GENREALITY

A short and sweet post today:  Next week, my first young adult novel is due out from Harper Teen.  It’s called Voices of Dragons, and it’s an alternate history with dragons, rock climbing, jet fighters, and boyfriend trouble.

(Ever since my first book came out, I’ve found it useful to try to condense the premise into a one-sentence soundbite.  i.e. “It’s about a werewolf named Kitty who starts a talk radio advice show.”  People will always ask, “What’s your book about?” and if you take more than one sentence to explain, their eyes inevitably start to glaze over.  So one punchy sentence to sell the book.)

I’ve posted the first chapter over on my website, if you’d care to take a gander.  Voices of Dragons, Chapter One.

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Well, it’s about six weeks until the next novel release.  It feels like it’s been forever since I’ve had a book out.  It’s only been since March.  Usually we talk about time flying, but it feels like it drags when you have a book coming out!

Here’s the first bit of the next Kitty novel, Kitty’s House of Horrors.  Due out January 2010.

***************

Chapter 1

I knew if I stayed in this business long enough, I’d get an offer like this sooner or later.  It just didn’t quite take the form I’d been expecting.

The group of us sat in a conference room at KNOB, the radio station where I based my syndicated talk show.  Someone had tried to spruce up the place, mostly by cleaning old coffee cups and takeout wrappers off the table.  Not much could be done with the worn gray carpeting, off-white walls filled with bulletin boards, thumbtack holes where people hadn’t bothered with the bulletin boards, and both of those covered with photocopied concert notices and posters for CD releases.  The tables were fake wood-grain-colored plastic, refugees from the 1970s.  We’d replaced the chalkboard with a dry erase board only a couple of years ago.  That was KNOB, on the cutting edge.

I loved the room, but it didn’t exactly scream high-powered style.  Which made it all the funnier to see a couple of Hollywood guys sitting at the table in their Armani suits and metrosexual savoir faire.  They seemed to be young hotshots on the way up–interchangable.  I had to remember that Joey Provost was the one with slicked-back light brown hair and the weak chin, and Ron Valenti was the one with dark brown hair who hadn’t smiled yet.  They worked for a production company called SuperByte Entertainment, which specialized in reality television.  I’d looked up some of their shows, such sparkling gems as Jailbird Moms and Stripper Idol.

They were here to invite me onto their next show, the concept of which they were eager to explain.

“The public is fascinated with the supernatural.  The popularity of your show is clearly evidence of that.  Over the last couple of years, as more information has come out, as more people who are part of this world come forward, that fascination is only going to increase.  But we’re not just trying to tap into a market here–we hope to provide a platform to educate people.  To erase some of the myths.  Just like you do with your show,” Provost said.  Provost was the talker.  Valenti held the briefcase and looked serious.

“We’ve already secured the participation of Jerome Macy, the pro wrestler, and we’re in talks with a dozen other celebrities.  Name celebrities.  This is our biggest production yet, and we’d love for you to be a part of it.”

I’d met Jerome Macy, interviewed him on my show, even.  He was a boxer who’d been kicked out of boxing when his lycanthropy was exposed and then turned to a career in pro wrestling, where being a werewolf was an asset.  He was the country’s second celebrity werewolf.

I was the first.

While working as a late-night DJ here at KNOB, I started my call-in talk-radio show dispensing advice about all things supernatural, and came out as a werewolf live on the air about three years ago.  Sometimes it seemed like yesterday.  Sometimes it seemed like a million years had passed.  A lot had happened in that time.

Arms crossed, I leaned against a wall, away from the table where the two producers sat.  I studied them with a narrowed gaze and a smirk on my lips.  In wolf body language, I was an alpha sizing them up.  Deciding whether to beat them up because they were rivals–or eat them because they were prey.  They probably had been talking to Jerome Macy, because they seemed to recognize the signals, even if they didn’t quite know what they meant.  They both looked nervous and couldn’t meet my gaze, even though they tried.

This was all posturing.

“That’s great.  Really,” I said.  “But what is this show going to be about?”

“Well,” Provost said, leaning forward, then leaning back again when he caught sight of my stare.  “We have access to a vacation lodge in Montana.  Out in the middle of nowhere, a really beautiful spot, nice view of the mountains.  We’ll have about a dozen, give or take, well-known spokespeople for the supernatural, and this will be a chance for them–you–to talk, interact.  We’ll have interviews, roundtable discussions.  It’ll be like a retreat.”

My interpretation:  we’re going to put you all in a house and watch you go at it like cats and dogs.  Or werewolves and vampires.  Whatever.

“So. . .you’re not using the same model that you’ve used on some of your other shows.  Like, oh, say, Cheerleader Sorority House.”

He had the grace to look a tiny bit chagrined.  “Oh, no.  This is nothing like that.”

I went on.  “No voting people off?  No teams and stupid games?  And definitely no shape-shifting on camera.  Right?”

“Oh, no, the idea behind this is education.  Illumination.”

Ozzie, the station manager and my boss, was also at the meeting, sitting across from the two producers and acting way too obsequious.  He leaned forward, eager, smiling back and forth between them and me.  So, he thought this was a good idea.  Matt, my sound guy, sat in the back corner and pantomimed eating popcorn, wearing a wicked grin.

I had a feeling I was being fed a line, that they were telling me what would most likely get me to agree to their show.  And that they’d had a totally different story for everyone else they’d talked to.

I hadn’t built my reputation on being coy and polite, so I laid it out for Mr. Provost.  “Your shows aren’t exactly known for. . .how should I put this. . .having any redeeming qualities whatsoever.”

He must have dealt with this criticism all the time, because he had the response all lined up.  “Our shows reveal a side of life that most people have no access to.”

“Trainwrecks, you mean.”

Valenti, who had watched quietly until now, opened his briefcase and consulted a page he drew out.  “We have Tina McCannon of Paradox PI on board.  Also. . .Jeffrey Miles, the TV psychic.  I think you’re familiar with them?”  He met my gaze and matched my stare.  One predator sizing up another.  Suddenly, I was the one who wanted to look away.

“You got Tina to agree to this?  And Jeffrey?”

Both of them were psychics; Tina worked with a team of paranormal investigators on primetime TV, and Jeffrey did the channeling-dead-relatives thing on daytime talk shows.  I’d had adventures with them both, and the prospect of spending two weeks in a cabin in the middle of nowhere taping a TV show was a lot more attractive if I’d be doing it with them.

“What do you think, Kitty?  Do we have a deal?”

I needed to make some phone calls.  “Can I get back to you on that?  I need to check my schedule.  Talk it over with my people.”  Most of my people were already in the room, but the Hollywood talk amused me.

“Of course.  But don’t take too long.  We want to move on this quickly.  Before someone else steals the idea.”  Provost actually winked at that, and his smile never faltered.  Valenti had settled back and was regarding me coolly.

“You’re not scheduling this over a full moon, are you?” I said.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Provost said, way too seriously.

“Just one more question,” I said.  “Have you signed on Mercedes Cook?”

Provost hesitated, as if unsure which answer would be the right one.  I knew which answer was the right one:  if the Broadway star/vampire/double-crossing fink was on the show, I was staying as far away as possible.

“No,” he said finally.  “She turned us down flat.”

Wonders never ceased.  But they’d asked her.  And she’d said no, so that was a point in the show’s favor.  “Ah.  Good,” I said, and Provost relaxed.

We managed polite farewells and handshakes.  Ozzie and I walked the two producers outside to their rented BMW.  Provost continued to be gracious and flattering.  Valenti stayed in the background.  Sizing me up, I couldn’t help but think.

After they’d driven away, we returned to the building.  The summer sun beat down.  It had been a beautiful day, a recent heat spell had broken, and the air felt clean.  Smelled like rain.

I turned to Ozzie.  “Well?”

He shrugged.  “I think it’s a great opportunity.  But it’s up to you.  You’re the one who’s going to have to go through with it.”

“I just wish I knew what kooky tricks they have up their sleeves.  What are going to be the consequences if I do this?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said.

I hated that question.  Reality always came up with so much worse than I could imagine.  “I could make an idiot of myself, ruin my reputation, lose my audience, my ratings, my show, and never make a living in this business again.”

“No, the worst that could happen is you’d die on film in a freak accident, and how likely is that?”  Trust Ozzie to be the realist.  I glared at him.

“Who knows?  At best it’ll draw in a whole new audience.  To tell you the truth, with people like Tina and Jeffrey involved, it kind of sounds like fun.”

“You know what I’m going to say,” Ozzie said.  “Any publicity is good publicity.”

So far in my career, that had been true.  I was waiting for the day when it wasn’t.  “Let me call Tina and Jeffrey and find out why they signed on.”

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A while agoI wrote this Back to Basics post, and in it I talked about how I’d analyzed some reviews and reader letters to help list what my strengths were as a writer. I think readers and reviewers often see things in our stories that we are either unaware we put in (like certain aspects of ourselves or our own personalities) or things that we’re not sure they’ll get. for me MY PREROGATIVE had plenty of both of those things. While I was writing it I knew that because the main character was a bartender, (and I’ve been one for almost 20 years) that certain parts of my own life and experiences would certainly leak into the story. I also knew that I was creating a character that many readers wouldn’t ‘get’, especially since I like to create the characters and let the readers get to know them through their own actions without me having to hit them over the head with the same clues over and over. It thrills me to no end when I read a review and see that I’ve done my job, and someone has connected with, and understood, my characters.

Because of this review by one of my first time readers, I’ve chosen to give you an excerpt from MY PREROGATIVE today. It is an explicit one, but it’s also one that proves the point that in erotic fiction, the sex scenes are about more than just the sex.

* * * * *

The bar was packed that night and time flew.
I’d called my Mom after my talk with Val, and let her ramble on about Ariel’s wedding plans, my cousin’s new baby, and an interns position in one of the city’s top marketing firm’s she’d heard about. Yeah, more like she’d hunted down.
No matter how many times I told her I liked my job, she never quit trying to find me something ‘better’.
Whatever. I accepted that I’d never change her mind about following my own path.
A few drinks, plenty of flirting, and a complete lockdown on those pesky twinges of lonely had me feeling pretty damn good as I exited Risqué. It was my life, and I was living it the way I wanted.
Dave, the cocky young stud visiting Jack, was leaning against my car with his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s my last night here.” he said when I stopped in front of him. “I thought you might want to give me a going-away present.”
A tingle of heat started low in my belly. I hadn’t heard from Randy since I got back from Jamaica and my needs were riding me hard. Dave was pretty hot. Nice face, nice body, good sense of humor … and leaving town the next day. He’d be good for a quick fix, if nothing else. “Sure, hop in.”
The drive to my place was short, filled with flirtatious one-liners flung back and forth. Dave’s hand rubbed up and down my thigh as I drove and my temperature rose. When we hit a red light I turned and grabbed him by the shirt collar, pulling him in for a kiss. Our lips met, parted and meshed with the heat and passion only strangers can have.
Kissing a stranger – fucking a stranger, is hot. For me, the turn on came from more than what the guy looked like, or who he was. It came from the fact that we’d never see each other again. I could be free with a stranger, as down and dirty as I wanted, as sweet or as slutty, and not worry about repercussions. Or judgements. Or gossip. It was an aphrodisiac, and by the time I pulled back from Dave we were both panting hard.
“Is it much farther?” he asked.
Instead of answering I put the pedal to the floor and pulled into the parking lot of my building two minutes later. Dave got the hint and didn’t bother talking anymore. He smacked my ass when I went up the stairs ahead of him and pinned me to the wall on the first landing with a kiss.
His tall, lean body rubbed against mine as his hands ran down my back and fondled my ass. I started to lift my leg and wrap it around his waist but stopped myself and pushed him away to dash up the last set of stairs.
Dave caught up with me as I pushed the door open and we stumbled into my apartment together. The tank top I was wearing came off and I tossed it to the floor as I walked backward toward my bedroom, leading him along teasingly. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt and belt, dropping his clothes on the floor where he stood. I eyed his pants and he understood. Reaching down, he pulled a condom from the pocket. When he came up, my skirt and panties were on the floor and he tackled me with a growl.
We hit the ground kissing and touching, hands everywhere as we rolled around on the floor of my living room. It didn’t matter that we never made it to my bedroom; all that mattered was the feel of bodies rubbing together as we wrestled.
Dave tried to slow things down, to gentle me, but I wanted none of it. I didn’t want gentle. I wanted hard and rough and passionate. Pushing against his shoulders I finally gained the top position.
I sat up, straddling him. “Put the condom on,” I said.
Panting filled the room as he ripped out the foil package and reached between us to slide it on. I lifted up, and got rid of my bra.
He froze, slack jawed and staring as I pinched my nipples and tugged on the piercings.
“You are so sexy,” he said, his eyes glued to my every movement. A shudder racked his body and I grinned. His cock was so hard it was flat against his belly.
“So eager,” I whispered, trailing my finger over his cheek to the corner of his mouth. I played it over his mouth, dipping between his parted lips. “Do you want to fuck me, Dave?”
“Oh God, yes!”
“I’m not some sweet little girl, you know.”
“I know,” he panted the words out.
“Then do it.” I gripped his shoulders and rolled over again, pulling him on top of me. Wrapping my hand around the back of his head I pulled him down on top of me. I pulled my finger out and kissed him. I sank my hands into his hair and pressed my body against him. My mouth opened and I shoved my tongue between his lips. He met me with fire and passion, his body rigid and straining against mine.
No more foreplay, no more teasing. I reached between us to grab his cock and showed him the way in. Once his thick head breached my entrance, he started to pump his hips. I planted my feet on the floor and moved with him, but it wasn’t enough. “Don’t be gentle, Dave. Fuck me hard.”
“You asked for it,” he said. Bracing his hands by my shoulders he thrust deep and didn’t hesitate. His hips pumped fast and hard, shafting me so deep it almost hurt. Pelvic bones crashed and my clit absorbed every shock with a cry of pleasure. I wrapped my legs around his waist, closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride.
Dave didn’t last long at that pace, and soon he was grunting. “Come on, sweetness. Come on.”
I knew what he wanted, but I wasn’t even close to coming. I was just enjoying the feel of his body above of mine and his cock inside me. I tilted my hips to change the angle and gasped. That was it, right there. Dave started to adjust to my change and I grabbed his hips. “No, right there, baby. Don’t stop.”
Another grunt and he dug in. I moaned and grabbed my breasts, tugging on my nipples, pinching them until the pain shot through my body and made my pussy clench. Yes, there it was. “Yes, harder. Harder!”
He slammed into me and the pressure inside exploded. I caught my breath, and absorbed the sensations that washed over me.
“Yes!” Dave cried out, his back arching as his cock hit home one last time before he collapsed on top of me.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and stroked his hair for a few minutes while he caught his breath. When he rolled off me I got up and went into my bedroom for my robe. I slipped the silk kimono on and went back to the living room flicking the lights on as I went.
Dave was stretched out on the floor, naked and looking way too sleepy. I walked past him to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“I have tequila, would you like a drink?” I called out as I poured myself some over ice for myself. Please say no.
“No thanks, sweetness. I’m ready to crash now.”
Crash? No that wouldn’t do. I picked up the phone and walked back to the living room and flopped onto the sofa so he could hear me. “Yes, I’d like a cab please.”
Dave’s sleepy gaze snapped open at my words. His face went blank and he stood,heading for the bathroom as I gave my address to the dispatcher.
A minute later he walked back to the living room naked. “Thanks for that, I really should get going. My flight leaves early tomorrow.”
“You mean today,” I said.
“Yeah, today.” He glanced at his watch and grinned before pulling on his clothes. “No rest for the wicked, right?”
I shook my head and chuckled. I remembered when it was a point of pride to stay up all night. My skin began to tingle and that being watched sensation rippled over me again.
Turning my head I walked slowly to the balcony and focused on the building across the street that housed some pretty fancy lofts. And I spotted him.
A guy alone, in the window directly across from me. Light spilt out from the room behind him, delineating his silhouette and leaving his face in the shadows. I didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were on me, I could feel them. My nipples snapped to attention and my insides clenched in undeniable acknowledgement.

“MY PREROGATIVE is the perfect title to explore this intense tale of a naughty woman seeking love, but refusing to settle for the wrong man in her life… Ms. White grasped the concept of a woman’s needs and weaved a wonderful tale of realization. MY PREROGATIVE is an insightful and thought provoking page turner that I know you’ll enjoy.” —NightOwl Romance

“White proves again that she’s a force to be reckoned with…In Kelsey, the author has created a mature, fully developed character who is unapologetic about her sexuality and desires but is vulnerable in her desire to find a soul mate. While this book is a stand-alone, it is loosely related to White’s previous titles Bound, Trouble and Wicked.” — RT BOOKreviews

“Sasha White keeps her characters real and her storyline true with plenty of hot-n-steamy, I-need-a-fan kind of relationships. Her books are always fun and exciting, and this one is no different. I loved it!!” —Fresh Fiction.com

“Watching Kelsey go from throwing men away like used tissues to falling (against her will) for a strong hero like Harlan was a joy to read. I liked MY PREROGATIVE because it wasn’t your typical love story. There was no boy meets girl here; it was boy watches girl from afar and voyeuristic girl loves it! If you like erotic romance that’s not afraid to take a few risks, you’ll love MY PREROGATIVE.” —RomanceJunkies.com

Want to learn more about MY PREROGATIVE? Visit my Bookpage and read another excerpt HERE.

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Here’s something a little different.  This is the opening of a short story I wrote this summer for an upcoming anthology, Dark and Stormy Knights, edited by P.N. Elrod.  I’ve had to start picking and choosing which anthologies I write for, but I wasn’t going to turn this one down!

Short stories are fun for me because I get to explore characters and ideas that I don’t have room for in the novels.  It’s a great way to explore the world, and I think makes the novels richer in the long run since there’s a whole history I can draw on.  “God’s Creatures” features Cormac, the bad-boy bounty hunter from the series, and I had so much fun getting inside his head.

***

“God’s Creatures” by Carrie Vaughn

Cormac waited in the cab of his Jeep, watching each car that pulled into the rest area on I-25 north of Monument.  So far, none of them looked like the one he was waiting for.   A lot of truckers stopped here, with a few road trippers thrown in, all shapes and sizes.  McNeill would stand out, when he made his appearance.

Forty-five minutes after he was due, the aggressively souped-up pickup truck veered off the freeway and came up the lane.  It had oversized tires, lights on the rollbar, a gun rack–empty for now–in the back window and a Confederate flag sticker on the bumper.  McNeill was that kind of asshole.

Cormac stepped out of the Jeep; McNeill saw him and swerved to park a couple of spots down.  The guy climbed out of his truck and dropped to the ground.  He was tall and stocky, wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt over a white T.  He shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended he wasn’t cold in the winter air, but he was shrugging and tense, trying to keep warm.  Cormac waited for him.

“You’re supposed to be keeping your head down,” Cormac said flatly, prodding on purpose, knowing it would piss McNeill off.

“What?  My head’s down.”  He looked around, frowning, appearing smug because there weren’t any cops around.

“What’s your problem?”

“Registration sticker on your plate’s expired.  That’s like waving a flag at the cops,” Cormac said, nodding toward the back end of the truck.

“And I don’t give a fucking cent to an illegal government.”  He pulled himself straighter, like he was daring Cormac to make a big deal out of it.

Yeah, McNeill was one of those.  Didn’t seem to care that the cops wouldn’t get you on the weapons stockpiles or the conspiracy charges.  They nailed you on back taxes and traffic violations.  You covered your ass on the little things as the price of doing business.  But that was why McNeill was a go-between and Cormac did the heavy lifting.

“What’s the job?” Cormac said.

He’d gotten a call two days ago.  A rancher he’d worked with before had some trouble–Cormac’s kind of trouble.  They both knew McNeill, who spent a lot of time traveling around the state, so he sent McNeill with the details you didn’t talk about over the phone and the down payment.  McNeill didn’t know what exactly Cormac did.  He probably assumed he was some kind of hit man.

Which was mostly true.

McNeill went back to his truck and returned with a manila envelope, which he handed to Cormac.  He only took a brief look inside, finding a page of description and a business-sized envelope, thick with cash.  There’d be 10 hundred-dollar bills.  He wasn’t going to count it out in the open, but he did pull out a bill and hand it to McNeill for payment.

“Thanks,” McNeill said, shoving the hundred in his pocket.  “Good luck, man.”

Cormac had already turned back to the Jeep.

#

He arrived at Joe Harrison’s ranch in Lamar early the next morning.  The old man was waiting for him on the front porch of the ramshackle house.  The two-story building was probably close to a hundred years old.  It needed a new roof and a coat of paint at the very least.  But with a place like this, any extra money the family earned went right back into the ranch.  The barns and fencing would get repairs before the house did.

“Thanks for coming,” Harrison said as Cormac left the Jeep, and walked down to shake his hand.  The rancher was in his sixties, his face furrowed and weathered, tough as leather from spending his life raising cattle out here.  The kind of guy who was more at home with barbed wire and baling twine than a comfortable chair and a TV set.

“Let’s take a look,” Cormac said.

Harrison opened a gate in the fence, and they rode in Cormac’s Jeep, straight across the prairie for about three miles.  Harrison navigated by landmarks, pointing to show Cormac the way.

“There, it’s right there,” Harrison said finally, and Cormac stopped the Jeep.

Harrison led him to a spot where stands of scrub oak followed the contour of the hills, bordering the open plains.  A carcass lay here, partly sheltered by the wind, flattening the grass.  About a week old, Cormac guessed.  The steer, a typical rust-and-cream-colored Hereford, had been savaged, its gut ripped open from sternum to tail, its face and tongue torn out, its throat flayed.  Scavengers had been through since then — scraps of hair and bone radiated out from the remains.  Most of what was left were leathery skin and hair over a ribcage and a leering, ragged skull.

***

Read the rest of the story in Dark and Stormy Knights, edited by P.N. Elrod, due out in 2010.

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This is the end of the second chapter of my third novel, Kitty Takes a Holiday.  I use this section a lot to talk about suspense, about drawing out that moment from when the character (and the reader) knows that something, to when the story reveals exactly what is wrong.

***

I couldn’t sleep.  Part of me was squirming with glee at the mighty blow I had struck against my competition.  Er, mighty blow, or petty practical joke?  I’d been like a kid throwing rocks at the old haunted house.  I hadn’t even broken Ariel’s stride.  I’d do better next time.

The truth was, I was reduced to crank calls, followed by bouts of insomnia.

Run.  Let me go running.

Restlessness translated to need.  Wolf was awake and wouldn’t settle down.  Let’s go, let’s go–

No.

This was what happened:  I couldn’t sleep, and the night forest beckoned.  Running on four legs for a couple of hours would certainly wear me out to the point where I’d sleep like a rock.  And wake up naked in the woods, kicking myself for letting it happen.  I called the shots, not that other side of me.

I slept in sweatpants and a tank top.  The air was dry with the heat and smell of ashes from the stove.  I wasn’t cold, but I huddled inside my blankets, pulling them firmly over my shoulders.  I pulled a pillow over my head.  I had to get to sleep.

I might even have managed it for a minute or two.  I might have dreamed, but I couldn’t remember about what.  I did remember moving through cotton, trying to claw my way out of a maze of fibers, because something was wrong, a smell in the air, a noise that shouldn’t have been there.  When I should have only heard wind in the trees and an occasional snap of dry wood in the stove, I heard something else. . .rustling leaves, footsteps.

I dreamed of a wolf’s footsteps as she trots through dead leaves on the forest floor.  She is hunting, and she is very good.  She is almost on top of the rabbit before it bolts.  It only runs a stride before she pounces on it, bites it, and it screams in death–

The rabbit’s scream was a horrible, high-pitched, gut-wrenching, tea kettle whistle like screech that should never come out of such an adorable fuzzy creature.

I jerked upright, my heart thudding fast, every nerve searing.

The noise had lasted only a second, then silence.  It had come from right outside my door.  I gasped for breath and listened:  wind in the trees, a hiss of embers from the stove.

I pushed back the covers and stood from the bed.

Moving softly, barefoot on the wood floor, I went to the front room.  My heartbeat wouldn’t slow.  We may have to run, we may have to fight.  I curled my fingers, feeling the ghosts of claws.  If I had to, I could shift to Wolf.  I could fight.

I watched the window for movement outside, for shadows.  I only saw the trees across the clearing, dark shapes edged with silver moonlight.  I took a slow breath, hoping to smell danger, but the scent from the stove overpowered everything.

I touched the handle of the front door.  I ought to wait until morning.  I should wait until sunlight and safety.  But something had screamed on my front porch.  Maybe I’d dreamed it.

I opened the door.

There it was, lying stretched out in front of me.  The scent of blood and bile hit me.  The thing smelled like it had been gutted.  The rabbit was stretched out, head thrown back, the fur of its throat and belly dark, matted, and ripped.  The way it smelled, it ought to have been sitting in a pool of blood.  It didn’t even smell like rabbit–just guts and death.

My nose itched, nostrils quivering.  I–the Wolf–could smell blood, the thick stuff from an animal that had died of deep wounds.  I knew what that smelled like because I’d inflicted that kind of damage on rabbits.  The blood was here, just not with the rabbit.

I opened the door a little wider and looked over.

Someone had painted a cross in blood on the outside of my front door.

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