Page 85 of A Malicious Menagerie
“No, Anna,” Nan exclaims, reaching out to grab feebly at my sleeve as if she can forcibly keep me with her. “It’s too dangerous.”
“So is staying here like sitting ducks,” I rebut. Leaning in, I take her hands and give her cold fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be careful.”
“No—”
“I have to go, now,” I interrupt. “Before they track us here.”
Nan just stares at me, her eyes moving over my features as if she’s memorizing them. “You’d better come back to me, young lady.”
I manage a weak smile. “Always, Nan.”
Before I can change my mind and throw myself into Nan’s lap like I did as a kid when I was scared of thunderstorms, I force myself to duck out of our hiding place. Turning deeper into the woods, Itake off at a jog, my legs already protesting all the unfamiliar cardio.
Without Nan’s cumbersome wheelchair, I make better progress. Soon, I’m ducking and weaving between trees and hurdling shallow ravines, feeling a bit like a doe on the run. SeeingBambionce was enough without having to live it.
When a masculine shout sounds behind me, I redouble my efforts, my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest and flee ahead of me. “Stop!” he calls out.
Figuring my options are to either let him tackle me and grapple with a man twice my size or make a stand, I tug the gun from my waistband and wheel around. Bringing the gun to bear, I bark, “No,youstop.”
Panic sparks in my chest when two men slide to a halt only a few yards away. Where’s the third? Worry for Nan threatens to choke me, but I force it back.
“Let’s be reasonable,” one of the men says, raising his hands in surrender so his gun points to the sky. It’s not much comfort when the second man still has his steady aim trained on me. “You’re outnumbered. Tell us where the wolf is, and we’ll let you and the old lady go.”
I doubt that somehow, but my mouth is too dry to voice my skepticism. “What’s in it for you?” I finally manage to ask, my voice raspy. “Mathis is dead. Who’s paying you?”
The men exchange glances, and a pit of uneasyknowingsettles in my stomach. “Who said Mathis is dead?”
“The wendigo…” I reply faintly.
“The beast gave it its best, and it’s still out there trying.” The brute smirks. “But Mathis has the resources to hide for a very long time.”
I can’t fathom Mathis managing to sneak away from Job. It’s like trying to hide from Death himself. With my breath fogging in front of my face and the trees towering overhead, this place looks a lot like Job’s domain, and I shudder at the thought of encountering the wendigo on the hunt. That might even be worse than facing down the mercenaries in front of me.
“He just wants his werewolf back,” the man continues, his tone cajoling. “Give him up, and you can walk away.”
In a rush, it hits me that I’m going to die here. Whether I give up Chase or not—which I would never do—there’s no way these men are going to let me walk away.
But I’m certainly not going to make it easy for them.
I’m not prepared for the recoil from shooting a gun. In theory, I knew it was a thing, but in practice, it literally knocks me on my ass. That might be for the best, since a bullet goes whizzing by inches above my head. I scramble to turn over and run, ducking behind a tree as shards of bark go flying from another errant shot. I cry out as one bites into my cheek, white-hot pain blooming below my eye.
I blink a few times, reassuring myself that the shot didn’t blind me, before peering carefully around the trunk. The man I shot is down, holding his bloody knee. An odd surge of pride and bile wells up before I swallow both down and look to the other man. I duck behind the trunk again just in time to avoid another shot, though I feel the reverberation when the bullet lodges in the thick trunk. “We could have done this the easy way!” the man barks.
Yeah, I could have handed you Chase’s location before kneeling for you to shoot me mafia-style, I think wryly. The adrenaline is making me loopy, and the mix of fear and righteous indignation is dizzying.
The crunch of boots in dry pine needles warns me that the man is advancing, and all irreverent thoughts freeze. I’ve never been in a shootout. Do I lean out and try to hit him first? Do I run? What if the guy I shot in the leg gets his wits about him?
Before I can make a decision—and I’m pretty sure any one I made would have ended in my demise—there’s a panicked shout followed by a spine-tingling snarl. A shot rings out, and I flinch. But I’m pretty sure I recognize that snarl, and I can’t leave Chase without backup. I let myself have one steadying breath before flinging myself around the trunk, gun leading.
The man I shot is flat on his back, my irate black wolf looming over him with his fangs bared. The other man is crumpled on the ground, unmoving. His dark clothes and the dirt hide the blood well, but scarlet splatter on his face tells the story.
“Chase, don’t,” I say weakly, staggering forward on trembling legs.
Chase shoots me an incredulous look, and I know what he’s thinking. This man was sent to kill me and Nan and drag Chase back, kicking and screaming, into captivity. But it’s one thing to kill someone in self-defense and quite another to finish the job after the danger has passed.
Still, looking down at the man’s mulish expression, I also don’t need him following us.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I swing the gun toward his other knee and pull the trigger, the recoil still knocking me back but less so now that I know what to expect.
