The Stray Moon
“It’s over.”
For a second, she goes still. A single shudder rolls from nose to tail. I don’t know if she understands the words, but she knows the tone. She remembers. That’s the problem with turned wolves—they remember everything.
Then the real shift hits.
It starts at the spine, right beneath my grip. I feel it before I hear it, the vertebrae seizing and then cracking in a chain reaction down her back. She bucks, tries to rear up, but I anchor her head to the ground and brace for the rest. Her claws rip divots in the frozen earth, scrabbling for leverage. The toes flex, curl, and then the nails retract, human digits pushing out through black pads, skin pale and bloodless in the cold.
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