Little girls were his favorite kind of prey.
It wasn't that he liked to hear them scream (though he did). Nor that their blood tasted sweeter when he bit down (though it did). Nor was it even that they always, always cried (though they did).
It was because little girls always wanted to play "pet the puppy." They always saw him-- 150 pounds of hulking wolf--and they ran towards him, when any human with even an ounce of self-preservation would have runaway. They cooed, "Doggie!" and put their hands out, and it was only in the seconds right before he bit down that they realized something was wrong.
He waited patiently in the shadows for the girl's mother to go inside, his keen wolf ears registering the sound of her ringing telephone. As soon as the girl was alone, he crept forward, looking nonthreatening with practiced ease. The collar around his neck chafed, but it was a necessary part of the ruse.
She didn't disappoint. "Puppy!" she exclaimed, bounding forward.
As soon as she was close enough to touch him, just before her tiny fingers made contact with his fur, he darted away. She gave chase as he loped down the street. Slowly… making sure she could keep up… he led her far enough from her mother's watchful gaze. Already, he could hear her calling for the child.
Too bad. His need was more important.
A little farther.
Just a bit more.
He stopped and turned around. "Gotcha!" the girl cried, beaming.
No, he thought. I got you .
He lunged for her, teeth bared, growling in the back of his throat.
He saw the moment she realized what was going to happen. He savored her fear.
His jaw closed around her.