Jake woke up in the alley, feeling as if he had been hit by a Mack truck. Rising slowly from the damp ground, he propped himself upright against a nearby dumpster.
For a moment, he sat staring at the bloody knuckles of his right hand. Disoriented, he shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog from his brain.
“What the fuck,” he grumbled hoarsely, as bits of his memory returned. “That fuckin’ punk bit me.”
With his uninjured left hand, Jake swiped his fingers across his throat. Touching smooth skin free of injuries, he then looked down at his heavily blood-stained shirt in the pale early morning light, and frowned. Confused, he shook his head again.
Who the fuck was that big mother fuckin’ chink?
Jake slowly got to his feet and leaned against the dumpster to keep from keeling over. After a minute or so, he took a deep breath and straightened up to his full height. In the stillness, he heard a deep rumbling growl at his back, and a scraping sound on the concrete.
What the fuck now?
A gust of hot air blew across the back of his head and shoulders. Paralyzing fear told him not to run.
Prey run. I’m not fucking prey.
Slipping the switchblade from his shirt pocket, Jake snapped it open before slowly turning around.
He stared into a huge pair of ice-blue feline eyes.
(Excerpt from ‘Angelo II — Book I: Chazaqiel’, currently in the works)