Peril I could take. Women made me shiver.

Myra and I stepped apart as the elevator opened and John came out. He had a scratch on his cheek. It was light, but I could see four jagged red lines and the glistening of wet blood. John had been clawed by something. I tensed up, knowing things were about to get bad.

John didn’t walk over to us; keeping his distance instead. He just stood there with the fake smile all but gone. He had a dreamy, disoriented look about him, like he was drugged or suddenly overcome with fever. He mumbled something about beer and suddenly walked into the kitchen. I gave Myra the silent “scram” signal, but she wasn’t having any of it. She had no idea what we were dealing with. To tell the truth, neither did I, but I had my guesses. None of them were good.

“Myra, could you give me a hand?”

It was John calling from the kitchen. His voice was different. In fact it seemed to change as he spoke. It went from normal to a low grumble in mid-sentence.

I shook my head at Myra, but she shook hers right back. “It’s okay,” and she left the room before I could stop her.

I don’t know what was wrong with me. Maybe the new surroundings threw me off my game. I couldn’t get my bearings on the situation. I felt trapped and exposed. I was acting like a guest in someone’s house even though there was danger in the air. I had to force myself into action.

I checked my gun, making sure it was loaded, then tucked it back into my belt as I moved quickly toward the kitchen. The hairs on my arm stood on end.

I halted just outside, jumping across the entryway to get a quick assessment of the situation inside. As I moved past the door, the service elevator behind me went down to the basement on its own. In the kitchen, I saw blood, a huge swelling pool on the floor.

I feared Myra was already dead.

John thought he was fast, but I heard the noises he made—claws clicking on the ground, clothes tearing beneath a growing body. I knew what I was dealing with. John and Sean were motherfucking, baby-eating, friend-murdering, ass-licking, piece-of-shit werewolves!

I ducked back toward the couch and tried to look normal. John came through the door, but he was covered in shadow. I couldn’t get a clean look. He was human, but his clothes were ripped. I didn’t want him to suspect that I knew so I let out a momentous belch and picked up the bottle of Beam. It seemed to work. He came striding into the room smiling.

Then his clothes began shredding from his body. His hands and feet were already claws and paws.