The Count Down

Havermouth, Five Years Before

Heath could see the girl standing forlornly on the balcony. She was caught between the two groups, he thought. She was not friends with any of the werewolves setting up the party around the firepit, and not included in the Triquetra’s huddle in the kitchen. There was something heart wrenchingly lonely about the way that she stood there, her hands on the railing and the wind tugging at her hair.

In the river beyond the house there were squeals of laughter as the werewolves stripped down for a swim. The water would be cold, the sun not strong enough to heat beyond the surface and the thrashing of the swimmers would have disrupted that level. However, the swim was not about the water for the werewolves, but rather an excuse to undress, an ice breaker for the f-king to come once they were mellow with alcohol.

Most of the couples were new, and were still shy with each other, the sex still unfamiliar and uncertain, thrilling and naughty, as none of the couples