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smashed through the windshield of a two-seater Mercedes thirty-five stories below. |
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Cyrus swallowed, then whipped around and sniffed the air. Who's missing? |
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The bedroom door slammed. |
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He trampolined off the couch cushions, flew over Kyna's unconscious body and followed the pheromonelike trail of fear to the bedroom door. He used his claws to scratch on the smooth wood. |
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"Stay the fuck away from me!" Dessotti screamed through the door. |
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Open up, Cyrus thought, or I'll huff and I'll puff . . . |
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He smashed through the bedroom door like it was made out of straw. Dessotti had squeezed his body down between the bed and the wall and was simultaneously working the charging handle on the jammed M-16 and issuing frantic calls for help to Mary, Joseph and Jesus. Cyrus rose to his full height, a little over seven feet, bared his fangs and snarled. |
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"Stay away!" Dessotti moaned. "I'll kill you . . . kill you. Kill you!" |
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He raised the rifle over his head like a club and charged. Cyrus let him come, then slapped the M-16 away with one arm, grabbed Dessotti by the shoulders and lifted him off the floor. Dessotti continued to kick Cyrus in the chest and scream: "Kill you!" over and over again. The man's eyes were as empty and devoid of humanity as the deepest darkest jungle. A tiny voice in the back of Cyrus's brain asked, Am I really any better? But the wolf wasn't interested in philosophical musings, and at least for the moment, the wolf was in charge. |
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Cyrus shoved Dessotti's head back and ripped into the man's throat with his fangs, gnawing through tendons and veins and stringy red meat and relishing the rush of hot blood that was as tangy and sweet as vermouth. Dessotti's mouth flew open, but nothing came out except gurgling sounds. Cyrus ignored the man's struggles and continued to gorge him- |
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