Changes in Attitude

Cyrus Delton figured things had gotten about as bad as they were gonna get. Oh, maybe he was tempting fate by thinking it, but when you were running from the law, bleeding from at least two bullet holes, and trying very hard not to wolf out until you were in a place where you could hide it?

Yeah. Pretty much hitting rock bottom.

Maybe if he was lucky the earth would open up in front of him and some monster that Marcus conjured up would eat him.

His ex was good at monsters.

Not that he and Marcus had been anything but a business arrangement, at least as far as Cyrus was concerned, but tell that to Marcus. Hell had no fury like a necromancer scorned, that was for damned sure.

Crouching behind a late seventies Oldsmobile, Cyrus checked his danger areas. He needed to make it to the tricked-out SUV he kept parked in the lot at the Holiday Inn about fifteen blocks from the condo he and Marcus had shared. It was always good to have a getaway that no one knew about, right?

Not that Marcus couldn't find him...

Right. Best not to think about that. Cyrus checked one last time for anything that might be hovering/floating/slithering around him and made a break for it, his right leg buckling under him a little. He was going to do this thing, damn it. He was gonna make it.

The thing, whatever it was, took him down maybe three steps from his vehicle, attacking from above. It hit him across the shoulders, a line of fire springing up in the wake of some kind of claws. His knees cracked against the pavement, and Cyrus felt the wolf try to rise up to the surface, felt his face trying to lengthen and grow fangs.

Damn it. Still too fucking public. He rolled, pulling his shotgun out of his custom leg sheath, letting gravity help him cock it. The bolt slid into place just as the damned creature attacking him swooped down again.

Cyrus shot it in the neck, the sound of leathery skin splitting filling the air just before hot, acidy blood spilled down on him. The thing screeched, like rusty metal against a concrete floor, and Cyrus cringed when it assaulted his ears.

He pumped the damned shotgun again, chambering another shell, trying to get the face this time.

The blow took off the top of the creature's head, which Cyrus figured was a damned good thing. Until he realized that it was hovering over him, and thus falling on him when it died.

Falling hard.

The last thing Cyrus saw was a huge, spiked tail, curled into a death spasm. Then it hit the side of his head, and all he knew was blackness.

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