy about being a werewolf. For so many reasons: the compulsory and inconvenient transformations, the excessive reliance on Lady Bic razors . . . not to mention the difficulty explaining to potential mates that our children would probably grow a natural fur coat and tail every twenty-eight days or so. Maintaining a normal relationship—much less a career—is a hairy proposition when you tend to sprout fangs every time someone pops Moonstruck into the DVD player.
But there are compensations. The lightning-fast reflexes, for example. The ability to scare the pants off of would-be muggers and rapists. The deep, almost carnal enjoyment of a rare prime rib at Ruth's Chris. And, as was currently the case, the ability to smell every nuance of a gorgeous spring day.
It was a warm mid-March afternoon in central Texas, and I was on my way back to Austin from a meeting with my favorite client in San Antonio. The radio was playing full blast and the windows in my M3 were wide open, letting in the mingled scents of fresh earth ...
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