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This week, I’ve been wrangling the way this world works more than I’ve been writing in it—the differences between the basic laws of the hidden Were subculture versus the ones established by and for humans are becoming complicated and I’m trying to nail ’em down.
Weres living among humans aren’t second-class citizens so much as they’re trying to pass for citizens, period. And since the first rule of every
Fight Club Were Council is “Thou Shalt Not Publicly Out Us to the Humans”, urban Weres need to be especially careful around the human legal system. Often, it’s easier to bypass it altogether, if one can get away with it—especially since the writer of this mishegaas isn’t a lawyer.
So . . . what do you do with a slightly flattened werewolf bleeding all over the back seat of a police wagon?
Kyle looked at me. “You planning on pressing charges?”
“You know I can’t do that.” Sure, assault was a prosecutable human crime, but I didn’t have a scratch on me and if the Big Bad Pancake didn’t shake off the silver quickly enough, Turner and I would be lucky if the court didn’t make us switch places with him.
And if he did heal quickly, it was his word against mine—and who knew what kind of legal eagles his anonymous boss had on tap?
Kyle exhaled. “So what am I supposed to do with him? Drop him three miles outside the city limits and hope he forgets how to get back?”
Fear not. Tom has a plan.
“Legal eagles” aren’t meant as anything but a metaphor, by the way. So far.