Page 44 of Bad Blood Wolf

What the fuck?

It was a video compilation of clips of house pets. Dogs of all shapes and sizes trying to befriend cats—nosing them, trying to play, following them as they walked away, wagging their tails and rolling on the floor in an ecstasy of frustrated love. The cats slapped them away, hissed, or flat-out ignored them—but the dogs kept trying.

And trying.

It was pretty damn funny. And it pretty much encapsulated their relationship.

A cat pushed a curly-haired terrier three times its size right off the bed when it tried to lick-kiss her, and Brody chuckled out loud.

And then the video changed. Gradually the cats responded to the dogs. Licking them, patting them with their paws, rubbing up against them, playing. Snuggling.

The video ended, and Brody found himself all misty-eyed, like an idiot.

But damn. Maybe there was some hope after all.

Brody responded to the message with two “ha ha” smiley emoticons. He wrote:

I like the ending.

There was another long pause.

Then, skylight’s open.

He smiled, warmth spreading through his chest.

There was something to be said for not giving up.

Problem was, he’d been so involved in the video, he hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on around him.

Fatal mistake.

He saw the hulking forms out of the corner of his eye, but it was too late. The phone slipped out of his hand, down between the seat and the center console.

The door was wrenched open as he was swinging his legs around. He hit Bastian in the stomach with both feet and sent him flying, the air jerking out of his lungs in a startled “oof!”

It didn’t save him.

There were too many of them, including the crazy-eyed ringer Bastian had planned to send in the cage against Jasmin. They dragged him out of the car, and the last thing he managed to do was grab the edge of the door and press the lock with his fingers before they slammed it shut.

He wasn’t getting away, but this way at least maybe he’d save his money. And his phone, to call for help when it was over.

If he was still alive.

He fought with everything in him—fought like the White Tornado, refusing to stay down, refusing to give up.

Blows rained down on him, bones breaking, and then he was shifting, but they were staying human, holding him down, holding his mouth shut and his paws together while Bastian stomped on his ribs, cracking one whole side. Pain sliced through his abdomen with every breath, and he felt a horrible gurgling in his lungs.

Everything seemed to slow down. The slicing pain spread to Brody’s skull, splitting it like a chisel splits stone, until his mind was broken in half.

And the monster came out.

His bones broke again in another shift, pain like he’d never felt before setting flash fires in his nerve endings, making his whole body seize. But when the bones reshaped themselves they were whole and strong, flesh knitting together, organs and blood vessels repairing themselves.

The monster tried to claw out of his skin, and all he saw was red rage and death. His howl filled the night, and he shook the creatures off him like ants. He would kill them, one by one, hunt them down, and none would escape.

Death.

He burned for it, howled for it.