Allison's time as a werewolf had changed her. The late walks she took every few nights, dressed in black and carrying her bow, the more affectionate way she treated members of her pack...even her response to a threat was different.

Before the change, she was sharper, she was ready. Now, she was more than ready when she spotted Tara outside their building. On her way home from picking up milk and butter so she could bake (she had a really dangerous craving for her mother's chocolate blueberry muffins), when she saw her friend and the blood that stained her, and poor little Macha's paws, she didn't hesitate to let every black impulse in her nature rise to greet them...to shield them, to protect them.

"Tara?" she called out, jogging up to her and the dog. One of her folding knives was already tucked into her palm, body placed and angled to keep Tara and Macha against the building, with Allison's on the outside, safeguarding them.

Her free hand reached for Tara's, catching the one that held Macha's lead, ready to try and take it from her.

"Tara, there's blood. I need to know if you or Macha are hurt." she pressed, urgent but calm. Already, that dark stillness was filling her like a cup, the cold and vicious stillness that had been her anchor as a werewolf. It filled her, second by second, each one a drop of blood she would spill if Tara was hurt.

Each one a blow she would strike if even the dog had a scratch on her.