Fang was not sure if the joy he felt hunting and running was a result of his affliction or something more universal from his former life.

All he knew, now, was that his paw-like hands dug deep into damp soil and kicked up satisfying clumps of dirt in his wake. His massive form heaved forward as fast as possible, his nose following the scent of death toward the graveyard. His ears would pivot, picking up on many measures of sound, wary of the clattering of bones. He could make out the rattle of the undead from the rattle of his chains he had slung across his chest.

A distant "Ah! Help!" filled his pointed ears.

The cries of the little girl, Corea, brought Fang to a skidding halt, throwing him into a tumble into a raised embankment of earth. He steadied himself long enough to pick up her scent and ran toward her.

Damn her, he thought.

Corea scrambled up the dying tree. Fragments of bark fell from the surface where her boot dug in, landing on the ghoul below. It reached up at her with its lone arm and an ineffective, rotten stump.

She sat at the base of a thick branch attached to the rotting trunk, her legs curled up to her chest, bracing herself on the trunk and another branch. The ghoul was not smart enough to climb, thankfully. But he wouldn't stop reaching for her until he had her in his grasp.

"Someone, help! Please," she shouted into the darkened forest.

She felt the branch creak under her weight. Soon it began to splinter. She grabbed the trunk of the tree, wrapping her arms around it. The sound of splintering filled the air, but it did not come from the tree.

From a growth of brush, the werewolf burst forth.