ONE MESA EDGE
Chenoa Cesspooch waited in Kyle Moon’s Ford while he went inside to pay for fuel. He had promised they would be home before one. Her mother had already called twice.
The radio lost its station.
Chenoa glanced up. A shape crossed behind the truck.
It appeared in the passenger mirror first. Black fur. A long, low body. Ears pricked toward the store. It moved like a coyote until it did not. With every silent step, its shoulders rose and its frame narrowed, as if it were changing its mind about what shape to wear.
Kyle came through the doors with a paper sack of snacks. The animal brushed his leg and slipped past him into the store.
“Big dog,” Kyle said, but he did not sound convinced.
Inside, Pony Atwine looked up from his register. Deputy Wes Freem stood at the coffee station with his back turned.
The fluorescent lights flickered. The coolers fell silent.
Chenoa pressed both palms to the dashboard. The animal rose behind Wes. Its back uncoiled. Its forelegs lengthened. In the dirty glass of the storefront, she saw a wolf-shaped shadow standing upright.
Wes turned at the smell.
The thing caught him with hands where paws should have been.
He hit a rack of chips. Glass burst behind him. For three seconds, Chenoa saw him thrashing in the bright store. Then the creature drove him into the counter. Blood sprayed the lottery display. The register toppled. The lights went out.
Pony ran for the office. The thing followed.
The restroom door blew apart. A shotgun fired once. Something slammed against the wall hard enough to shake the building. Then came a wet tearing sound, followed by silence.
Chenoa fumbled for her belt buckle. Her fingers would not work.
The passenger door ripped free.
A huge figure leaned into the cab. Its shoulders blocked the moon. Dense black hair covered its chest and arms. Its face was nearly human, except for its eyes, which reflected amber in the dark.
It placed one hand over Chenoa’s mouth. The other tore the belt from its anchor.
She kicked. The creature lifted her out anyway.
Kyle screamed her name and fired the .22 from beside the pump. The bullet struck the figure in the shoulder. It did not slow. It carried Chenoa into the greasewood beyond the lot.
Kyle fired again. A second shape dropped from the roofline above him.
By the time the lot went still, Kyle was hanging upside down from the Mesa Edge sign, his rifle dangling from one limp hand.
A man stepped out of the store. He wore no clothes. He was lean, dark-haired, and clean except for the dark smear around his ankles. His eyes flashed gold when he looked toward the trees.
He stared at the bullet hole in the dirt, then at Kyle’s body.
“Not ours,” he said.
Then he walked into the desert.