Being called a bitch was the least of her concerns. She had been called worse by better men than the corpses left behind in that alley. She snorted, and kicked dirt back into their shattered bloody faces. Given their remote location, it would be hours before the Pinks' bodies were found and much, much longer before the remains were identified. She made sure of that. The teeth were smashed into their braincases, and chunks of their flesh now soured in her stomach. Their severed digits jostled against each other within the churning acid of her guts. Digested fingerprints were impossible to read. Dental records weren't much good on gum lines. DNA tests were costly and time consuming.
Bastards, Sariah snarled.
They chose to hurl vulgarities on the one night on which she could not control the beast within her. She did not take particular exception to the terminology--in truth, they were tragically correct, in more ways than one. She was a bitch. It was the tone of their taunts, the rude gestures, the puffed chests and bulging denims. She hated that. And, in her present state, Sariah could not tolerate that derisive tough-guy, verbal swagger, or the eager musk that hung heavy in the air surrounding them.
Sariah turned on her heel to sling sarcasm in their direction. She was well practiced at verbal fencing; but the moment the bearded blonde grabbed his crotch, she lost her restraint on the killer she contained. The total transformation was sudden and painful; one moment a ravishing beauty, the next a raging beast. Sariah was a werewolf, muzzle curled, teeth bared and blood pumping with rage.
Her amber eyes flared as she growled, low and long, her hackles up from the ridge of her skull, down her spine to her ass. Even her tail bristled. Her nostrils flared. The men, leaned up against a building, had no where to run. She launched from her bunched hindquarters and slammed into them with an audible crush of concrete and bone. Pavement churned beneath her heels as she ravaged the rudeness out of them--along with their lives.
Even in her altered state, Sariah had enough presence of mind to disguise her crime. She crushed their skulls with bashing blows of her back feet, then turned and snapped off their fingertips. Their murders were crimes of passion, but the desecration of their corpses was intentional.
She shook her head to clear the tainted images. High pointed ears waggled and blood flew from her snout to spatter the ragged blouse which hung from her neckline. She looked down at herself. Tawny hide, curved claws, a ripped blouse, barely recognizable now, shoes gone; but the leather skirt still clung to her hips with a savage fit. A dark laugh caught in her inhuman throat.
Carnage and leather look good on me, she thought. |
