Soon enough, another werewolf stood in front of Deirdre Collins, but this one was nearly seven feet tall, and close to 400 pounds of muscle, fur and claws. It reached out for her hand.
Deirdre considered what Becky had told her. If she ran, she'd be killed, if not by Becky then by Ronald outside. She didn't really have a chance. As much as she wanted to flee she'd have to fight that instinct.
Instinct. It made Deirdre chuckle nervously as she reached out her hand to the beast in front of her. Was it instinct that her neighbors were doing this? Ronald seemed weaker than Becky so he might have been a simple accident. His wife however seemed to have planned this. The she-wolf's gnarled, hairy hand closed over her own and the sheer surreality of it held Deirdre transfixed.
Sandy-furred arms encircled the redhead. Deirdre felt the werewolf's hot breath on her neck as slowly ivory fangs were brought down against her skin. She gritted her teeth just before Becky's jaws closed, a trickle of blood running down her shoulder.
Deirdre's veins were on fire. Desperately she gasped for breath, arms flailing against Becky. Her already striking green eyes snapped open, turning a paler, even eerier shade. Her face grew mottled, freckles bleeding into an exotic masklike pattern ringing her eyes as her canines sharpened and lengthened.
Becky withdrew her bloodied jaws from Deirdre's neck, and together they shared a howl...
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When Deirdre awoke, there was no evidence that anything had happened. Not a single item was out of place. She was in her bed, much as she would be any morning.
She prayed it was a dream, because nobody would believe her if it wasn't...