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The night was cool and ethereal. Wisps of fog drifted across the highway like wraiths and the forest was a living presence only a few dozen yards across the parking lot, a dark evergreen barrier as much keeping humankind out as holding the creatures of the wood in. The wind from the trees offered up a smorgasbord of tantalizing fragrances: the slick odor of impending rainthick enough to wring out of the air with his hands; the spicy-damp aroma of wet sequoias seasoned with a touch of ancient mosses; the cool, dry taste of decomposing wood. His ears detected the terrified scuffling of feet followed by the urgent beating of wings as an owl swooped down from its lofty perch. He felt the impact of the predator's talons and then inhaled the rich red soup that was a mouse's blood. |
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"How did I live before this?" he asked the trees. |
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The trees understood. Their answer was the mournful cry of a wolf deep in their murky heart. Cyrus's throat ached to respond and his muscles began to ripple, but he fought the change. It wasn't the right time. He was terrified by what had happened in Dessotti's penthouse and was twice as confused by his lack of remorse. But that haunting call came again and his resistance melted away like candle wax. The towel dropped from his waist and in a matter of seconds he was over the rail and streaking across the parking lot. By the time he entered the redwoods, he was fully changed, a sleek brown shadow flowing over brush and downed trees like a rushing stream. |
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