Where Wolves Run: A Novella of Horror (4 page)

9.

The trek was longer
than Father had remembered it to be. The sun was already low in the sky. Perhaps the years had made him slower.

Keeping downwind of his prey, Father crawled toward the camp. He slithered through the scrub on legs and forearms. Insects skirted from his path. Dead leaves and fallen needles gave way to his movement. Tree roots were more stubborn. They tangled into his clothes, poking holes in his sleeves and tearing his breeches.

I must stay hidden
. Father scurried toward a bush still ripe with life despite the lateness of the season. He forced himself beneath its confining branches. There, in the spaces between green arteries and brown veins, Father spied upon his enemies.

“Will you stop splashing?” a burly, shirtless man asked. His trousers were rolled up to his knees as he waded in the river. A long, wooden rod jutted over his shoulder. His broad, muscular back faced Father, its girth boding trouble.

“You are scaring away the fish.”

A golden-haired lass cackled loudly as she bathed farther away from shore. She wore nothing but the hair under her pits and on her legs, the thickest patch growing where those legs met. Father felt winter’s bite, and he was dry. He could not comprehend how the woman could withstand such cold. She actually seemed to be enjoying it.

“What fish?” she asked, still laughing. “There are no fish here. They have all gone to sleep where only they know, but they shall return long after the snow.” She sang the last bit, ending with a snort and a chortle as she splashed her companion.

The shirtless man ignored her. He kept on spear fishing. Every so often, he would thrust his pole at something beneath the water, but if it was a fish, the man could not catch it.

The woman slapped the water, then crossed her arms. She cocked her head at the man who paid her no attention. Then she waded closer.

“Why do you waste your time with that? The moon will soon be full and bright. Oh, how we will feast then!” She raised her arms at the sky, twirling and laughing, as giddy as a little girl. “There will be plenty to eat, prey with warm blood in their veins, fresh from the hunt.” She slapped the water again, pouting. “Not stinky fish.”

The shirtless man seemed entirely disinterested in the woman’s theatrics. His head tilted downward, his gaze fixed somewhere beneath the river’s cloudy surface. His shoulders lifted, and with them, the spear.

The woman would not be ignored. Her bushy eyebrows arched high upon her forehead. A wry grin wormed its way across her mouth. She sashayed toward the man without inhibition. Her fingers danced up the inside of his leg, searching and finding purchase. Deadpan, the man continued to fish.

“The trout will be dormant soon, and the moon will be as vacant as our bellies. If you must hold a rod, grab another spear and help me catch our dinner. There are more of them inside the cave.”

“Humph. I will not go in there. Samuel is sleeping. You know how he can be when someone wakes him.” The woman giggled. “One might think he was some kind of animal.”

Her smirk widened. “Besides, I have all the rod I need right here.”

“Let go, Simone.”

Rejection played across the woman’s face. She twisted her hand and all she held in it. The man growled. He swatted her away with his knuckles. Simone sprawled backward into the water. When she resurfaced, she was laughing again. Her lip bled at its corner.

“You cannot blame me for being feisty. The time of the hunt draws near.”

“You young pups are all the same: no self-control.” He turned, and as he headed out of the water, Father finally caught a glimpse of the man—all of him. Father could not believe how big he was. His feet, covered in hair, dug monstrous footprints in the mud as he emerged from the river. His legs were tree trunks, his torso and arms a whole damn tree. His chest was broad and barrel-like. A thick mat sprouted from its center and spread like eagle wings across his skin.

Though the man’s frame was remarkable for its size, his face was remarkable for other reasons. Pale, yellow eyes gleamed from spots deep-set into sockets. His teeth were so large and pointy that they might as well have been fangs, deeply rooted in a square jaw. The beast had spent years in that man. He could no longer hide its stain.

Something familiar about the man. . .
Father did not think he had seen him before. Not in human form.

“I am going to rest,” the man said. “You should do the same. We will have a long distance to travel tomorrow, and none of us will be sleeping tomorrow night. We can take the horses most of the way, then we will be on foot. If you fall behind, we will not wait for you.”

“Oh, I think I will manage. I may not be as strong, but I still have half a step on old men like you, Timour.” Simone leaned back into the water. Her hair spread amorphously around her. Her toes breached the surface. Kicking her legs, she backstroked away from the shallows.

“So be it,” Timour murmured. With the spear resting over his shoulder, he walked directly toward Father. Father’s hand crept to his waist, where he found the hilt of his dagger. He slid the blade from its scabbard and drew it in front of him. Lying on his belly, he dared not make a peep.

Timour sniffed at the air. Father’s grip tensed around his dagger. But whatever scent had caught Timour’s attention passed him by. Barefoot, the man-beast shambled into the cave.

Leaving Simone alone.

Without a second thought, Father rolled out from beneath the bush, rose to his feet, and sprinted to the water’s edge. The riverbank afforded him no cover, exposing him to an enemy that was younger, faster, stronger: an enemy that outnumbered him three to one.
At least three
. Father ran as fast as his old legs would allow.

Simone sang as she paddled in circles, her face up to the sky, her ears underwater.
She will notice the splash, surely. There is nothing to be done about it.
Father attacked the water with the fury of the driven. The water fought back. Its resistance tripped him, and he half-fell, half-dove into the murky depths. He swam deeper and deeper, hugging the river bottom, the light above fading with every stroke. All that remained was suffocating darkness and biting cold, a chill so fierce that his mind screamed for escape.

He searched for dangling legs as his breath ran short. He circled and found them, not dangling, but planted where the water rose only as high as Simone’s neck. With his knife clenched in his teeth, he frog-kicked his way toward her. His lungs begged for air, burning in his chest.

“I knew you could not resist me,” Simone said as Father breached the surface. “Wait. Who—”

Her words were cut off by a cry of pain, quickly stifled by Father’s free hand as he jabbed repeatedly with his other. He pushed the knife upward beneath her ribcage. What he lacked in aim he compensated with tenacity and repetition.

The water thickened around them. Simone’s eyes, wide and glassy, shrieked her surprise and cried out her pain. Father found little joy in murder, though he never second-guessed it. A father’s duty compelled him to act; his desire to rid the world of werewolves made it gratifying. He might have pitied the girl for who she used to be or who she might have become, but pity would not stop Father from doing what had to be done.

He slid his hand around her neck and shoved her underwater. His knife stuck into her body as though she were an oversized pin cushion. Releasing it, he joined his hands around her throat.

The woman kicked, batting Father’s face and chest with her fists, but she lacked the power she would have had in her altered state.

Father choked from Simone what little breath, what little life, remained. Bubbles, remnants of her muffled screams, rose to the surface in rapid succession. After a moment, the bubbles vanished.

Simone’s eyes stared blankly at the sky, all the song and giddiness strangled from them. Her hair flittered on a current. Only then did Father relax his grip.

But it was not enough.

He pulled his blade from Simone’s torso and dragged her by her hair to shore. Her blood stained the water red, the last beats of her heart pumping her life away. It created a river inside a river, offshoots stretching outward like veins into a greater body.

In the shallows, Father stabbed Simone again, this time able to ensure he hit the heart. Simone gasped, or at least appeared to gasp, her lungs releasing the last bit of air inside them as Father drove his weapon’s hilt hard against her body. Water thick with foam trickled from her mouth.

Satisfied that both Simone and the beast she harbored were dead, Father withdrew his blade and cleaned it in the water. The gesture was empty; he did not bother to sheath the weapon, already planning out its next victim. Tossing Simone’s body onto the riverbank to rot, he headed for the cave.

Water sloshed in his boots, so he kicked them off. Barefoot, Father climbed the stony hill that led to the cave’s entrance. Flat rocks, smoothed by a lost tributary, chilled his already frozen and wrinkled feet. His teeth chattered. He pressed his lips together to quiet them, but the sound echoed into his brain, rattling his nerve. Father could survive the cold and had survived worse, but one slip up with these man-beasts would prove deadly. He would not be undone by chattering teeth.

Father stopped at the entrance and listened. Amplified by the hollow tunnel, snores bombarded him from the cave like the rumbles of an earthquake. He peered through the narrow crevice that formed the cave’s mouth. It was barely wide enough for someone Timour’s size to slide through, but Father guessed it opened into a large cavern. He could not see more than a few meters into the darkness, but he could trace the curves of the inner walls to points where they extended outward beyond his sight in both directions.

The snoring seemed to come from everywhere, even above him. The sound bounced off the walls, making it impossible for Father to pinpoint his target. Still, he had to seize the opportunity.
A sleeping enemy is an easy kill
.

But
two
enemies were inside.
At least two
, Father thought. He marked the location of the sun. It kissed the horizon, but had not begun to melt along it. He thought about waiting for a better moment, perhaps ambushing the werewolves as they exited the cave. Then he thought back to Konrad. His heart heavy with grief, he stepped through the opening.

The air inside was cold and damp, and Father could not stop shivering. His fingers groped along the wall as he walked. The light failed him after only a few strides. He cursed under his breath, unable to make out his own fingers as he held them in front of his face. Further in, the tunnel was black as pitch. Father turned to his other senses to find his way, always mindful of the fading daylight.

He tip-toed deeper into the cave, his every step painfully slow and calculated. The wall was his only comfort; he hugged close by it, ever creeping toward what he hoped was the source of the snoring. It boomed into his ears, drowning out all other sound, even that of the water dripping from his clothes.

He raised his right foot. It fell upon solid ground. He raised his left foot. It landed softly on something, or someone, lying in front of him.

Father froze, his knee bent and his foot hovering in the air. With the slightest movements of his toes, he examined the contours of the thing that lay beneath him. It shifted. With a snort and a wheeze, the snoring stopped.

“Fuck off, Simone,” a gruff voice murmured. A hand slapped away Father’s foot. Father kept it aloft, afraid to have it touch the voice’s owner again or make a sound that would disturb him. The balancing act was wearying. After a few seconds, the snoring resumed.

Father released his breath in a long, quiet sigh.
This must be Samuel
. He tucked his left foot behind his right. His muscles remained tense, ready for action. His dagger felt light again in his hand. If it wanted blood, Father was compelled to oblige it.

With a dancer’s grace, he straddled the sleeping individual. Interlocking his fingers around the hilt, Father plunged the weapon’s point into where he guessed Samuel’s heart might be. A shrill howl rose from his victim. Unseen hands grabbed at his own, only to be stabbed again and again whenever they interfered with the work of Father’s dagger. Eyes shot open, their wild sheen glistening in the dark only to close a moment later.

Father saw them. He adjusted his aim accordingly. The man-beast below him bucked and screamed, then fell silent. Father continued to stab. The eyes did not open again.

Bright sparks flashed before Father’s eyes as his head whipped to the side. Someone else was there, someone who had hit him hard enough to scramble his thoughts. He rolled with the strike, his momentum keeping him rolling deeper into the cave, into the black. Father had enough wits remaining to know he was in danger. He stayed low and silent, out of sight. His dagger stayed behind, lodged inside Samuel’s corpse.

Father shielded his face with his arms. It was all he could do to fend off an unseen foe.

Just then, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure rising from the abyss. It blotted out the dwindling light from the cave’s entrance, standing between Father and his only means of escape.

Standing tall.

Eyes with the same sheen as the demon Father had just slaughtered, but having a ferocity to them the likes of which Father had never before seen in all his years hunting, not since before he was a hunter—
the eyes that plague my sleep
—stared straight at him from an arm’s length higher than his own. Could the beast see him, even in its human form?