Cole Cotter
The bar, generic and off-beat, reeks of lycans.
Brown carpet, stained with food and drinks, runs the length of the floor below the grooved
counter. Cole sits on a wooden stool, nursing the beer in his hand.
The overhead television flickers. Glancing up, he peers at the screen then turns away,
uninterested in the basketball game that's in overtime.
On the wall behind the bar, a clock reads eleven-thirty. It's still early.
Down in the pit, in the lower section of the bar next to the live band, Tessa Johansson
serves drinks. The table she's at is full of lycans from the Kweo clan - his inner wolf can smell
them.
Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but one stands out, Chad Sawyer. And from the looks of
things, he's been drinking for a while. Alcohol and Chad are never a good combination in any
setting because the man can't hold his liquor. But here at the bar, with a group of his brethren,