Stan tried to scream again but his throat produced only a wet, ragged sound.
The werewolf smiled and tossed him aside. Stan hit the ice again. He did not have the strength to roll. He lay on his back in the snow, his blood pooling around him in a spreading circle, and stared up at the pale Antarctic sky.
The werewolf stood over him.
The other three watched from a distance, statue-still, their expressions carrying the small, contemptuous amusement of hunters who had confirmed that the prey was not worth their personal effort and were content to let their leader take his time.
The werewolf's smile had not changed. It had not changed at all.
For the entire duration of the mutilation, the throwing, the dragging, the scoring, the crushing, his face had held exactly the same calm, faintly interested, faintly amused expression. As if none of what he was doing was of any consequence to him. As if breaking Stan into pieces was simply an aesthetic exercise.
