Felicia Miller was crying in the bathroom. Again.
Or maybe they were staring at me as I tried to discreetly wipe sweat from between my breasts with- out appearing to get to second base with myself.
Of course the only words I actually managed to yell at the werewolf as he ran at me were, “BAD DOG!”
“You know,” someone said off to my left, “I usually find a blocking spell to be a lot more effective than yelling ‘Bad dog,’ but maybe that’s just me.” I turned. Leaning against a tree, his collar unbuttoned and tie loose, was a smirking guy. His Hecate blazer was hanging limply in the crook of his elbow. “You are a witch, aren’t you?” he continued. He pushed himself off the tree and ran a hand through his black curly hair. As he walked closer, I noticed that he was slender almost to the point of skinny, and that he was several inches taller than me. “Maybe in the future,”...