Winter 1973 – They All Fancy Themselves Wolves Until a Howl Rises Within Their Sheltered Flock

 

Cyclone squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. “I’m ready,” she snapped. “I’ve killed five of these fuckers. One more will be a piece of cake.”

I looked at the sway in her stance and the gray beneath her eyes. The smell of rum was faint but unmistakable. I said, “Eating cake would be dangerous enough. The fork might miss your mouth and find your eye. I will hunt this beast by myself.”

The determination in her face faltered. “I’m still good,” she whispered. “I just have a little so I can sleep. It’s no big deal.”

“It is three in the afternoon Cyclone. I have lived as long as I have by being careful.”

Her face tightened. She snarled, “You’ve lived so long by being a fucking witch.”

I nodded. “That also has its advantages.”