“Dru—” He shouted it, over the wailing of the fire alarm. My entire arm cramped with the need to do something.
I pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 10
The second shape—the thing that was leaping for Graves—was longer, leaner, and its fur was shorter, gray instead of glassy and smoking. A white streak bolted up the side of its long, oddly-shaped head. It stretched out in full leap, its snarling muzzle starred with ivory teeth sharper than knives, strings of saliva pouring out of its mouth. My first shot went wide, and the thing bowled past Graves, knocking him aside as easily as I might shoulder a grade-schooler out of the way. Goth Boy went flying, his coat flapping once with a sound like a sheet snapped out to lay flat while making the bed, and the gun spoke again.
I tracked the thing just like Dad had taught me, training taking over. Blood bloomed on its pelt. It looked like a steroid-pumped fur rug, muscle rippling under its fur, and its eyes were alight with unholy yellow.
The werwulf screamed a high yip of pain and tumbled off to the side, landing on the fountain’s lip with a sickening crack. I would like to say I hopped gracefully down off my perch, but the truth is that I fell and scrambled around the other side of the fountain, looking for Graves. Cordite pulled sharp against all the other smells filling the mall. I retched once, a heave that came all the way up from my toes and kept crawling.
Graves shook his head, dazed. He’d levered himself up on his elbows, blinking in befuddlement. He saw me, and his eyes widened. They were a thin ring of green around a dilated pupil, the whites rolling like a terrified horse’s. Still, the green rim was a line of emerald fire.
“Get up!” I screamed, and scrambled to my feet, grabbing his arm in my left hand and hauling with every ounce of strength I had left over. He came up a little more gracefully than I might have under the circumstances, and his cheeks were flour-pale, spots standing out high along the arches of his cheekbones. The silver earring swung, smacking my face as he ran into me, blind with fear. “Move, goddammit!”
It wasn’t my voice. It was Dad’s harsh bark transplanted to my throat.
I had no idea whether I’d wounded the werwulf enough to keep it down or not, and the walloping electronic noise plus the steam was making it hard to think. I had to think if both of us were going to get out of this alive.
This one’s all about you, Dru. No Dad around to bail me out.
Our feet slipped in spilled water. I dripped blood and fell heavily to my knees in the tide. That was why it was my fault—if I hadn’t tripped, almost biting a chunk out of my tongue when I landed, the werwulf would have hit me instead of Graves. They collided with rib-snapping force, and he screamed the high girlish scream of a squirrel in a trap.
I yelled something unrepeatable and shapeless anyway, brought the gun around, and kicked. My boot connected solidly with the werwulf’s sleek canine head, and, like a gift, the thing crouching over Graves’s body turned around and snarled at me, the eyes glowing like diseased sunlight, its gray streak shocking against the wiry darkness.
My voice cracked as I screamed, and I squeezed the trigger again. The sound was deafening. Gore splattered, the nine-millimeter’s barrel smoking with cooked splashback. The werwulf spilled away, its muzzle gaping.
I’d shot it in the jaw.
It fell over the lip of the fountain and began to throw up stinking gouts of reddish, steaming water, the smell of cooked fur adding to the thunderous stench.
Graves moaned soundlessly under the noise of the alarm. I realized it was a fire alarm, and cursed in a long gasp. The boy’s shoulder was shredded. The wulf had bitten him.
Shit. Oh shit.
I struggled with myself. The best thing to do was leave him. He was bitten, and that was bad news. I needed to get the hell out of here quick. The cops and the fire brigade would be here any second despite the snow, and how was I going to explain all this? Even my well-honed talent for creative lying wasn’t up to the task.
Graves opened his eyes. He stared at me, his mouth working under the braying alarm. Water plashed. I snapped a glance at the wulf, which was rolling around holding its jaw with two lean, furry hands, producing an amazing bubbling howl with each heaving of its ribs. I looked back at the boy and for a second, I couldn’t remember who the hell he was or what I was doing here. All I could think of was the hideous, horrible smell as Dad’s body rotted away right in front of me.
I was on my own. This one’s all about you, Dru. You’re making the call now.
“Get up.” I didn’t recognize my voice this time, either. “Get the fuck up, kid. We’ve got to go.”
Amazingly, he set his jaw and struggled to his feet, holding his shoulder. Blood spilled between his fingers, black in the dimness.
First thing to do is get us away from that wulf. It’ll heal quick and it’ll be pissed. We can’t go back to the room; it’ll come after us there and we’ll be trapped like rats in a hole. Where can I take him? Think!
There was only one place. I had to hope the cops weren’t there—and that nothing else was there, either.
Which meant I had to get Graves moving, treat him for shock, and navigate both of us through a blizzard.
Oh, jeez. Blood dripped down the side of my face, warm and wet. My back spasmed, and I’d pulled something in my arm, too. I was a song of aches and pains, and I wanted to lie right down and let them do whatever they wanted to me as long as I didn’t have to move or think anymore.
Great.
CHAPTER 11
Once I’d scrubbed the blood off both of us and gotten a pressure bandage onto Graves—the strips of his shredded shirt, actually, ripped up in the food-court restroom—the long dark coat buttoned up didn’t look half bad. Neither did he, except for being so pale and shock-eyed.