She caught the railing with one trembling hand, just barely hanging on. But her fingers were so cold, she could barely feel them. And then he was upon her, leaning over the railing, his hot, fetid breath turning to steam before her eyes, clouding her vision. She saw a hint of wiry black fur, and a snout where his nose should have been. A white hot pain shot through her arm as something sharp and dangerous raked deep across the back of her hand. She was falling again, her fingers having lost their grip on the cement balcony, and all she could see was a haze of blood as the ground rushed up to meet her.
— Threads, Chapter 19
