The Bitch is back... (Sariah snippet)

**Yes, Everyone, your favourite werewolf bitch is back in the posts. All I have to say, as the author, is when in sour mood, kill something...**

Sariah dove into black maw of the shop's damaged door.

She rolled, shoulder-spine-hip and up onto her feet. She sidestepped the light pouring through the open frame and cast about for a closet, a cupboard; anything which might contain clothing. There in the corner of the cluttered, dingy backroom stood a small row of lockers.

Padlocks reflected flashlights outside the building as Sariah axe kicked one of the locks off. She wrenched the door open and ransacked the locker.

Hands full of durable twill and denim, she ran for the bathroom. She slammed the door, and forced the bolt into the lock. Sariah trained her ear to the door, listening for others in the shop as she pulled the stiff clothes over her sensitive skin. The denims slipped off from her hips, and the collar and sleeves of the shirt gave her a bedraggled look. The collar brushed her chin. Cheap spicy odor wafted up her nose. She gagged.

"What the hell kind of cologne is this?" She snorted.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and struggled to hold her breath as she stood in the locked, darkened bathroom. She heard footsteps outside the door. The door knob jiggled. The door rattled behind a banging fist.

"Damn thing is locked!" Someone cursed.

No shit, Idiot! Sariah snorted to herself; then suffocated on the stench her snort brought in. She huffed for breath, her hand still over her mouth.

Again, the door rattled. The same man swore.

"There's got to be keys somewhere," his companion said. "Start looking!" The second speaker seemed more level headed. Too bad he was a male.

Sariah's acute hearing took in their departure. She cranked the lock open, shoved the door and ran down the two patrolmen. She caught up the first before he could turn to face her. Her hands smashed against his temples, her arms wrenched viciously, and his neck broke between the first and second vertebrae without so much as a whimper. Her eyes flashed like an animal's as the remaining man aimed his flashlight at her.

She could see him, quivering where he stood, holding the flashlight in shaking hands. Controlled change was useful, and fairly painless. It was time to play…

She snapped her hands out, her Were claws ripping through the tips of her fingers. Her jaw elongated, drool dripped from between her fangs.

"Little pig, little pig," she mocked the officer, "Let me in!"

He squealed in fright, dropped his flashlight in favor of his gun. Sariah charged. The muzzle came up, pointed high and to the right. The hammer came down. A bullet ripped through her shoulder, the force knocked her back to her feet.

No silver.

She laughed only, and then lunged.

He brought up a knee toward her midsection and Sariah cut through the thigh muscle down to the femur. He yowled in pain and yet still fought to use his nightstick as her jaws settled into his shoulder. One good wrench of her neck and his struggle for the club was over; the shoulder separated from the socket. He threw his good arm up, but it was scant defense against this woman scorned. She raked at him with her elongated claws, snapped at him with her Were jaws – a side swipe across his stomach, upper cut to his jaw, and then silence.

His body crumpled as it followed his spilled innards on their outward path to the floor.

A fourth man fell beneath her that night – bloodied, ravaged, disemboweled – just like she liked them. She stood, focused her mind and forced her hands and face back to normal. Sariah smiled. Her stolen clothes remained clean. She squatted down, scooped up her last victim's arm, using the sleeve to wipe the sanguinary slop from her fingers and mouth.

"Stupid ass men," she spat. "You should have stayed out of my way."