I am a veteran werewolf and, for many decades now, no longer have to wait for the allure of the full moon to coax the wolf-self out from within my human-self. As Emmett leaned against me crying, I drew him in closer and hugged him tighter. While I did, I could feel him recoil ever so slightly unsure of what I meant; the ever-present human mechanism to survive was kicking in. But the fight or flight instinct in prey only serves to hasten the beast’s arrival. My body flooded with intoxicating serotonin right on cue. It always precedes the bloodlust.
I let Emmett pull away from me. He did not run, but instead stared into my lupine eyes – into my horrific visage. He crossed himself, dropping his NIV Study Bible onto the oil-stained asphalt.
I swear my original intentions were to kill him and not to eat him; such was my respect for him. But the smell – the smell of blood that saturated the air after my claws gashed open his carotid artery just under his left jaw was undeniable. O’ but what werewolf can resist the call of freshly spilled blood after being worked up into such frenzy?
I can say Emmett did not suffer long. I stuffed myself wasting not a single morsel of him. I was so full afterwards I did not eat as my human-self for a whole week. And that’s how Emmett Byers ended – with good intentions and a wicked heart.
(to be continued)