Julie whipped around and dashed down the stairs, her satchel in her hand.
Blood kept gushing in a heated flood, drenching his shoulder. Normally Lyc-V would’ve recognized the neck cut as fatal and sealed it nearly instantly, but the virus that granted his regeneration was dying in record numbers. He bled like a human, getting weaker with each beating of his heart. His hold on consciousness was slipping. His brain, starved of oxygen, was going to sleep like a dying fish. He hooked his claws into reality. A normal human would’ve been dead within seconds. If he could stay conscious, if his heart pumped enough silver-poisoned blood out for Lyc-V to recover, if the silver didn’t reach his brain, he might survive.
Below, Julie drew a circle with white chalk around the stairs. A ward, a defensive spell. He doubted the chalk alone would hold the hounds or the hunter. She pulled the arrow from her bag and scratched a second line into the concrete floor, making the second ring inside the first chalk line.
The boar-hound appeared in the gap where the front wall used to be, silhouetted against the moonlight. He willed himself to move, but he could do nothing.
Julie yanked a small squeeze bottle out of her bag and poured a puddle in front of her, inside the circle.
Get up, he snarled at himself. Get the hell up.
The boar-hound let out a triumphant snarl of pure bloodlust.
Julie dropped into the circle on her knees. He saw a small flame of a match being struck. The puddle ignited.
The boar-hound charged. It came like a cannonball, snarling, giant maw open, tusks ready to rend.
Julie thrust something into the fire.
The hound covered the last ten feet.
Julie jerked the object out of the flame and held it up in front of her like a shield.
The boar-hound slid to a stop, its pig eyes fixed on the hot arrow in Julie’s hand. The creature pushed forward and recoiled, as if striking an invisible wall.
He slumped in relief. The wound on his neck was closing. He was still alive. Now it was just a matter of time, and she had just bought them some.
The boar-hound howled. In the distance, three other voices answered.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed: seconds, minutes. But the wind had changed, and he smelled the second hound before he heard it charge its way into the building and slide to a stop before Julie’s circle. Third and fourth followed. He heard the bird, saw it as it flew over him, circling, and then he heard the hunter’s horse.
He heard the rough sound of metal striking stone. She was chopping at the arrowhead with her tomahawk.
The pain in Derek’s neck had ebbed. The edges of the gray skin shrank, turning pink, not fast enough but it would have to do. She had done her part. It was time for him to do his.
In the darkness of the second floor, he slid his shoes off, then his pants.
The horse clopped its way into the building.
“You cannot break it,” a deep male voice said.
He looked down. The hunter stopped his horse midway down the floor. The four boar-hounds lined up between him and Julie.
Here you are, asshole.
“The arrowhead’s stone. This is stainless steel.” She sounded determined. “I’ll shatter it.”
Derek rose quietly in the shadows.
“That is my first arrow. The arrow is eternal and so am I. As long as there are humans and their prey, I will exist.”
“Go fuck yourself.” She smashed the tomahawk into the arrow.
Now. The change dashed through him, the brief pain welcome and sweet. His muscles tore and grew again, his bones lengthened, his fur sprouted, and suddenly he was whole again, stronger, faster, seven feet tall, a meld of beast and man. The burn of silver was still there, but now just a razor-sharp reminder of the pain and the need to kill its source. He smelled blood. His three-inch claws itched. He heard eight hearts beating: five animal, one bird, and two human. He wanted to taste the hot, salty rush of blood pounding through their veins, to open them and feel them struggle in the grip of his teeth.
The wild within him roared. The thing that nearly turned him loup—the one he kept at bay with monthly trips to the woods, with meditation, with exertion, with running until his legs could no longer carry him—that thing broke free and it was hungry.
“Choose a side,” the hunter said.
Her voice rang, her words defiant. “I choose the Wolf.”
“Then you die.” The hunter pulled the bow off his shoulders.
Not today. Derek leaped over the iron rail. He landed among the hounds and opened two throats, tusk to tusk, before they realized he was there. Blood gushed—glorious, hot blood, straight from the heart. The wild sang within him. The third beast tried to gore him, but he hurled it aside like a rag doll. It hit the wall with a loud thud, whimpered as it slid to the ground, and lay still.
An arrow whistled through the air. He grasped the fourth beast by its neck and jerked it up, holding the struggling animal like a shield. Arrows thudded into it—one, two, three—and sank deep. He hurled the creature at its master. The horse reared, screaming. The hound met the hunter’s fist and fell, knocked aside. It scrambled to its feet and ran to Derek, limping. The remaining hounds, two slashed and bleeding and one favoring its front leg, rushed him. He dodged the first, letting it rush past him, and landed on its neck and bit. His teeth closed around the spinal column and crushed the cartilage. He tore a mouthful of flesh and bone and let go. A tusk dug into his hip. He snarled at the pain and punched the creature’s thick skull. It shuddered and he punched again, driving his fist in with all his wild strength. The bone broke. Brain wet his fur. The last hound attacked, unsteady on its feet. The wild roared inside him, so loud he could hear nothing else. He carved the hound’s throat into pieces.
An arrow pierced his thigh. He ripped it out, slashing the wound open before the silver could spread.
The last beast fell. The bird swooped down at him. He snatched the raptor out of the air and tore off its head. Only the man was left. He walked to the hunter. There was no need to rush.
The hunter drew his bow and fired. Derek knocked the arrow aside. Another arrow. He dodged. It grazed his thigh. The burn of silver spurred him on. Derek leaped and took his opponent off the horse with a swipe of his paw. The big human rolled to his feet, two blades in his hands. They were almost the same height: the hunter nine inches over six feet tall, and he fully seven feet in his warrior shape.
Derek licked his fangs. Delicious blood coated his tongue and dripped from his mouth, but he was still hungry.
The hunter became a whirlwind of blades. He sliced and stabbed and cut fast, very fast. Derek blocked, stepped inside his guard, and kicked him in the chest. The hunter flew backward, rolled to his feet again, and charged.
They collided. A blade pierced Derek’s chest, sliding neatly between his ribs, almost nicking his heart. The pain tore at his insides. He buried his claws in the hunter’s gut and tore a handful of intestines out. The hunter twisted the sword, trying to carve his way to Derek’s heart. Derek stepped back, pulling himself off the blade, and the hunter chopped at his right arm with the other sword. He took that cut, because he had no choice—it nearly cut through the bone—and raked his claws across the hunter’s face. Blood poured into the hunter’s eyes. The big human lunged, his right sword striking. Derek moved to the left, letting the blade whistle past, locked his right arm on the hunter’s wrist and smashed the heel of his left hand into the man’s elbow. The joint snapped, breaking. He jerked the blade from the hunter’s suddenly limp fingers and rammed it into the hunter’s mouth.