Moonlit

7: Pinky Promises

10 years ago, Lune Cramoisie, Lousianna

Heat scorched Noah's cheeks as sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. Each ragged breath felt like fire in his lungs as his short legs propelled him across the sunbaked gravel ground. The weight of his stolen cache pulled at his sweat-slicked palms. He weaved through the throng of dazed tourists, immersed in the vibrant chaos of magic and perusing handcrafted goods. The clink of spare coins harmonized with a lively trumpeter; his crisp white shirt soaked with sweat as he swayed along with the upbeat jazz melody. The air was thick with the scent of Cajun spices, fried dough, and simmering meats, accompanied by the hum of excited chatter. Noah gasped for air as he halted to a stop, the late afternoon sun glared down casting deep shadows between the tightly packed buildings.

"That way!" a disgruntled voice shouted from the crowd. "Get the little shit!"

Without a second to spare, Noah gathered himself, the relentless pursuit of the angry shop owner outweighed the agony of his parched throat and frantic lungs. The muscles in his calves seared as he pushed forward through the flowing crowd. The shouts of the angry shop owner and his companion reverberated through the mass, startled by the commotion, eyes began to fall on Noah as he dipped and swiveled through the congestion. His heart raced, his thoughts swirled into a blur as he searched for a back alley or lowered fire escape to use. Instead, in his desperation he dipped under the guard rail of a pub favored by locals.

"Hey kid," a man with a gruff voice and a scar etched from his temple down the side of his face stopped him, "where are your parents?" The man searched behind the child waiting for someone to claim him, but no one came forward. "You're too young to be in here," he declared with a new sense of urgency, "are you lost?"

Noah clutched the two-stack of books tighter to his chest, a small black pouch dangled from his wrist. His heart raced as he nervously nibbled the inside of his lip, stealing glances over his shoulder to make sure the shop owner hadn't found him yet. He knew that if he didn't get out of that doorway soon, he would be caught. And being caught wasn't an option, no matter the cost.

"He's with me," another voice interjected. Both the man with the scar and Noah looked towards the young teen werewolf that sauntered towards them. His hands casually tucked inside the pockets of a jacket that it was far too hot to be wearing, his faded grey jeans torn and frayed, and a moonstone dangled from a leather thread around his neck landed just over his heart, catching the light with a pale blue aura.

The man with the scar crossed his massive, tattooed arms over his broad chest and arched an unconvinced eyebrow at the teen. "You trying to get me in trouble?"

The teen werewolf raised his hands defensively. "Don't give me that look, we aren't staying." The wolf swung a casual arm around Noah's frail shoulders, "I told Sunshine to meet me here, yah know how the old man gets when warlocks enter pack territory." He pinched the tip of Noah's ear as if to drive home a point, a mischievous glint in his Midas touched eyes.

The man with the scar scrutinized the two unlikely friends. Noah was a lanky kid, barely ten and under average in height. Not to mention he was a warlock, while parts of Lousianna were favorable towards warlocks, this wasn't the case in wolf territory. Especially when said warlock was also a fleeing thief. The teen wolf on the other hand, looked like he could be the jock that bullied the puny nerd. Perfectly bronzed complexion, athletic build, nearly as tall as the man with the scar.

"Fine," the man with the scar concurred, "just get out of here."

The wolf saluted with his free hand. "Yes sir!"

"Where did that little shit go?" the disgruntled shop owner shouted from the street. Noah cowered as he scooted closer into the shelter the wolf provided.