Drake wasn’t sure what to make this new information and looked at the curator, who now had an ugly look of contempt on his face.
“Well done, Woodsman,” he said. “Looks like you’ve got me now.
Mathewson then threw his cane aside and with a remarkable athleticism for someone of his and girth, leapt off the top of the stairs. He began changing in mid-air: with a sickening crunch of bones shifting and fabric tearing.
By the time he landed on the Woodsman, he was a silver furred wolf, easily twice the size of a regular wolf. The Woodsman’s thick jacket took the brunt of the attack, but Mathewson was not finished, rearing his head back to bite down on the man’s neck.
Drake grabbed a DO NOT TOUCH sign and shoved it between the creature’s jaws.
Pausing only to reflect on the sign’s appropriate message, Drake dropped down, transferred his weight to his hands and kicked out with both legs, knocking the werewolf off its victim. Snarling, it picked itself up, focusing on the interloper.
“Alright Fido,” Drake taunted, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Mathewson lunged right at his throat. Drake ducked, but misjudged the speed and both man and beast went crashing to the floor…”
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