Netherworld II: Blood Potion No. 9 Read Online Free PDF Page B

humans as well through blood by
way of transfusion or open cuts. They’re pretty much ostracized by
regular people, though laws state they can’t be discriminated
against.
    The flavor of shifter is usually
determined by a location’s local fauna. Feral hogs, rattlesnakes,
and alligators abound in southeast Georgia, so that’s what you
mostly see in the werecritters here in Fulton Falls. We get a few
werebears too. Panthers have gone extinct in our area, which makes
Gerald a pretty rare shifter nowadays.
    I was surrounded by mostly werehogs and
gators, with a few snakes scattered here and there and two bears.
They wore jeans and open leather vests with patches on the back.
The patch decorating the middle of each vest showed a slavering
wolfman riding a

    motorcycle. Over top of this was a
patch that read ‘Beasts’. Beneath the wolfman was a patch that said
‘Georgia’. Most wore sandals or went barefoot. Shifting to full
animal plays hell with shoes, tending to rip them to
shreds.
    The shifters not crowded around the bar
sat at tables or surrounded the game tables. Wherever they were,
every man was egging on the dancing girls, most of whom were now
topless and wearing just their thin nylon panties. Bottles of beer
and glasses of liquor piled on most surfaces, and I wrinkled my
nose at the labels. It was the high-proof stuff, booze illegal for
humans to consume. Were physiology is such that it makes it
difficult for them to get drunk. They drink the stuff that would
put you or me in the hospital in short order.
    I moved around the room, having a good
look at the surroundings and keeping an eye on the door in case the
witch showed up. As the song ended and everyone went back to their
conversations and games and the ladies clambered down from the bar
(I noticed none of the men helped them down), I spied one cluster
of weres at the table smack in the middle of the room. A short thug
of a man-hog sat there with the air of Napoleon. Others crowded
around him with attitudes of obeisance. I decided Pig Boy must be
C.K., so I came closer to meet the enemy.
    I was almost immediately distracted
from the werehog by the shifter sitting next to him, talking in low
tones. Now this were was a type I’d never seen in person before
despite the gazillions of movies dedicated to his kind. Wolves
don’t live in southeast Georgia, so we have even fewer of their
human counterparts than werepanthers. This is despite the fact
werewolves make up the vast majority of shifters.
    He was a fine example of his breed. His
tanned face bore black markings, rimming big gold-brown eyes,
accentuating strong cheekbones and outlining his slightly furred
jaw. His nose and mouth were human, but they angled out in the
beginnings of a wolfish snout, and his sharp canines peeked out as
he spoke. His salt-and-pepper hair, caught back in a ponytail, hung
between his shoulders. I thought his speckled hair might be more a
testament to his wolf coloring than age related.
    He was a little more musclebound than I
prefer my men, but he was a long ways from offending my eyes. He
had the body of a comic book hero. Rawr. I had an urge to stroke
the light, soft-looking fur that sprinkled his chiseled chest, well
exposed by the leather vest he wore. Stained, ripped jeans molded
well to big thick thighs.
    I sighed. Had I been Little Red Riding
Hood confronted by this wolf, I would be begging him to eat me
up.
    I reluctantly looked away to examine
his leader, the much less impressive C.K. Talk about doing a
complete one-eighty on the sexy meter.
    C.K. was a pale, pinkish-skinned
redhead, his hair the kind of washed-out orangey ginger that looks
good on no one. Especially someone with the pastel skin tone he
possessed. His muddy brown eyes squinted, giving me the impression
C.K. needed glasses like most werehogs, but was too vain to wear
them. Tusks erupting from his

    upper jaw bracketed his lower lip, the
larger lower tusks reaching almost to the round snout of his nose.
He