THERE was the wind. And with it the occasional twitch of a critter in the undergrowth nearby.
The world was human, pine-scented, a peaceful sort of dark, with the persistent background chirp of traffic, car horns, the occasional high-low wail of a siren.
These sounds meant virtually nothing to the wolf. They were merely distracting elements, like static getting in the way of a radio frequency.
It surveyed its domain, calm, in control and at peace.
A shift of wind direction from the northwest brought a startling and disconcerting new smell to its nostrils.
It paused, turned to face northwest and let out a low, guttural growl.
There was another. And it was close.
YOU ARE READING
A Canadian Werewolf in New York
ParanormalBeing a werewolf isn't all about howling at the moon and running carelessly through boundless fields feeling the wind in your fur. For Michael Andrews, a Canadian living in Manhattan and afflicted with lycanthropy, there are odd side effects to bein...
