Brotherhood of Cain (Werewolf/Mafia)

Chapter Seventeen: Witch Bitch

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"We've all got the power in our hands to kill, but most people are afraid to use it. The ones who aren't control life itself." - Richard Ramirez

Chapter Seventeen

Ethel's POV

The shot cracked through the silence of winter and the bullet blasted yards away. It was a warning shot. Tycho busted past me and I watched him dart into the woods beside the house.

  He'd come back, for now I had an even bigger problem. In front of me stood three cats. Not normal, domesticated, small cats, but pony-sized monsters. Their backs were arched and the slim length of their heads bent towards me. Light blood darkened the tan of their mouths and dripped across the white snow.

  They all had grey fur with thick brown stripes across their slim bodies. Their ears were perked up and long, wiry tails danced over their bodies. They looked out at me from green cat eyes and one let out a loud yowl. I startled and took a step back, gun aimed at the one in the middle. I couldn't shoot all of them before one of them killed me. For once I hoped Draven was around. Two against three cats from hell are better odds than one.

  I heard the quiet sound of snow being compressed and spotted Draven out of my peripheral. His hands were in the pockets of his jacket and he looked at the cats. The one in the middle took a step forward and glanced at Draven, giving a heated hiss.

  "Should I shoot them?" I asked quietly.

  "Just dining," he answered back in his calm drawl. Dining?

  The cat on the left moved and nudged the bigger one in the middle before I finally understood what Draven meant. Amidst the cottony snow was a black lump. I took a step towards the cats, giving an obnoxious bark. They scattered off to the side, jumping up to the porch and watching me in one big huddle.

  I looked down at the lump and noticed a greying hand sticking out of the snow. I grabbed the side of its coat and pulled it so the body lay on its back, eyes paled in death. It was a man from his hard facial features and his skin had turned a colorless grey, his veins almost transparent at the surface.

  His other arm was stuffed inside his coat sleeve and I didn't have to be a brain surgeon to know the meat of his arm stopped at the elbow, the rest of his sleeve flat. His pants were a darkened blue, soaked with the wet snow and unbuttoned. His coat hung open and his shirt was intentionally pushed up, small pieces of flesh taken from his belly. Blood leaked from the wounds and trickled over his skin.

  The kitties had gotten hungry.

  I gulped back the lump in my throat and looked at their innocent expressions as they stood atop the porch. One moved from the group and began to pace the perimeter of the wooden deck, never once stepping off of it. His eyes were locked on me when the door behind him unlocked slowly.