Sheryl Brown pounded the park trail, her breath a steady, rhythmic hiss in the humid morning air. Twelve laps. She pushed through the final stretch, her muscles screaming for relief, but she didn't slow down until the GPS watch chirped the final mile. To any onlooker, she was just another fitness enthusiast. To Sheryl, this was tactical maintenance. Her body was a weapon, and in Bayou Mounds, a dull blade didn't last long.

  After a set of incline pushups that left her shoulders trembling, she headed home. She turned on the small television in her kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water as the local news came on.

  Police Chief Charles Davis stood behind a cluster of microphones, his knuckles white as he gripped the edges of the wooden podium. He looked like a man trying to hold back a flood with a screen door.

  "At this time, we are still gathering evidence on the events at the Martin residence," Davis stated, his eyes darting toward the back of the room.

  "Chief! Do you suspect the wild dogs have returned to the city?" a reporter shouted.

  Davis wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "It's hard to tell, but I highly doubt a common stray was capable of the carnage found at that home."

  "What about the werewolf rumors?" another voice chimed in.

  The Chief stiffened, a look of pure disdain crossing his face. "Werewolves don't exist. Next question."

  Sheryl leaned against her counter, eyes narrowing. She watched the way his jaw tightened. He was lying—not necessarily because he was a villain, but because he was terrified. He was a man clinging to the "wild dog" theory like a life raft.

  "You previously suggested a highly aggressive breed, like a Pitbull or a Shepherd, was involved," a journalist pressed. "Do you stand by that?"

  "I do," Davis barked, his voice cracking slightly. "We are gathering facts. I can't give you details I don't have yet." He waited exactly two seconds, scanned the silent room, and practically bolted from the stage.

  Sheryl turned off the TV. Denial is a dangerous mask, Charles, she thought. Her internal instincts, forged in the blood of previous hunts, were already screaming. A dog didn't toss a Mustang into the trees. A dog didn't shred a front door like wet cardboard. She knew the signature of a Lycan when she saw it, and this one felt raw—unrefined and starving.

  A notification ring on her phone broke her focus. It was Dr. Jamie Custer, confirming their 11:30 lunch. Sheryl pulled herself together; she had to play the part of the cardiologist today, not the predator.

  The smell of toasted rye and sliced pastrami filled McCaffrey's Deli. Sheryl sat across from Jamie, picking at a salad while her mind remained miles away at the Sugar Mills crime scene.

  "So, how was your Saturday?" Jamie asked, unwrapping a sandwich.

  "Quiet," Sheryl lied smoothly. "Did some yard work, cleaned the house. Eventually, I just settled in to binge-watch some shows."

  "Busy woman, aren't you?" Jamie smiled.

  "I have to be." Sheryl took a slow sip of her tea. "Idle hands, right? It keeps the mind from wandering."

  "Wandering where?"

  "Life in general." Sheryl shrugged, maintaining a casual mask. "I keep things balanced, though. My cousin Karen and I do the weekend getaway thing—vacations, dinners, you name it. I'm not a total slave to the grind." She leaned forward slightly. "What about you?"

  "Not much," Jamie sighed. "Willis is at work for the weekend, so it's just been me rattling around the house. Did you hear about that massacre at the Martin house?"

  "Hard to miss it," Sheryl replied. "It's tragic."

  "I watched that press conference this morning," Jamie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not buying a word Davis said. He knows something. He's either hiding the truth or he's in total denial."

  Sheryl nodded slowly. "He's likely just afraid of reality."

  "So you think the rumors are true? The wild dog thing?"

  "No," Sheryl said, her voice dropping into a colder, more serious register. "It might be something much worse."

  Jamie's eyebrows shot up. "Worse? Like... what? Werewolves?"

  Sheryl gave a noncommittal hunch of her shoulders. "Maybe. Who knows? Just be careful out there, Jamie." She paused, her mind flicking back to a detail Derek had mentioned from the ER logs. "Hey, just curious... what was the name of that woman who came in the other day? The one with the wolf bite?"

  "I'm not sure. Kim, I think?" Jamie pulled out her phone. "Let me text Jade. She was on the floor that shift."

  A moment later, Jamie's phone chimed. She showed the screen to Sheryl. "Jade says it's Kimberly Watson."

  Sheryl's heart did a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. She pulled her own phone from her purse and typed the name into a secure note.

  Kimberly Watson.

  One of the most vital lessons Sheryl had learned since becoming a hunter was that coincidences were just patterns you hadn't recognized yet. A wolf bite followed by a slaughter was a straight line. She needed to find out where Kimberly Watson was, and more importantly, what she was becoming.

  Later that night, Derek and Olivia pulled their utility van to a curb three blocks away from the Martin residence. The neighborhood was dead silent, the air heavy with the lingering stench of a crime scene. When they reached the perimeter, the house sat beneath a web of yellow tape that fluttered in the breeze.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Derek walked into the fenceless backyard, his eyes adjusting to the low light. Olivia followed, clicking on a high-intensity flashlight and sweeping the beam across the trampled grass.

  "Stop. You see this?" Derek crouched, pointing a gloved finger at the churned-up earth. "Look at the tracks. The angle is all wrong for a person." He traced the path toward the shattered living room window. "The werewolf came from the tree line and threw a body through the glass. The force required to do that... it isn't human." He stood up, his nostrils flaring as he tasted the air. "Let's take this into the forest. I'm picking up a scent."

  Olivia reached for her holster, her thumb flicking the safety on her pistol. "I think we need to lock and load before we go out there."

  Derek drew his own weapon. They moved with practiced synchronicity, backs slightly bent as they eased into the thick brush behind the house. The deeper they went, the stronger the metallic tang of old blood became. Derek pushed aside a low-hanging branch and froze.

  Snagged on the thorns of a briar patch lay the shredded remnants of a blue skirt and a cotton top.

  "Here it is," Derek said, holstering his weapon to reach for the fabric. "Our evidence. Whoever this was, they transformed right here, then doubled back to the house to finish the job."

  Olivia knelt beside a series of deep ruts in the dirt. "They killed someone here first. Look at the trail marks. The body was dragged from this spot all the way back to the living room." She took the torn clothing from Derek and turned it over in the flashlight beam. "You smell that? It's specific."

  Derek leaned in, his enhanced senses cataloging the pheromones trapped in the fibers. "Female. And the scent is familiar."

  "A skirt confirms it," Olivia added, bagging the evidence. "Now we have to find out why. Why this house? Why these people?"

  "These mutations hit everyone differently," Derek said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked toward the dark canopy. "When I first turned, I didn't kill anyone—I stuck to deer. But the virus can activate motives that lie deep within. Dr. Marsh told me that once. It feeds on what's already there." He shook his head, clearing the thought. "Enough of that. Let's get this to the van and get out of here."

  Olivia nodded. "Roger that."

  Monday morning at the Bayou Mounds Zoo felt like a funeral, but Kimberly walked through the employee entrance with a stride that was almost light.

  "Hey, Kim," Paula said, catching her near the breakroom. She slowed her pace, her face twisted into an expression of practiced sympathy. "I'm so sorry about your friends. Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm doing fine," Kimberly replied. She didn't stop walking, her voice clipping the end of the sentence with sharp, efficient energy.

  Paula stood frozen, her mouth slightly open. She expected tears or a shaking voice—Kimberly and Gloria had been inseparable. The upbeat, almost predatory confidence in Kimberly's response felt wrong. It was a complete departure from the shy, insecure woman who had worked there just a week ago.

  "Hey Kim, do you have a minute?" Kellen called out from his doorway. He gestured with a stack of files. "Follow me to my office."

  Kimberly sat in the chair across from his desk, her back straight, her eyes fixed on him with a steady, unblinking intensity.

  "How's everything?" Kellen asked, leaning back. "Do you want to take some time off? This has to be tough for you."

  "I'm fine, sir. I'm ready to get to work."

  "If you say so," Kellen said, though he didn't look convinced. "But if you need anything, call me. Please."

  "Understood, sir." Kimberly stood up and exited before he could offer another platitude.

  Kellen watched her go, a frown deepening on his face. He looked at Paula through the glass partition, seeing his own confusion reflected in her eyes. Kimberly wasn't just handling the grief; she seemed to be thriving.

  At the end of the shift, Paula and Josh lingered by their cars in the parking lot. The sun was dipping low, casting long, distorted shadows across the asphalt.

  "What is going on with Kimberly?" Paula asked, leaning against her door. "She's acting like she won the lottery, not like her friends just got slaughtered."

  "She's been different since Bo bit her," Josh said, kicking a loose pebble. "It's like she's more upbeat. More aggressive."

  "She has more confidence," Paula noted. "I've never seen her like this. When she told you to kick rocks the other day, I almost didn't recognize her. But today was cold. No remorse for the dead. Nothing."

  Josh shrugged, though he kept glancing toward the zoo exit. "It's interesting. But it's her life. Everybody deals with death differently."

  Kimberly sat in her vehicle a few spots down, the engine silent but her senses screaming with a newfound clarity. She didn't need to see Josh and Paula to know what they were saying; her ears caught every dismissive syllable of their conversation as it drifted through the humid evening air. When Josh finally pulled out of the zoo parking lot, she trailed him with the patience of a predator, her gaze fixed on his taillights. The first stop on her revenge tour had been officially identified.

  Josh lived in a secluded home tucked away in the Oakland Hills. Kimberly parked a few blocks away, slipping out of her car into the shadows of the oak trees. Inside the house, the muffled sound of a classic western movie played on the television while Josh, fresh from the shower, settled in with a beer.

  Kimberly moved through the dark toward the property, her nostrils flaring at the scent of a dog as she entered the side yard. A Golden Retriever began to bark, its fur bristling in instinctive alarm. Kimberly didn't flinch. She let her human mask slip just enough for her eyes to ignite into a solid, electric blue. A low, guttural growl vibrated in her chest—a sound that carried the weight of the Gray Wolf strain.

  The dog went silent instantly, whimpering as it retreated into the corner of the fence. "Good boy," Kimberly whispered.

  Standing in the seclusion of the side yard, Kimberly stripped off her clothes, folding them with deliberate, chilling neatness. The transformation took hold of her with a violent crack of bone. Sparky, the Golden Retriever, watched in frozen horror as her frame ballooned into a hyper-muscular, eight-foot-tall engine of destruction. Her skin erupted in thick gray fur, and her fingers lengthened into obsidian claws. Now fully on her hind legs, the werewolf paced toward the backyard, her heavy footfalls muffled by the grass.

  Inside, Josh was leaning back on the sofa, his phone pressed to his ear. "Hey, let's go to Allen's Seafood on Friday," he said, oblivious to the shadow looming over his deck. "Yeah, I'll be there around seven. I'll make the reservations early. Love you too, babe."

  The second he hung up, the back door didn't just open—it disintegrated. The frame splintered, and the glass shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds as Kimberly surged into the living room.

  "What the hell!" Josh screamed, his beer bottle hitting the floor.

  He lunged for the front door, but the werewolf was a blur of gray across the room. She closed the distance in two strides, her massive hand snagging the back of his shirt. With a grunt of effortless power, she hoisted him high toward the ceiling and threw him face-first onto a heavy wooden table. The surface cracked under the impact, sending framed family photos flying in every direction.

  Josh lay slumped and unconscious. Kimberly stepped over the wreckage, her heavy breathing filling the room with the scent of wet fur and ozone. She grabbed him by the hair, lifting his limp head to stare at his face for a moment, savoring the silence of the man who had mocked her.

  Then, she drove her claws deep into his abdomen.

  Blood sprayed across the wallpaper in a violent arc as Josh's body went rigid, then finally, completely limp. With her hand still buried in his gut, she lifted him one last time, hurling him across the room with enough force to shatter the television screen. The electronics hissed and sparked against his broken form.

  The damage was done. Kimberly turned and exited through the jagged hole where the back door had been. Returning to the side yard, she felt the agonizing heat of the reversal as her body shifted back into human skin. Sparky remained pressed against the fence, refusing to make a sound.

  Kimberly retrieved her neatly folded clothing, dressed herself with steady hands, and walked back to her car. The night was quiet again, but the list was shorter.

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