“Meow,” said the beautiful dark haired girl.
“Meow?” I asked, then gave the orderly a strange look.
The young balding man shrugged. “That’s Heather Clarke, the actress.”
“Meow,” said Heather Clarke. She licked her hand and used it to smooth out her hair.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She snapped last week. Been playing the part of Jemima in Cats for seven years, and now she can’t get out of character.”
“Hmmm,” I said, then turned and did the only thing I could think of: I barked.
Immediately her head dropped, her shoulders raised, and she spat and hissed at me. The hackles at the back of my neck rose, and I growled.
Quick as light, she unsheathed her claws and slashed. I stumbled backwards in pain, blood streaming down my face. I gave her one long canine gaze, then turned and left. I knew her smell. I could find her again. Anytime.
During the next full moon, I’d get my revenge.