The other was close, that was for sure.
The hairs on the back of its neck bristled. The growl lingered in the back of its throat. Forepaws pushed down, sinking slightly into the sod, legs prepared for a sudden leap.
Then a word, a human word cut through the night.
“Michael!”
It didn’t recognize the word, couldn’t understand human-speak. But there was something familiar about the high pitched timbre of the voice. This was a human creature that it somehow knew.
Another shift in the wind brought its scent to him.
YOU ARE READING
A Canadian Werewolf in New York
ParanormalBeing a werewolf isn't all about howling at the moon and running carelessly through boundless fields feeling the wind in your fur. For Michael Andrews, a Canadian living in Manhattan and afflicted with lycanthropy, there are odd side effects to bein...
