Tentative title: Hunted
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 deserted alley.
Given their remote location, it would be a while before the bodies were found and much, much longer before the remains were identified. She had seen to that. The teeth were smashed into their braincases, and chunks of their flesh now soured in her stomach. Those severed limbs 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.
Bastards, Sariah snarled.
They had chosen 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.
She shook her head to clear the tainted images. Blood flew from her snout to spatter the ragged blouse which hung from her neckline. She looked down at herself. Tawny hide, talons, 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 looked good on her, she thought.