Chapter 1
"Brat, I said I want some girls to dance for me!" roared a middle-aged man at Conor, one of the staff at the pub. His outburst drew the attention of nearly everyone present. There were only a handful of patrons since the pub had just opened for the night.
I squinted my eyes, looked directly at the man, and walked forward. Patting Conor on the shoulder, I gave him a glance and a reassuring smile that silently told him to let me handle it.
With what I presumed was a sweet smile, I laughed inwardly. I wasn’t sure if that smile would remain sweet once I was done with this man. It might very well transform into the sinister grin of a demon.
"Mr. Latamor," I began, keeping my tone polite, "although we aren't in a strip club, you are one of our favorite customers. You've already patronized us more than anyone else tonight." I gestured at the bottles of beer on his table, which outnumbered my fingers.
"Since it’s our obligation to keep you satisfied, we'll bring over a girl or two to dance for you. However, there's just one little issue," I said, still smiling. It was a smile that might have seemed a bit unsettling, but for someone like him, eager to indulge in sin, it went unnoticed.
"You seem much wiser than this blockhead staff of yours," he said, flashing a satisfied grin.
"Please don't mind Conor," I replied smoothly. "He's just a bit clumsy. The problem, though, is that you're at the wrong table, and he didn’t know how to express himself properly. Pardon our staff." I clasped my palms together as if in an apology, the smile still plastered on my face as my scheme unfolded perfectly.
"What do you mean I'm at the wrong table?" he asked, confusion clouding his face.
"Earlier today, Mrs. Latamor called the pub and made a reservation for this evening with her friends. That table is over there," I said, pointing to an empty spot at the far end of the room. "I really admire the Latamor marriage. This hangout with friends seems so romantic. And Mr. Latamor, you even came earlier to warm the chairs for them!"
His face twitched, and the effects of the alcohol seemed to wash away instantly. I inwardly reveled in my ability to twist situations to my favor with a slightly deceitful tongue.
I didn't feel being deceitful at times was necessarily a bad thing, as the world isn't fair to begin with.
"It seems she'll be here in about ten minutes, according to her reservation," I continued. "And we all know how punctual she is. Don't worry, Mr. Latamor. She’ll be with you soon, and you can even dance with the girls together. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a little... threes—" I caught myself with a smirk and glanced at my wristwatch.
Before I could finish, he bolted, fear etched on his face. But not before dropping money for his bill—and even paying extra in his rush to leave.
I picked up the cash and sorted the extra. This would be my reward for skillfully using my wits and handling troublemakers.
Just as I was gleefully looking at the change in my hand, my phone rang and shattered my short-lived moment of joy.
Goddess, I really hated the sound of my ringtone these days. It always reminded me of one debt or another. But who am I to avoid them? Who else would bear such burdens? I don't have a family like any regular girl might have.
What seemed normal to people was a luxury to me. Actually, I'm a hybrid—my father, a warlock; and my mother, a lycan. But if that was just it, perhaps I would have lived a happy life or probably just a normal life like every other person.
Everything didn’t just turn out normal for me, or perhaps I was simply ill-fated and wasn’t destined to live a normal life. My father abandoned my mother and me when I was little. Damn, anytime I think of him, I can't help but curse. Perhaps if he were here, things wouldn't have turned out this way.
As if that wasn’t enough, at twelve, my mother and I were exiled from our pack just because I couldn't shift. Now look at me, infecting my mother with my own bad luck, causing her to hate me in return. I can't blame her for hating me. I also feel so guilty for adding to my poor mother's pain. Probably the kind of ever-forgiving mothers people talk about were fairytales to me—found only in movies or fantasy stories.
I guess I was a mistake, just as she constantly reminds me. Perhaps nothing good really came from my father. Even I, the "gift" he left behind for her, have already brought so many misfortunes to her.
Now she's bedridden and dying, and I feel so helpless watching her fade away. If she dies without me fixing all I've caused, then perhaps I'll forever carry a knot in my heart.
Thinking about the debts she racked up in my name and how I'll have to clear them all gave me a huge headache. It was more like a mountain weighing me down, locking me in place to face it head-on. Awaiting impending doom—or perhaps some heavenly miracle.
But in the end, these threads of my experience have interwoven into a garment I now wear. At least different clothes have their time and seasons when they become useful. Now, this pain—with all its downsides—has tempered me into a young, fierce woman.
One who is strong-willed. One who wouldn't let people who attack me go scot-free. An absolutely defensive young woman.
Still, deep inside, there's kindness. Rarely revealed, but there. Enough to prove I'm not weak.
Just who am I?
I AM AMOURA.
