“Holy shit,” I whispered. The buildings behind me crouched, groaning like they intended to get up and hobble for a hot bath.
I took another two steps forward, through a knee-deep drift. The wind smacked me, rising and moaning eerily, loaded with stinging snow-buckshot. My jeans were sodden, clinging below the knee, and I couldn’t feel my feet. I lurched forward again, tripped over something buried under the snow, and fell headlong. My palms hit snow, and I hoped there was nothing sharp under its soft white blanket.
Good one, Dru. I floundered up to my feet, shaking like a dog to get the powdery stuff off me. Considered cursing, but another bolt of pain slung through my head, this one jolting down my neck and spreading across my sore, aching back. I let out a half-garbled sound and hunched, crossing my arms over my belly, cold burning against my cheeks.
I pulled back into my own head with an effort, clenching myself like a fist. My eyes ran with hot water, and I lurched to my feet, aware of how the light was draining from the sky.
Get to the truck. It was Dad’s voice again, urgent but calm. Get to the truck NOW. Run, Dru. Run.
I made it up and staggered. My feet were so cold I didn’t think I could run, but I gave it a go just as a low, hissing growl sounded behind me and something snapped like a flag in a high breeze. Snow flung itself up and the wind screeched. I leaped like a fish with a hook through its mouth.
“Down!” someone yelled, and habit grabbed me by the scruff. You don’t hesitate when someone yells like that.
I hit the snow again, full-length, and heard something roar.
Goddamn, that sounds like a shotgun. I floundered, rolled over on my back, and the world turned to clear syrup again, snowflakes hanging suspended, the sky flushed with one last long red smear of dying sunlight, and the werwulf hanging in the air over me caught in mid-snarl, a long string of saliva flying back to splat on the lobe of one high-peaked, hairy ear. Its eyes were like coals, and the white streak up the side of its head was familiar—I had time to see almost every hair etched on its pelt, as well as the ruins of a shredded pair of canvas pants clasping its narrow hips. Its legs bent back the wrong way, fully extended for the leap. Its long, lean face was screwed up in a snarl of pure hatred.
It hung there for what seemed like forever as I struggled against deadweight, a scream locked in my throat—and the world snapped again, with a sound like ice breaking over deep cold water. Something hit the thing from the side, and it tumbled, turning in midair, landing impossibly gracefully, kicking up a sheet of snow as it slid.
“Get up!” that voice yelled again. It wasn’t Dad’s, but I know the sound of a command under fire. I scrambled, made it to my feet, found out I’d lost my stocking cap, and bolted for the truck again.
I made an amazing running leap as my back tore with pain again, the chain-link fence sagging under my weight. Fingers and toes madly scrabbling, I muscled up and made it just as that huge booming sound repeated. Definitely a shotgun, but I wasn’t waiting around to find out. Adrenaline and terror boosted me up over the fence—I dropped a good five feet and jarred myself a good one when I landed, almost biting a chunk out of my tongue. It was ten feet to the truck, the longest ten feet of my life. I skidded on something icy under the snow and fetched up against the driver’s side, grabbed onto the mirror, and snapped a glance over my shoulder.
Someone crouched in the snow, shotgun socked to his broad shoulder and trained on the streak-headed werwulf. I saw a flash of black hair, lying down sleek and wet, before the gun spoke again. The wulf howled and tumbled away, a high arc of blood spattering free.
My brain kicked into overdrive. Gun. Get a gun. Keys. I dug in my left coat pocket, dragged my keys out—spilling out a few spare pieces of paper and a gum wrapper—and found the truck key. My fingers tingled madly. Lock might be frozen, oh God, help.
The key went in easy. I twisted it—and was rewarded with the little silver bar of the lock inside clicking up. I tore my key free, dropped it on the driver’s seat, and dug underneath the seat for the flat, heavy steel box.
The field box. It held a gun, ammo, and a couple other things you might need in a hurry if the situation went south. I was never supposed to touch it, but this was an emergency, dammit.
Another snarl. The sound almost made words. A werwulf’s mouth probably wasn’t built for human speech, but it sounded terribly, horribly almost human. As if an intelligent, murderous dog was trying to cry out.
“Come on, pretty boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He sounded like he was having a grand old time, whoever he was—I couldn’t see out through the windshield. I got the box open, and let out a relieved half-sob. The modified Glock lay there, three clips next to it, I racked one, chambered a round—it seemed to take forever—then ducked back around the driver’s door, gun pointed down.
Now that I wasn’t half-blind with fear, I saw a jagged hole in the fence, just big enough to duck through. The field was now trampled, snow flung all over the place and dead grass sticking up in spikes. How had that happened?
They circled each other, the boy—because he didn’t look any older than me—moving with fluid grace, his boots light atop the snow and landing like it was solid ground. The wulf limped and slipped, favoring its left side, and snarled again at him, the sound rasping at my brain like sandpaper. The streak up the side of its head glimmered just like the snow.
“I’m behind you,” I warned him, wishing my voice didn’t squeak halfway through. My throat was dry. The wulf’s coal-like eyes flicked toward me, back at the boy as he took another step, getting its attention again.
“You should get out of here,” the boy said conversationally, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Or seeing.
He had no footsteps. No footsteps at all. The powdery snow didn’t give under his feet.
“I’m armed.” I edged forward, raised the gun as he slid out of my field of fire. The circle they were drawing around each other was getting smaller with each step. “Besides, I’ve got some questions to ask you.” I raised the gun, sighted just like Dad taught me, and put some pressure on the trigger. Snow whirled down, the flakes getting bigger, the clouds overhead losing their bloody light as the sun slid under the horizon.
The werwulf snarled again, its lean muzzle wrinkling. Blood spattered loose, the snow steaming where it landed. My palms were sweating, wool gloves sodden with melted snow and my own fear. Hold it steady, Dru. Don’t point that thing at anything you don’t intend to kill.
It eyed the boy, and me, and a shadow of madness crossed its glowing gaze before it backed up two steps, shook its slim head, snarled again—then whirled and bolted.
He fired, and so did I. The wulf howled as bullets struck home. I aimed for its back and knew I’d hit it as soon as I fired; the shotgun blast probably wasn’t as effective. The wulf nipped smartly through a boarded-up window, leaving behind only a chilling howl echoed by the wind. Snow blew—and I half-turned, training the gun on the boy and breathing so hard my ribs heaved hysterically.
He lowered the shotgun and gave me a sidelong glance. His eyes were blue, like mine—but a very light cold blue, like the sky that morning before it clouded over. Winter blue. I saw this before the last bit of pink dusk faded out and the eerie orange half-darkness of snow reflecting city light replaced it, softening the sharpness of his profile.
“Who the hell are you?” I coughed once, rackingly, but the gun didn’t waver. A thin thread of melting snow slid down the back of my neck, and a few wayward curls that had worked free of the braid bounced in my face. “And why did you tell me to go halfway across town?” And why the hell did Dad have your number?