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Tracking a Werewolf
Striker
I sat in my VIP balcony overlooking the club. Bodies writhed below me, grinding together in time to the music pumping through the speakers. The strobe lighting gave off the appearance of a grotesque rave. I sipped my scotch and stole a glance at my watch. Riley was late. Riley was never late.
I found the club business distasteful, but they were vital to laundering money for the family business. If anyone else had kept me waiting, they would be done. I didn’t tolerate tardiness. I especially didn’t tolerate it when the meeting occurred in the cesspool we called a night club.
I couldn’t help feeling that I had been born to the wrong generation of Strikers. A few hundred years ago, we were revered for what we truly were, werewolf h
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