She spun her hand in a slow circle.
The werewolf began to spin. His body lifted off the ice and rotated in the air, slowly at first, then faster, then very fast, until he was a spinning mass of gray-and-black fur being whirled inside his invisible cage like a snowball caught in a centrifuge. His whimpers became a continuous, tumbling wail.
Stan snorted. He couldn't help it.
The sight was, in the specific way that only karma could produce, deeply satisfying. The same werewolf who had dragged Stan's face across the polar ice a few hours earlier was now spinning helplessly in mid-air like a hamster in a broken exercise wheel, while a Royal Blood vampire toyed with him for sport.
Camilla stopped the spin.
The werewolf collapsed onto the ice in a dizzy, wheezing heap. His transformed body twitched. His limbs would not coordinate. He tried to stand and fell over sideways with a small, disoriented whine.
Camilla shook her head. "You are terrible at this."
