by Lindsey Leffew
I met him on the south side of town, just after some creep - knife in hand - rushed me from the shadows of an alley. Before I could process the attack, my would-be mugger was sliding down the alley wall, trail of gray matter on the brick, slick and shiny like the white of a cracked egg. And my rescuer? Six and a half feet of muscle and a patterned, pearly hide that put me in mind of a king snake, though his face was mostly human, except for those cat-slit pupils... and that prehensile tongue that flicked out to taste the air just before he gave a low, chirruping growl that vibrated up my spine. He looked down at me, head cocked to the side in that universal sign of inquiry, then offered me a five-fingered talon-tipped hand; I looked at his face, looked at that hand, took it and let him pull me to my feet. Then we were moving, off into the shadows, away from the familiar streets, his grip on me warm and firm... and I didn't protest because, what the hell, it was a Saturday night and I didn't have anywhere to be.
Lindsey Leffew lives in Nashville, Tennessee where she plays in the corporate world of E-learning and tries to maintain her creativity. She's published a few things locally. She's a recovering English major and her blog (though there's not much to it at this point) can be found here.