It would be poetic, you know, to say that Spoon howls Jordie's name. He doesn't. He dives for the zhirel who touched Jordie - Spoon's favorite - with murder in his eyes.

His golden eyes. And his claws, his shoulders, and every single other line of his no-longer-clothed body as in mid-leap he loses his grip on a human form. Fast, they called him, and loud. He's faster, and louder, and quite frankly the only way it could be worse is if he were a bitch and Jordie his cub.

The zhirel's neck snaps with a dull crack a merciful instant before the Brown Wolf, uncaring of wounds taken, rips her throat out and turns for another victim.