"This is smooth, satisfying WMPR out of Shelter Cove,
It's three minutes past one and we'll take another caller after Bert Kaempfert, Love after Midnight."
Bryant flicked the mic off and kicked back his chair.
In the far distance a thunderhead on its way to Fort Bragg crackled with lightning.
It'd been quiet tonight, a call about the blood drive in Garberville tomorrow, and Mrs. Gray out on the King's Peak Road complaining about things in the wood again; flying wolves this time.
(Last week, the wendigo walking.)
Looking out across the cove, black sand sparkling in the moonlight, Bryant figured he'd head to Mario's by the lighthouse for early breakfast.
As he watched, one by one the lights were going out, a wave of darkness rolling down the ridge toward him.
Bryant heard a keening howl, the sound of wings.
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