werewolves
Jane flew through a cutlery shop window and disappeared in glass.
“JANE!” Kim ran, skidding to the jagged frame. Inside, the white wolf whimpered, five steak knives jutting from her back. “She’s wounded,” Kim breathed.
Sara turned to cut the angle off.
“We can’t reach her,” Jake said—then saw the mounted Vulcan on the gantry. He shoved the syringe into Kim’s hands. “Hold this.”
“What?!”
“Trust me.” He sprinted up the stairs. “Hey! Bitch-face!” The Vulcan spun up and sang—BRRRRT—ploughing a curtain of sparks and ricochets. The hellhound juked, furious, pinned on movement instead of meat.
Bab Populer