Page 71 of To Keep A Wolf
My mother has never sounded more unruffled.
That makes one of us.
I follow her into the house, braced for another attack. Inside, it’s quiet as death, which puts me more on alert. The familiar pictures, scant though they may be, send a wave of nostalgia through me. It’s not that Iwantto be here or even feel connected to this place. But I can’t help all the years’ worth of memories washing through me any more than I can stop breathing.
The couch where I ate cereal on weekends and watched cartoons while my mother slept off her injuries from a night of hunting. The dining table where Tripp and I carved our names into the wood on the underside out of sheer boredom.
My throat tightens at the memories.
The living room is empty, though. No witch.
That brings me back to the moment.
My mother and I exchange a look. The witch would have surely heard the commotion outside and come to investigate. The fact that she’s hiding is only going to prolong our presence here. And make her more difficult to procure.
My mother motions for me to stay behind her, and we continue on toward the kitchen. Beyond that are two small bedrooms, no back door. She has to be here somewhere.
The blood spatters catch my eye a millisecond before the smell reaches me.
I stop, yanking my mother backward just as a knife sings through the air, burying itself in the wall where my mother just stood. A figure moves faster than any wolf I’ve ever seen. Lithe and limber, nothing more than a blur of long hair and an even longer blade clutched in each hand.
Marilyn rounds the corner and sends blades flying—one at each of us.
My mother shoves me aside, catching a knife in the thigh for her efforts. I slam into the wall and then sidestep as Marilyn launches herself at me with a crazed shriek.
She lands close.
Too close.
I see her eyes, glassy and wild. Her hair, tangled. Her clothes, coated in blood. My next move sends me into the kitchen, drawing her away from my mother. I grab the knife still stuck in the wall as I spin into the space and nearly lose my footing in the puddles of blood on the floor.
“Marilyn, stop this,” my mother demands.
Sliding toward the dinette, I catch myself on the back of the vinyl chair. Then I spin, wielding the knife as Marilyn chases after me.
She dodges my attempts with the blade and punches me square in the face so hard I see stars. Then the knife is gone from my hand, and I can only twist violently sideways to avoid a deadly blow.
Over Marilyn’s shoulder, I catch sight of my mother. She’s on her feet, braced against the doorway. The blood stain on her pants is growing, but the knife is clutched in her hand. She holds the blade instead of the handle, loose between her fingers and thumb. I see her intention a second beforehand and duck. The blade hisses through the air, burying itself in Marilyn’s back.
Marilyn screams, arching against the sudden pain.
I use my boot to shove her backward, and she slips in a puddle of blood, going down hard on her hip.
I stand over her, stepping on her hand when she tries to swing on me again.
“What the hell have you done?” I demand.
The witch’s body is splayed out in front of the sink. What looks like multiple stab wounds are slashed through her skin. I glance over once then away again quickly. It’s horrible. Worse than anything we’ve done.
“I did what I had to do,” Marilyn says at my feet.
My mother limps closer, careful to keep her footing in the ever-growing sea of witch blood.
“You stopped him,” my mother says, and I can’t tell if she’s relieved or disgusted or both.
“I’ll stop you all,” Marilyn says. “The monsters must be sent to Hell.”
I shudder at her words. The way she doesn’t even seem to register what she’s done. Or the brutality in how she’s done it.
