Free A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) by Shawna Reppert

to him should the detective leave the building. He’d have to circle around the back and hide at the other side, and even then it would be chancy. If only he could find a place where he could watch the door unobserved.
    “Hey, you! ’Wolf!”
    Dear God, not again. He paused and crouched, head lowered.
    “It’s alright, boy, come on. I’ve got a little something left over from my lunch. Hungry, boy?”
    No, he wasn’t. The people who treated werewolves like they were stray animals to be fed bothered him only marginally less than those who treated them like wild animals that should be shot. But for the majority of ’wolves, those without family or friends that had the means and desire to hide them and support them, handouts meant the difference between a mean, poor life and a slow death by starvation.
    Aberrant behavior in a ’wolf would be noticed. Maybe even investigated, even though the young constable holding out half a sandwich had a kind face. He approached, head still low, tail wagging, making every effort to appear both grateful and non-threatening.
    “My, but you’re a nice, big brute,” the constable said as Richard neatly swallowed the offering; (salted meat, coarse-baked bread made from flour adulterated with sawdust, really, they should pay these poor fellows better for risking their lives as they did). “Some widow feeding you up right?”  
    Richard wagged his tail harder, spared the need to lie outright. The constable gave him a pat on his shoulders and went on his way.  
    As he rounded the corner, Richard stopped cold. A vaguely familiar scent caught his attention. Jones? He couldn’t be certain. He’d only encountered the man once before, and when he was in human form his scent-memory wasn’t nearly so acute. If he were wrong, he’d miss his chance to meet Jones coming out of the Yard. But if he were right, he’d be waiting here all night and lose the opportunity. Hugging the corner of the building, he watched the door a few moments more and gave a low whine of indecision. At last he turned, nose down, and followed the scent.  
    The streets of London were malodorous in the extreme. Richard’s nose might be a wolf’s, as were, to some extent, his instincts, but his human mind rebelled at this close examination of streets reeking of horse manure, discarded food, and tobacco ash. Through it all, he kept to the trail of hopefully-Jones, and it led to a section of two-up-two-down row homes in a slightly run-down working class neighborhood.
    He sat on his haunches, contemplating the knob on the exterior door and missing the miracle of opposable thumbs. He wanted to scratch at the door and whine, but that was wolf instinct talking, not his rational mind.
    On the other hand. . .
    He doubted anyone would come to the door and let him in. But if Jones were, in fact, living here, wouldn’t his neighbors appeal to the nearest representative of the law to deal with the unsavory problem of a werewolf on the doorstep?
    Only if it wasn’t Jones he’d followed, but someone else who worked at the Yard, he’d again be facing lock-up until dawn and discovery.
    He sniffed the air and swiveled his ears, gathering information. Both lower flats were occupied by young families, crammed full of noisy, squabbling children. The ones on the left were most likely Chinese immigrants by the scent of their cooking. The top left apartment was still and empty. The top right. . .
    Movement, possibly a single form, possibly a man. Richard snuffled, but it was impossible to get details from this distance. Any moment now someone was going to notice the lurking werewolf. It was a warm night. The figure upstairs opened the window. Jones. Richard suppressed a yip of excitement.
    He moved out into the street, to be better visible in the moonlight, but Jones turned away from the window without looking down. A howl would bring attention he didn’t want.
    He circled the building.
    The storage shed at the back had a gently angled