All at once, blood both boiled and rushed ice through his veins; coat bristled, and alongside baring teeth was the extension of daggers in his hand... the only hand he had left.
Raising his snout to the air was totally unnecessary — he knew that smell, that stink, that reek of sin and lust. A cloud of such a thing, or perhaps a shadow, had lingered in and around the Valley for weeks, months on end. Jefferson always found the scent just moments too late, always in the wake of the crime, always just missing the shadow. Not this time. He was close. The demon was near. Too near — yet too smart to play with fire.
Breathing hot air from his nose, the cyclops moved like wind; no missing limb would restrain the rage that built with increasing fury at every pounding step, every heaving breath expelled from his lungs. Green eye glowed gold, like a merged emblem of Phoenix Valley, as if the pack's spirit possessed him in blind ferocity. He came upon Lucifer unhindered by silence and weaponry; claws of his single hand raised and extended, Jefferson released a horrible roar of a sound from the very depths of his throat, rising like hellfire from Satan's lair. Jowls released, morbid yet pearl daggers unsheathed from within, and at the dark man's throat he lunged.
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