It was cold and clear, the stars an impressionist's spray across the night sky.
Incandescent with rage, the werewolf caught a hint of perfume, fear and blood on the wind and threw a frustrated howl to the moon.
She was here, somewhere.
Running, hiding, large eyes flooded with tears, voice pleading for succor. Those tears were his, that sweet flesh, those broken cries, his!
There. A shoe, scraping against rock. A soft whimper of terror.
He slunk through the trees toward the sound, salivating, eyes a spark of flame in the night, nearly mad with the anticipation of the kill.