Nick stepped outside the party, frustrated to the point he wanted to punch a wall — though everyone knows that never ends well. The droning music, the chatter of nearly a hundred people, and the clinking of glasses and flatware faded to a murmur as the door closed behind him.

  *This is ridiculous. I come all this way for some information, and that guy dodges me like he owes me child support. Screw this. I’ll just head home and sleep the night off. Maybe tomorrow I can tail him and get some answers. Ughhh… I need a smoke.*

  The cool night air was refreshing compared to the gathering he’d left behind. He hadn’t been there long, but to him it felt too long. The party wasn’t terrible — good food, good drink, dull company. The usual for these types of events.

  He was here for one reason: to meet someone named Tommy — well, that and the free food and drink didn’t hurt either.

  A mystery envelope had been dropped off at the precinct, seemingly from someone who wanted to meet about the disappearances in town over the past couple of months. Inside was a faded photo, a name written in fine script on the back — Tommy Penske — a formal party invite, and a brief description of the missing persons. The fact that none of it had hit the news yet was a red flag on its own.

  Nick spotted Tommy at the party but couldn’t get him alone to talk. Causing a scene would have been a bad idea with all the high?brows attending, especially without a warrant for anything official. When their eyes met, Tommy looked spooked and slipped out of the dinner gathering with a couple of suited men.

  He lingered for a few moments, hoping Tommy might return. When it was clear he wouldn’t, Nick checked his watch, sighed in frustration, then downed his drink and finished off his sandwich before leaving — chalking it up to another wasted lead. Well, at least he didn’t have to stop by Frank’s for a quick bite or pretend he had something to cook at home, so it wasn’t a complete waste.

  Standing at the edge of the parking lot, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside jacket pocket. He tapped the pack a few times, thumped out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. Sliding the pack away, he fumbled for his Zippo.

  “I see I’m not the only one who wanted some fresh air,” said a sweet melodious voice beside him.

  Nick juggled the lighter, nearly dropping it, before catching it and lighting his cigarette.

  “Well, sorry to disappoint, but the air’s about to be not?so?fresh — unless you like the smell of Marlboro Reds,” he said, taking a drag.

  She smiled coyly.

  “I prefer pipe tobacco, but it’s fresh enough compared to that mothball?riddled party.”

  They shared a brief laugh.

  “That’s actually kinda funny — thanks, I needed a good laugh… Ms…?” he said with a chuckle.

  “My name’s Tiffany, but friends call me Tiff,” she said, her smile warm and beaming.

  Tiffany wore black, three?inch leather stiletto?style combat boots with stainless steel?toed tips. Buckles ran the length of the outer side, with a zipper stretching the same length on the inner. The tops almost reached the knees of her short legs.

  She was dressed in a tasteful burgundy evening gown, slit up the left side to her ample hips. The low neckline showcased a chest size well above average for her frame — deep cleavage you could lose yourself in for days.

  Her cream?colored skin was dusted with freckles like the stars of the night sky beneath her sparkling eyes — bright emerald green eyes that glowed in the dimly lit parking lot. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a long twisted braid that trailed level with her hips.

  “My name’s Nick. Friends — if I had any — would probably have called me Nick. Or Asshole. Take your pick,” he said in a frustrated huff, exhaling a puff of smoke.

  “Sorry, nothing personal. Just a long day,” he mumbled, staring off into the night.

  He took a final drag before flicking the cigarette into the trash.

  She giggled lightly, smiling sincerely, nodding as if she understood full well what he meant.

  “So, Nick, were you planning to go back to the party?”

  Nick gave her another look.

  “I’d have loved to, Ms. Tiffany, but I'm afraid I needed to get going. It's a work night, after all.”

  She looked at him — or more like through him — in deep thought, her eyes glassy as if her focus was elsewhere.

  “Well, maybe next time,” she said with a smile, turning back toward the party.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  “I’ve got to handle… some personal business before I leave tonight, maybe grab a bite to eat.” She gave him a warm smile as she walked off toward the house.

  Nick replied, “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll meet again?”

  “Perhaps,” she called back. “You never know these days.” She winked and disappeared inside.

  Nick turned toward the parking lot, reaching for the keys clipped to his belt loop.

  *Ugh… I should’ve grabbed her number…*, he thought, walking toward his Sportster S.

  He unlocked his helmet from the handlebars, slipped it on, and latched the keys back to his belt loop. Throwing a leg over the seat, he flicked the ignition and watched the gauges run their diagnostics. The engine rumbled to life, warming as he checked his gear.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, he opted for the long, winding road down the mountain pass rather than the newer straight passage.

  The weather was perfect that night — cool, dry, quiet.

  Nothing but the hum of the engine accompanied him as he carved through the winding road, weaving sharp curves with practiced ease. His mind, always prone to wandering during solitary rides, drifted to Tiffany.

  “Damn, I should’ve gotten her number,” he muttered.

  She was an interesting one. She didn’t strike him as an escort; he just had a gut feeling she was different… but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  The idea of someone like Tiffany being interested in him felt unlikely, but the thought still pulled at him. What unsettled him most was that he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was eating at him about her.

  Nick never fancied himself a ladies’ man.

  Mid?thirties had brought him some confidence and perspective, but not charm.

  As he rounded a corner at high speed, something dropped from the trees, narrowly missing him. His reflexes kicked in, guiding the bike just enough to dodge the object.

  Nick hit both brakes, giving the new bike’s ABS system a thorough and unintentional break?in. He downshifted quickly. The bike started to slide. He let off the brakes to correct, swung the rear tire around.

  The bike screeched to a halt.

  “What the hell was that?!” he shouted, adrenaline surging.

  He glanced back at the black shape he’d barely dodged, eased the bike around, and parked on the inner curb — out of the way of any possible traffic, even as unlikely as that seemed at this hour.

  Before dismounting, he angled the headlight toward the object, the beam slicing through the darkness.

  Getting off the bike, he unholstered his nickel?plated 1911 and approached.

  When he saw what it was, he immediately regretted turning around.

  A mauled corpse.

  Nick scanned the surrounding area.

  “What in the world did this?” he muttered.

  The right arm was missing — cleanly severed just above the elbow.

  From the hips down, nothing remained. The sternum was split down the middle.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Good God. What the hell cuts bone like this?” Nick muttered.

  He recognized the face from the photo but still checked the torn suit jacket for clues.

  Inside the wallet he found:

  - Two hundred in twenties

  - A Blockbuster card

  - A strange, unmarked metal plate, ID?sized

  - A stack of business cards

  He flipped to the license.

  “Tommy Penske… son?ova.”

  The face matched the faded photo he held, comparing it to the side of the man’s head.

  Nick and his partner Adam were the local detectives of the small city. At first, when Nick started looking into mangled corpses — some apparently eaten — they were people society tended to overlook: drifters, the homeless on the outskirts, those without ties. That’s how it began, a body here and there. Then teens, young women, and men began to disappear.

  It was already being investigated, but not brought to public notice. That was until John Harrison, one of the local cops, was found mangled, dead in an alley, his sixteen?year?old daughter missing that same night. He had been walking her home from a school volleyball game. Evidence suggested a struggle: his empty Glock lay beside him, as well as his daughter’s gym bag with her team uniform.

  A handful more cops either disappeared… or, if they did turn up, there wasn’t much left.

  No suspects. No leads. It was all starting to gnaw away at him.

  “Well, it’s definitely him. Dammit, Tommy. Guess you must’ve known something after all. Doesn’t help either of us now,” Nick muttered, lighting a cigarette as he continued inspecting the body.

  He was deep in thought — partly why he didn’t hear the silent figure drop behind him.

  Even if he hadn’t been distracted, he wouldn’t have heard it.

  Something curved tapped his shoulder.

  He spun, gun raised — aimed at mid?body level.

  Instead, he was met with… crotch.

  Nick blinked.

  The legs weren’t human: canine hind limbs, red and muscular, covered in coarse hair.

  The lower body wore overstretched white cotton panties, paired with the shredded remains of a burgundy dress. The fabric left little to the imagination.

  His cigarette slipped from his mouth as his eyes traveled upward.

  The outfit clung tightly to her abs. The spandex?like material stretched over some of the largest breasts he’d ever seen.

  Her face was wolf?like — canine teeth glinting in the moonlight, dripping with a dark fluid.

  Her ears were long and pointed, tufted with fur and pierced with barbed rings.

  When his eyes reached the bright green irises peeking out from a mess of fiery red fur and mane, he noticed her mane was just a shade brighter than the rest of her body fur.

  The creature spoke in a deep, husky voice — a guttural growl of a tone.

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to drop that.”

  She gestured past him to the crumpled mess he’d been inspecting.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her tone genuinely concerned, her large ears flattening slightly. She cocked her head, scanning Nick up and down, her terrifying demeanor softening.

  “You seem fine,” she growled.

  The only sound in the vast, dark mountain pass was the dull thump of the wallet slipping from Nick’s hand. Her ears shot up at the noise, her eyes flicking from the wallet back to him. His heart pounded in overdrive.

  He stared up at the towering beast — shock, fear, and a splash of attraction swirling together.

  He nodded slowly.

  “I am… other than I’ll probably need a fresh change of pants, ma’am.”

  She stared down at him, her bushy tail swishing slowly.

  Her blood?soaked smile put him more than a little on edge.

  Still stunned, he almost forgot he was pointing his gun at her waist.

  “Oh, put that silly toy away. You couldn’t hurt me with that if you wanted,” the creature growled.

  To prove her point, she extended a clawed hand toward him, stopping inches from the gun.

  Before Nick could blink, she flicked a claw at his trigger finger.

  *Cachow!*

  The .45 roared through the night, the sharp smell of gunpowder hanging in the air.

  Nick stared, slack?jawed, at the smoldering slag lodged in her abdomen.

  She rested a clawed finger on the gun, gradually weighing it down to snap him out of his brain?lock.

  With another claw, she found the hollow point, pushed aside the fur, and peeled the warped metal from her rippling midsection.

  She held the putty?like slug between two claws, like tweezers holding a splinter.

  With her other hand, she gripped his wrist and gently forced it open.

  She dropped the still?warm metal into his palm, closed his fingers around it, and patted the top of his hand.

  “Something to remember me and the evening with,” she said, winking with a toothy smile.

  Her bushy tail perked upward, sweeping in slow arcs.

  Nick, accepting the bizarre events unfolding before him, figured she’d made her point.

  Reholstering his weapon, slag still in hand, he watched her sidestep him, scoop up the remainder of Tommy, and pause.

  She turned back, picked up Tommy’s wallet, and leapt into the canopy of trees, vanishing from sight.

  He looked around, then down at the useless bullet in his hand.

  “Something to remember her and the evening by, huh? Like I could forget either if I wanted to,” he muttered, pocketing the memento.

  Slowly, Nick headed back to his bike.

  He sat on the curb, lighting another cigarette to replace the one wasted earlier.

  “Man, this is a messed?up night. I lose my only lead; instead of answers, I’m left with more questions.

  And to top it off, I’m not even sure what I saw tonight.”

  He took another drag, then pinched out the butt and tossed it.

  “Well, real or fantasy — and as terrifying as she was — she sure did have a rocking body.

  (Even if I’d need a step ladder to reach those beachballs… why’d she smell like wet dog?)

  Eh, not important.”

  Nick pulled up to the barn a short distance from his cottage, the dirt path worn smooth by years of use.

  He slowed to a stop, killed the engine, and let the quiet of the countryside envelop him.

  The barn smelled of old hay and motor oil — a familiar, comforting mix.

  He parked the Sportster S in its usual spot, leaned it gently onto the kickstand, and patted the gas tank like an old friend.

  “Thanks for not killing me back there, buddy.”

  As he walked out of the barn, the cool night air hit him again — a stark contrast to the chaos of the evening.

  He took a deep breath, shaking his head.

  “What a wild night,” he muttered, reaching the front door of his cottage.

  Fumbling with the locks, he finally got the door open and stepped inside.

  He hung his gear on the hooks by the entrance, dropped his keys, and placed the half?dollar?sized memento on the dining table — next to the antique glass candy dish his mom had left him, now repurposed as an ashtray.

  Spotting his coffee mug still on the table from that morning, he glanced inside, shrugged, and downed the last bit before heading to the shower.

  Stripping down, he removed his shoulder holster and hung it by the nightstand before trudging off to the bathroom.

  “Man, you’d think a hot shower would clear the brain fog,” he muttered, drying his hair as he stepped out.

  He tossed the towel into the laundry basket and headed straight for bed, hoping to sleep off the events of this crazy night.