Byron glared at the smirking boy standing over his table. “Did you just threaten my cat?”
“A cat? That’s not a cat, it’s my new winter hat.” The boy went to grab Misty who yowled and slashed out, drawing blood. “I’ll wring your filthy little neck.”
Bryon scooped Misty behind him and stood. The boy stumbled back a step or two before collecting himself. Clearly he hadn’t expected Byron to be taller than him.
His sneer wasn’t quite convincing. “You trying to pick a fight?”
“No, I’m protecting my cat from a pathetic piece of trash who wouldn’t know how to fight if his life depended on it.”
Reba looked the shorter boy over from where she lurked in the doorway. It was a fair assessment, the boy was broader than her apprentice, but soft. There might be muscle under that layer of pudge but it didn’t look like it, and the way he stood showed a complete lack of readiness, or even awareness of his surroundings – all Byron needed was to give him one sharp shove and the boy would be on his backside in the mopping bucket.
The boy snarled and charged, Byron side-stepped and his would-be tormentor slammed into the corner of the table. He let out a pained wheeze and slid to the floor, clutching his groin.
Byron collected Misty, settling her onto one shoulder – it was her favourite perch. “First rule of fighting, know your terrain.”
With a smirk that mirrored the start of their interaction, he turned and left.
The DNA of Stories 