Roadkill

Chapter 4- CarTalk

“Tell me your name, miss.”

I looked at the man sitting next to me in the car, smiling his attractive, lazy smile and waiting for me to respond. I noted the unnaturally long canines. The joggers I bought and kept in the car were size medium so they didn’t fit well, then again I don’t shop for clothes with strange wolf-men in mind so the joggers would have to do.

“Diane. I’m trying to concentrate on driving, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak.” I responded. I was still technically a Mrs. as the divorce hadn’t yet been finalized but he didn’t need to know that.

“My mistake, Diane. I’m just trying to get to know you. You saved my life you know, I doubt anyone would’ve come for me if I’d continued to lay there dying. Tell me about yourself, so I know who I’m thanking.”

He kind of had a point. This was going to be a long drive anyway and all that talk about driving him to a vet at the time was just wishful thinking. It was too far away for us to have made it there in time to save him, well it. The old car radio only worked whenever it felt like working so I couldn’t really listen to anything else other than the wind rushing past. Talking could also distract him from the pain.

His wounds had slowly begun to bruise. They were no longer bright red slashes, instead deep purple and yellow bruises were forming across his torso, and the one on his left arm was oozing ominous black blood. I could tell he was in pain and that he was going to great lengths to mask it.

“You first. Who are you? Explain to me why exactly you are both animal and human. What were you doing in those woods and what gave you those injuries?”

He looked away quickly and opted to stare at the windshield instead, then back at me.

“Alright, but only because you’re cute, and you’re doing me a favour.”

“My name is Lowell Monde. I won’t go into details because I doubt you’d understand but I am a werewolf, Lycan, wolfman, whatever you’re most comfortable with. The rule of thumb is that werewolves with supernatural shape-shifting abilities such as myself belong to a pack. A community of other werewolves, a system where everyone is given a role to play and they all work together under the leadership of the pack Alpha for the collective benefit of the pack. My father, the current pack Alpha was responsible for deciding which one of his sons would succeed him after he stepped down to retire, so he decided the best way to do that would be to make them fight to the death. Anyway, I got my ass handed to me by my older brother Griffith and got left for dead, so here I am. Yay.” His voice was sad almost, detached too. It got louder and angrier when he mentioned his brother then as quickly as he got harsh, he mellowed down again. He had tasted defeat and had gotten kicked out and abandoned by his family. His grip on his bleeding arm tightened.

I didn’t understand much of what he said, but I took it in stride, his story didn’t sound quite as ridiculous as it should’ve because of the circumstances. There wasn’t much to say in response to that really, so I simply held his hand instead. He seemed surprised, but ultimately pleased with my expression of sympathy and he didn’t pull away.