Where Wolves Run: A Novella of Horror (7 page)

Konrad let his mind return to that night one month ago, the night he heard beasts like Joren—no, beasts
including
Joren—devouring his mother. He let himself remember, and he let himself feel it. He remembered his heartache. He remembered his dread. But most of all, he remembered his howling mad desire for revenge.

His mind went blank, filled only with the reds and blacks of raw emotion. His body acted on instinct, some inherent mechanism for self-preservation. He lunged at the monster, his dagger raised. And he thrust it with all of his might.

A fierce backhand sent him soaring into the front of the house. On impact, the air rushed from his body. His vision wavered between blurred light and eternal darkness. He struggled to maintain consciousness, so he could see his end come. He prayed it would be swift.

The werewolf loomed over him. It clutched at its chest and the dagger’s hilt extending from it. The beast fell to its knees, its eyes no longer vibrant but dull and hopeless. Its hair receded. Its fangs shrank, square human teeth appearing where Father had spared them.

Soon, only Joren remained. His expression showed only astonishment, shock in knowing that a weak little boy had bested him. His mouth dropped open as if to speak, but nothing came out. He fell over, dead.

Konrad gave up his own fight with the waking world. Darkness took him prisoner, sweeping away the kindness of light.

13.

The sound of hooves
hitting dirt, a horse driven to its full potential, stirred Konrad from uneasy rest. His head rang, dull bell-tower tones. He rubbed his temples. Stinging hurt resonated from his chest as his tattered shirt ripped free from blood-clotted cavities.

A horse neighed nearby.
Vulkan
. He struggled for clarity, but his vision would not cooperate. A blurred body lay four meters away. Konrad’s dagger lay beside it. He went for it.

“My God!” His father said, dismounting. He looked as if he had taken a stroll through hell.

“I rode as fast as I could.” His gaze shifted from Joren’s corpse to Konrad, who crouched near the body. “I killed two with ease, all things considered, but the third escaped. He was a strong one, the alpha. I had to hunt him down. You would not believe . . .”

Father’s voice trailed off. Konrad stood. He saw no sense in hiding it any longer.

“You have been hurt?” Father asked. The words themselves trembled. Konrad nodded.

“Then I truly am too late.” Father raised his arms and approached his son. “Forgive me,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Forgive me, son.”

Eyes downcast, Konrad listened to his father’s display without any affection of his own. He remained still, as dead inside as the man who lay at his feet.

Father took him into his arms, held him close—warmth unreciprocated.

“I will free you from this awful curse, son. Before you turn. Before you kill. God will accept you, I know it. God will—”

Father lurched. The words caught in his throat. He looked down at the dagger in his stomach, right where Konrad had stuck it.

“This is for Mother,” Konrad said, pushing the dagger in deeper. He twisted the hilt. “And this is for me.”

Father staggered forward and began to cough. He covered his mouth with his hand. Blood sprayed onto it. His eyes widened with fear and confusion, like a deer’s after having been pierced with a slightly off target arrow: good enough to kill, but not quickly.

He draped over Konrad, who propped him up just long enough to see his life fading, then tossed him aside. As blood filled Father’s lung, the coughing became wheezing. More blood drizzled down his chin and spattered upon the earth. There, Konrad left him to die.

The moon was still high, just beginning its descent. A stiff breeze rattled the trees. The forest beckoned to him, the smell of pine and mud and crystalline waters calling him home. He stepped toward Vulkan, but the horse whinnied and trotted away. Konrad grunted. A sharp tooth bit into his lip, and he curled over himself, his chest racked with pain.

His body screamed for what seemed like an eternity. When the agony dissipated, his chest had healed. His muscles were strong, stronger than they had ever been, alive and alert, just like the rest of him.

Sniffing the air, he caught a pleasing aroma: the smell of hot blood, pulsing through veins. He carried on, into the woods, one foot in front of another, all four feet on the ground.

***

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The author would like to thank Abigail Grace, Gregor Xane, Evans Light, and Kimberly Yerina for their advice, insights, and editing contributions to this tale.

“I was alone first in the pack . . .”

You guys are my wolf pack.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In his head,
Jason Parent
lives in many places, but in the real world, he calls New England his home. The region offers an abundance of settings for his writing and many wonderful places in which to write them. He currently resides in Southeastern Massachusetts with his cuddly corgi named Calypso. He is the author of the novels
Seeing Evil,
What Hides Within
and many published short stories.

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