Facing Death

Dante. The car pulled into the parking lot of the dark cemetery. A single, yellow light bulb illuminated across the hood of the car but proven useless to anyone who didn’t have night vision. Undoubtedly, that was one of the best perks of being a werewolf. I couldn't imagine how inconvenient it must be to be unable to navigate the dark. “I can’t find…” Azalea spat out a curse, turning to face me. I knew she couldn’t see my face, because her eyes darted in the direction of my general vicinity, but at the moment, she was staring at my chin. I smiled. “Something wrong?” “I can’t find the door handle. It’s too dark,” she complained. “You did bring a flashlight, right? And exactly what are we doing here anyway?” “We don’t need a flashlight.” I reached forward and unclipped her seatbelt. She stiffened when I leaned over her and pressed the unlock button on her door, and I caught a good whiff of her sweet, floral perfume—the brand, unbeknownst to her, I picked out for her. There was some kind