Michael sighed, his breath steaming out in a long white plume. This is hopeless. he thought. Get back inside before you freeze to death. Make sure nobody's hurt. Don't even know what you're looking for out here.
He turned back to the cabin, his shoes crunching lightly against the snow, then stopped.
Tracks, stupid. he thought. Look for tracks.
He crouched, scanning the garden around him by the dim light of the moon. A patch of muddy slush to his left could have been signs of someone. Maybe. The print didn't look exactly human, though. Too wide, with scratch-like depressions that resembled claw marks. More likely left by a bear, or a large dog of some sort.
He sniffed and rubbed his palms together for warmth. The air was thin at this altitude, and Michael had felt dizzy and nauseous since they'd arrived. He thought--not for the first time--what a stupid idea this trip had been. Why was a Philosophy major from Miami now squatting in the frozen heights of the Himalayas, freezing his Birkenstocks off and searching for tracks like bloody Daniel Boone?
Cory, that's why, he thought. With her long tanned legs and oh-so-modern ideas about destiny and fate.
Well, Michael didn't believe in fate. Didn't believe in destiny or karma or freaking cosmic coincidence.
He also didn't believe in werewolves, which is perhaps why he was so surprised when at that moment, a rather large one came shambling out of the darkness to his left and sank it's yellowed fangs into his throat.
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