Page 393 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Try. For two hours. The zombies have guns for arms, Thane. You deserve this."

He snorts and squeezes my hand, facing the screen and settling in.

He doesn't let go for the entire movie.

And I love every last glorious second.

It's the worst movie ever, and it definitely wasn't a horror movie no matter how many zombies and buckets of blood there were, but I still wish it would go on forever when the credits start rolling to metal guitar riffs.

Because I'm with my pack.

We wait for the theater to completely empty before we move, all in loose formation, Wraith and me at the center, and we come out into the lobby.

Which is not empty.

The earlier showing of some animated movie let out at the same time, and there are families scattered across the dark carpet. There are overtired kids everywhere.

Wraith goes still beside me the second the doors swing shut behind us, and Valek positions himself casually to block anyone's direct line of sight to him.

"Straight line to the doors," Whiskey says, like the kids are enemy soldiers.

We make it halfway.

"'SCUSE ME."

A boy leaps to plant himself directly in our path.

He's maybe six or seven, his light-up sneakers still going off, clutching a plush zombie from the merchandise stand. It's green and floppy with an angry face and guns for arms.

He's looking up, way up, at Wraith.

My whole body goes cold.

Whiskey moves first, stepping in front of us and forming a physical wall that blocks the kid's view of Wraith. "Hey, little bro. Did you see the zombie movie too? Aren't you, uh, a little young for scary shhiii—movies?"

The kid blinks at Whiskey. "My mom lets me watch whatever I want. Are you the Ghosts?"

He's craning to look past Whiskey at Wraith.

Oh shit.

Whiskey lights up, sliding over subtly to keep blocking his view. "Uh, yeah! We are! You want an autograph?" he asks, producing a Sharpie from his flannel like he's performing a magic trick.

The kid holds the plush zombie away from Whiskey, out of reach. "Not YOU," he says, with the withering contempt only a child can manage. "Zombies ONLY."

And he holds the plush up toward Wraith.

The lobby noise keeps going around us, but inside our little cluster, everything stops. Whiskey's mouth hangs open mid-word and my grip on Wraith's arm tightens.

Wraith doesn't move, staring down at the kid.

The kid shakes the zombie at Wraith impatiently. "You're the coolest one. You gots real zombie teeth. Sign my guy!"

A woman comes rushing up behind the kid, mortified, reaching for his shoulder. Her eyes travel up Wraith's height, into the shadow of his hood, and land on his face.

She freezes, whatever she was about to say dying in a croak.

Then she looks at her son, hopping on his light-up sneakers, holding his plush zombie up at a seven-foot feral alpha, and she stays planted exactly where she is with her hand resting on his shoulder.