Page 97 of Golden Eagle

Blank, so utterly blank, and slack, save the rictus that flashed all his teeth, the canines pointed.

She started for the next ladder, but pulled up short. She couldn’t outrun him, there was no way. He was already emerging, already on level with her, hauling himself up the last step, the growl pouring out of his open mouth, saliva dribbling down his chin.

No one could have looked at him and thought him remotely human.

His hair hung in greasy clumps around his face, haphazardly cut by a knife. A patchy beard, tattered, ill-fitting clothes. A loose collar hung around his throat, heavy metal, large enough to survive a shifting without strangling him. He reeked of wet fur and unwashed human skin, of blood and death.

Trina drew her gun, and her hands stopped shaking. She would give him a choice.

“Turn around,” she said, “and go back to your master. This is your one chance to do the right thing.”

Her words didn’t seem to register. He stalked toward her, hands curled into claws, growling continuously. He lowered his head, guarding his throat, and gathered himself to pounce. She saw the tension in his arms and legs, the coil before the spring.

Trina took a breath, and fired.

The first round caught him in the chest, right in the sweet spot. At close range, she couldn’t have missed, but it was perhaps her best shot ever. A .45 slug straight to the heart.

The force of the impact knocked him back three steps. He staggered, and went to his knees. But he didn’t collapse and go into death throes like he should have. He coughed blood, but then he growled again, and started hauling himself up against the rail.

“Shit,” she breathed, and fired again. And again. And again.

Finally, he lay still – mostly. His limbs twitched, and his eyes rolled. Pink foam leaked from his mouth.

She thought about old movies, about silver bullets, and nearly burst into hysterical laughter. She couldn’t, though, because of the tightness in her throat, and the frantic pounding of her heart.

Down below, the other wolf circled, whining. Then he shifted, too. The same blank expression tipped up to her – only he was whimpering instead of growling. A dirty face framed by dirtier hair, rags for clothes.

She felt sorry for him. For both of them. Whatever terrible things they’d done, it hadn’t been a conscious decision. It was a rabid kind of madness, but not malice.

“What’s your name?” Trina called down to him.

He whimpered and shrank back.

“Who did this to you? Where are you from?”

He ducked his head, and took off. Near the mouth of the alley, the shadows shifted abruptly, and he lit out onto the street on four legs instead of two.

Trina looked down at the wolf at her feet – still in his human skin. Still twitching, struggling, growling and whining. He tried to sit up, despite the blood pouring out of his body.

Silver, she thought numbly. She would have needed to put a silver bullet in his heart to kill him.

To kill himcleanly.

The wolf met her gaze, his own as glassy as it had been to start. But furious, now. The gaze of an animal backed into a corner by something he didn’t understand.

“What should I do now?” she asked, her anxiety spiking anew. Now that the immediate threat was gone, her adrenaline ebbed, and made room for cold, clammy fear. Her hands shook, and her voice cracked, and her breathing came quick and choppy. The gun felt too heavy in her hand. This wasn’t like picking off guards from a distance with Katya’s rifle in Virginia. This was up close and personal; she could smell his blood, his sweat, his unwashed skin. She had a choice to make here. She could call the precinct and tell them she’d apprehended an attacker – and then what? They’d cuff him, pack him off, get him medical care. But his healing would be inexplicable. As would his madness.

Hey, guys, I caught a werewolf.

She couldn’t do that. And he had…he was…

“Shit,” she said aloud, and put a round in his forehead.

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