Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

Now just a sack of bones, tossed aside in a crumpled heap, the coyote exhaled his last breath—which seemed to suddenly fill the lungs of his consort as she began to scream in vengeful horror. The derailed canine streaked forward in her frenzy, bold, crazed eyes set on her mate's killer. She could already taste his blood, her demented thoughts drawing her blindly into a black pit of hatred that caused her to forget something. Diane intercepted her.

She was a sun in motion. All blinding gold and white teeth. Everything for her moved in slow motion, and the true predator within Diane saw the widely exposed neck, traced the angry, pulsing jugular vein, and aimed for absolutely nothing else. The pure connection was exhilarating. And the resultant thrashing was arousing. She felt claws against the side of her neck, just behind her ear, and briefly it registered to her that pain was welling there, but too much of her focus was on the present action to react to it. The vile (and satisfying) sting of the alien coyote's blood hit every corner of her mouth, and through tender throat flesh she sought to bring her upper and lower canines together.

It struggled, but caught off guard and weakened, Diane was easily able to press the scrawny creature into the ground and drain the life out of her like a lioness on an antelope. An eternity flew by before she let go, panting and dripping red in heavy droplets, 99.9% her opponent's.