When you first learned of werewolves' amazing regenerative powers, you didn't appreciate how you'd experience all the pain of a month-long recovery in a few minutes. Now you know how your flesh gropes clumsily like a blind man, sealing itself back together, repairing torn nerve endings in a frenzy of agonizing life-urge. In seconds, the living energy of Gaia has healed you inside and out and left you shuddering from pain and nausea.
It's past midnight and traffic on the nearby road is infrequent, so you lope easily across the street, careful to avoid cameras, until you spot Clay's rusted-out Chevy Astro. You stop in front of the Speedway's big glass windows, because you don't see yourself like this often: a titanic wolf, your bulk prehistorical and monstrous, with enormous canines and bright, clear eyes—intelligent eyes. In the relative darkness of the parking lot, you can't even see any blood on your fur, which is—
Inky black.
Gray.
Dappled gray-brown.
Silver.
White.
Brown.
Red.
Golden.
Blue-gray.
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