The gibbous moon threw everything into stark contrast, the brightly lit walls of Park Hall casting shadows so dark that the dead would be afraid to enter them. Not so Felicia, who crouched at the edge of a buttress in this Victorian folly. Her i-pod on a belt around her furry waist, she used her keen sense of scent to detect the presence of men and beasts.
The wall to her right gave off a faint wisp of ozone, indicating a fluctuation in the technographic field. Someone was coming out.
Claws flicked the music off. There was no need to warn her quarry with the sound of thrash metal.
© Rachel Green 2007