The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group by Catherine Jinks Page B

The grey tweed jacket was gone, as was the musky hair gel. He wore a T-shirt that revealed tattoos on both arms, plus knee-length shorts that showed off the scars on his legs. I could see my face reflected in his mirror-lens sunglasses. His lip was still split and his fingers were still bandaged. And despite the fact that his tan and his cheekbones and his curly brown hair made him look like a rock star, I suddenly realised what a bad idea it would be to mess with the guy.
    In the full light of day, on neutral ground, without the priest beside him, he seemed much more hard-edged than he had in our living room. I couldn’t believe that Fergus had talked me into his dumb paw print idea. I couldn’t believe that I’d even considered screwing with a bloke like Reuben Schneider. His fuse was as short as he was; I could sense that, somehow. And I figured he had a brain in his head, as well.
    Oh, man , I thought, inwardly quaking. This is a big mistake.
    ‘I like this park. It’s nice,’ he observed, slowly scanning the view. ‘I never even knew it was here.’ The waterbirds seemed to catch his eye for a moment. Then he abruptly got down to business, jerking his chin at the structure behind him. ‘Didja see the bins out back?’ he asked.
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘There are wheelie bins out the back of this restaurant. Didja see ’em?’
    ‘It’s not a restaurant,’ I feebly corrected, ‘it’s a function centre.’
    ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s got bins,’ he said. ‘And I wanna show you what’s happened to ’em.’
    God, but he was a fast mover. The words had barely left his mouth before he was out of sight; I had to run to catch up as he ducked around the side of the building, which was locked and empty of people. He was retracing his steps, heading back towards the rear entrance.
    I wondered what Fergus was going to do. If he and Amin had been hanging around the centre’s kiosk, they might have caught a glimpse of Reuben.
    Would they be having second thoughts at the sight of all those scars and tattoos?
    ‘There,’ said Reuben, pointing. ‘See that bite mark? I reckon you did that.’
    Dazed, I peered at the two wheelie bins near the kitchen door. One had had its lid ripped off; the plastic hinges were squashed or frayed, as if savaged by a very powerful set of pliers. The other one was full of jagged puncture-marks, its rim scored by deep cuts and tears. Both bins were cracked, dented and completely unusable.
    ‘Jeez,’ I croaked. ‘What happened to them ?’
    ‘You did.’ Reuben nudged me closer. ‘Look at that. And that. Your tooth went through there.’
    ‘It didn’t.’
    ‘It did.’
    ‘It’s a bullet hole!’
    ‘Gimme a break.’ Reuben couldn’t conceal his scorn, though he tried to. ‘Have you ever seen a bullet hole? This isn’t a bullet hole.’ Before I could protest, he forestalled me. ‘If you can bite through bone, you can bite through plastic. And you can bite through bone, mate. We both can.’
    But I was shaking my head. I was backing away.
    ‘No,’ I said. All at once I felt cold, even though the sun was beating down. Something about those bins had hit me like a hammer. ‘Nuh. Uh-uh. I don’t believe you.’
    ‘Toby—’
    ‘You did this.’ It was the only explanation – and it freaked me out. ‘You got here early and you did this yourself. With tools and stuff.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
    ‘You tore up these bins after I phoned you!’
    Reuben’s eyebrows climbed his forehead.
    ‘In broad daylight?’ he exclaimed. ‘Next to a car park? Are you crazy?’
    ‘ You’re the one who’s crazy.’ I turned on my heel, catching sight of Fergus as I did so. He was up ahead, peering around the side of the kiosk, camera in hand. But he vanished before I could do more than blink.
    ‘Toby. Wait.’ Reuben grabbed my arm. ‘You said you wanted proof.’
    ‘That isn’t proof. That’s just sick,’ I quavered, pulling free. Then I stumbled blindly away from him, my