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We met Tom’s partner, Turner, last week, when he walked into the agency while Tom was busy subduing a belligerent visitor.
I’ve skipped a couple of sentences between that and this, so I can share that much more Turner.
Turner walked past me to the desk, stepping over the blood with more care than I would—then again, even if I hadn’t been plowing most of my paycheck back into the agency, I wouldn’t have shelled out on my whole wardrobe what he did on shoes.
My guest’s ears elongated and I heard his claws scrabble on the wood. I pressed the gun harder. “Pull it back in,” I said, “or I’ll blow your brains all over your chinny, chin, chin.”
“He means it,” Turner said. The gun drawer squeaked. “That’s why we can’t have carpet.”
The scratching stopped and the ears relaxed their lobes.
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In Tom’s defense, one wouldn’t want to wear Dolce & Gabbana to a werewolf attack. Or even J. Press.
In Turner’s defense, he doesn’t spend quite that much on clothes, but he makes it all look like he does. Possibly by avoiding werewolf attacks.
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Image of the left half of a pair of frankly gorgeous oxfords in green mist calf from the Rothley Collection of John Lobb was located at GQ (where else?).
Earful of Cider 