He bows, head low to the ground, and swats at her with his forelegs, like he is trying to scrape mud off his face. His claws slash her face; the pain barely registers. He has made himself lower than she, has exposed himself. Has shown fear.
Opening her mouth, she dives at his throat so fast he doesn’t even flinch.
She gnaws, breaking skin. Blood erupts into her mouth, washes warm over her muzzle. When she finds a firm grasp, she shakes, worries, mauls, back and forth as much as she can. He’s too large for her to toss around properly. But she has this piece of him, and it is hers, and the blood flows hot and fast. The thick taste of it makes her dizzy, ecstatic.
His struggles fade to a reflexive kicking, then nothing.
Blood covers his neck and chest, and her own face, neck, and chest. She licks her muzzle, then she licks him, burying her nose in the wound she made. She keeps growling as she digs into him. Bites, rips, gnaws, swallows.
The body under her is shifting as she feeds. The fur shrinks to naked skin, the muscles melt, the bones reform, until she is digging into the neck of a human body.
“Norville!”
Crack, a sound like thunder bursts, with a smell like fire. She recoils, springing to stand a foot away from where she was, to assess the danger. Her nostrils quiver.
The man, the dangerous one, the friend, stands there, arm pointing up, hand holding the source of the burning smell. The weapon.
“Kitty!” he shouts and stomps toward her, radiating a fierce challenge. She trots a couple of steps away and circles back, staring. Does he mean it?
Pounding human footsteps travel toward them. More of them arrive, smelling of weapons, anxiety, danger. They are pointing at her.
The man yells, “Hardin, hold your fire! It’s Kitty!”
There are too many of them.
She runs.
She runs for a long distance, until the world is quiet and the smells are peaceful. She searches for trees, shelter, comfortable scents, finds none of these. She’s far from home, doesn’t know this place.
A patch of dry ground in the corner between two walls makes an uncomfortable but acceptable den. She is hurt—aches in her face, leg, and shoulders, a sharp pain in her back. She needs rest. She misses the others. There should be others. There should be pack, for her to feel safe.
All she can do is curl tight around herself, snugged in the corner of the den.
Chapter 11
Sirens woke me.
I tried to stretch and moved about an inch before pain froze me. I groaned. I felt totally hung over. It was still pitch dark out, middle of the night, which meant I hadn’t slept very long. I needed more time to sleep and recover from shifting back from the Wolf before I’d feel decent.
I bent my elbow enough to pillow my head. I was curled up in the corner formed by a brick wall and a wooden fence. I had no idea where I was. But I heard sirens. Police, ambulance.
I remembered enough of the last hour or so to not be entirely confused. I licked my teeth and tasted the blood. Blood still coated my mouth. I curled up tighter, squeezing shut my eyes.
Footsteps crunched up the gravel alleyway.
“Norville. You awake?”
For all my earlier lack of modesty, I now felt thoroughly naked. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged myself, covering myself as much as I could.
The footsteps stopped. I looked. A few steps away, Cormac knelt. He offered a blanket. When I tried to reach for it, I felt a cut open across my back. Wincing, I hissed.
He put the blanket over my shoulders, and with his hands under my arms, helped me sit up. I wrapped the blanket tight around me.
“You found me,” I said.
“You were trailing blood.”
I nodded. I could feel it caked on my face and neck. I hadn’t even looked at my injuries yet. The wounds I got as a wolf transferred. They hadn’t had enough time to heal. They itched.