Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Werewolves that bit dogs transmitted the carrier curse to them, and they infected other humans the same way. Similar to a virus—and when a virus jumps from one species to another, it mutates. A human infected by a dog will still transform under a full moon, but now he’ll exhibit certain characteristics of the canine that actually bit him—and he’ll pass those on to the next person he bites.”

    Visions of were-Chihuahuas dance in my mind; I think they’re doing the Macarena, but it’s hard to tell. “So if I have to deal with some yappy little bureaucrat, he’s probably just channeling the yappy little dog inside him?”

    He laughs. “More than likely. It doesn’t necessarily mean he was bitten by an infected dog, either—just that one of his ancestors was. The traits are passed down genetically as well.”

    “And what’s in your family tree, Dr. Pete? No, wait—let me guess.”

    I mock-squint at him. The shaggy brown hair reminds me of a cocker spaniel, but it’s not curly enough. Brown eyes, more soulful than sad—not basset hound, but maybe beagle. Average-size nose, which eliminates the pugs and greyhounds but leaves everything in between. His name doesn’t give me much of a clue—Adams is probably British, but it’s pretty generic.

    “How about a hint?” I say.

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    “All right,” he says, and I can hear the mischief in his voice.

    He transforms.

    I’m not sure what I expected as far as the actual process goes; probably either the instant morphing you see so often on television, or the extended, bone-cracking version movie directors love to inflict on their audiences. What I get is somewhere in between—
    not instantaneous, but not three minutes of skin-stretching agony, either. I guess it takes about ten seconds, total, and the most disturbing thing about it is how it sounds: kind of like someone squishing raw hamburger in their fist while chewing a mouthful of peanuts with the shells still on.

    In the movies, werewolves are always snarling and growling and generally looking vicious. Dr. Pete opens his mouth and pants at me, like a—
    “Collie,” I say. “You’ve definitely got some collie in you.”

    He nods agreement, which is a lot cuter than scary; it somewhat offsets the fact that his eyes are a vivid, unearthly yellow. I stare at him, noting that while his head appears pretty wolf-like, the rest of his body hasn’t changed that much. His chest is a little broader, his arms a little bigger, and his hands have turned into big, furry things with wicked-looking claws on the ends. I duck my head under the table and see that his legs—sorry, his hind legs—now crook backward the way an animal’s do. His shoes have fallen off, but he’s still wearing socks, which looks faintly ridiculous.

    I straighten up. He does something nimble with his hands, but unfortunately I don’t speak were–sign language; I’ll have to do something about that.

    Changing back takes him about the same amount of time. “Collie on my mother’s side,”
    he says. “Some black Lab on my father’s.”

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    His tone is light, but I can feel the sudden surge of alertness in him. He’s worried that seeing him transform will be too much for my fragile psyche to handle.

    “I could use some more coffee,” I say. I hand him my cup. “Fetch?”

    He laughs more like a terrier.

    The golem finds us in the cafeteria.

    He—it?—isn’t what I expect. Dr. Pete’s description of “a human-shaped plastic bag filled with sand” had me envisioning something like a lumpy yellow blow-up doll, minus the orifice options. What stands in the doorway is a broad-shouldered figure a little over six feet tall, wearing a very sharp pin-striped suit of dark blue, matching fedora, and polished black leather oxfords. His skin is darker than his shoes, and just as glossy; his features seem sculpted out of black