Zoe Whittaker crouches nervously behind the tree stump, trying to rationalize the sight she’d just seen. It’s the thin air, she thought. Maybe it’s the coffee, or maybe
I didn’t get enough sleep last night.
Or maybe, just maybe, those two women just turned into monsters.
“Adjust tripod up, please.” Miles Drake’s impatience sounds through clearly; he’s always impatient, especially when he was cinching a killer story.
Zoe’s sight locks on the she-creatures, pawing and pleasuring each other with wild abandon. Were she not so scared, she might have laughed at the pun.
“Zoe,” Miles hisses, as quietly as could be managed. “I need this tripod adjusted, and I have to sight focus while it’s done. Snap to it!”
The young journalism intern pops back to reality. “Sorry, sir,” she says, and begins re-bracing the legs of the tripod. A wind picks up behind them, whipping her
long brown hair into the tripod crank. She curses under her breath as she freed it.
Miles sighs, adjusting his thin glasses. “It’s amazing, I know. Just think, we’ll be famous, you and I.” His focus returns to the viewfinder as the she-wolves sprawl
on the ground, howling and reveling in their natures. “Just imagine it, Miss Whittaker. You and I, the first photography team to capture real werewolves on film!”
Zoe nods weakly, turning her attention back to her binoculars. She marvels, despite their animal appearance, at how human they were acting. It was as if they were
making love instead of mating. Maybe they were doing both. “I wonder if they can see us.”
Miles snuffs. “Highly unlikely. They seem rather self-absorbed right now.” He extends a palm. “New roll, please.”
Zoe fishes in her pocket for a new roll of film, and hands it absently to Miles. They’re beautiful, she thought, and she was losing herself in those hypnotic golden
eyes as the gray she-wolf looks directly at her.
“Humans,” Ashmane snarls. “The wind betrays their scent.”
Your ears perk up, sensitive to the sound of moving machinery and whispered chatter. “Two. Male and female.”
Ashmane licks her lips. “The female is entranced. She might make a good packmate. All we need do is bite or scratch her.”
“So could the male,” you growl. “Or maybe he could be a feast for us.”
Ashmane nods, shifting subtly to her haunches. “We can catch them easily. What should we do then, Snowclaw?”