The wolf is blind without the moon. He has no
way of knowing how much time has passed. He is in a place that is made of
concrete and metal and cold, cracked tiles that his blood has turned the color
of rust. There are rivets in the walls that stare at him like eyes in the
darkness. There are metal rings and loops of chains that hang like open mouths.
The wolf knows pain.
Death cards her cold fingers through his hair
and he whimpers at her. She looks at him with Laura’s eyes and echoes back the
sounds he makes.
The heels of Kate’s boots make clicking sounds
across the floor.
“Derek,” she says to the wolf. “Derek.”
He whines when she presses the probes of the
taser into his soft unprotected belly.
The electricity arcs through him. It is a
sharper pain than the wolf can understand. His body cannot take this pain and
process it. It is too fast, too much. It doesn’t escalate. It hits at a level
that is already so far past the wolf’s threshold for pain that he can barely
even whine. The pain is too much for the wolf’s body to contain. It snaps his
bones into different shapes, retracts his claws into blunt, grasping fingers,
and forces a human scream from his reformed larynx.