“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I guess this is what jealous friends do when they want the part.” She almost smiled.
Ella didn’t smile back. She felt like crying. Sarah might have been holding a gun, but there was still just no way for them to win. The gun held one bullet and as soon as it was used, the rest of the Changers would be safe to force Ella to place the stone. And then they were done.
Below them, Ella heard the wolves begin to bang against the glass windows—thumps and crashes as their heavy shoulders hit the glass.
Vivi stood, her forehead swollen and bloody. “Put that gun down,” Vivi hissed at Sarah.
Sarah wrapped her fingers tight around the handle. “You know we used guns like these in our spring play,” she said. “An Agatha Christie mystery. I was in my most morbid phase back then so I totally researched everything.” She waved the gun around, and each of the Changers stepped back. “These things aren’t easy to use,” she said, smiling at Vivi. “But I wanted my performance to be realistic.” She cocked the gun and pointed it at the woman who had called herself Ella’s aunt.
The wolves continued to pound against the windows, the sound louder and louder as the glass shuddered and shook. And then from both side staircases, Ella heard footsteps—not two-legged, but four—the stamp of paws, the clack of nails.
The wolves, they were coming.
Sarah Price could put on a very good show. But Sarah Price had held a real gun only once before in her life. Hearing the rush of paws shook her and her hand began to sweat. Stage guns and real guns were different in one important way. On stage you didn’t kill anything. Here, you did.
Except that Sarah couldn’t.
Sarah’s hand trembled and the gun shook. The werewolf who was the Silver Shooter saw it, and laughed—the four gaping holes in her mouth more sinister than fangs.
Sarah tried to level the gun but she felt frozen, out of breath, her fingers stiff. The Silver Shooter leapt toward her, claws outstretched. Sarah closed her eyes as a sharp pain jolted her, but not in her chest or neck as she’d expected. Rather, something sharp clamped down on her wrist, causing her hand to jerk and pull the trigger. The Silver Shooter collapsed just feet away, eyes open in shock, blood pooling beneath her chest.
The dog, Sheila, sat beside Sarah, panting. Sarah dropped the gun, spots of blood sprouting up along her arm where the dog had bitten her to jolt her into firing the weapon. Sarah stood by the dog, putting her good hand on the soft fur of the animal’s back while tears ran down her face.
And then the shocked quiet of the balcony broke into a thunder of confusion.
Chapter 63
The dogs had come, not the wolves. Ella didn’t know how they would have gotten in when the wolves continued to pace and bang on the cracking windows. But she knew they had come at the whistle’s call.
Loco, Foxy, and Sheila stood at the edge of the balcony, ready to fight. Sarah stood at the center, trembling and bleeding. Ella scanned the right edge of the balcony, looking for the one person who was still missing. He was almost impossible to see, but perched on a large pear tree sat a werewolf—a werewolf with Sam’s eyes.
Unfortunately, Ella was not the only one who saw him. Napper nodded to the veterinarian, whom he called Tomas. The tall shifter turned with a precision that made Ella’s throat thicken.
“Sam, watch out,” Sarah screamed, just as Brandt ran at her, grabbing her by the waist and throwing her over his shoulder. Sheila and Foxy tore after Sarah, biting at Brandt’s calves and knees, and skidding down the marble stairs.
Sam jumped from the tree and ran down the other stairs, breaking the glass of a display case and grabbing a sword on his way.
Once on the ballroom floor, Sam swung the sword back and forth, like a fencer on crack. It was clear that he was a runner, not a fighter. He had no aim, no idea how to place a blow with a sword. And most importantly, he had no silver.
The best Sam could do was parry and jab—little scratches to the other werewolf’s skin that were about as damaging as paper cuts. Laughing, Tomas stepped forward, grabbed the sword by its blade and pulled it from Sam’s hand. Then, with one quick movement, he punched Sam hard in the stomach.
Sam crumpled just as another Changer stepped from the shadows. He was the largest, ugliest shifter Sam had ever seen. His fur was mottled with browns, reds, and patches of gray. His ears were long, and one had a piece torn off with a bald, scarred patch of skin near it. Its fingernails were yellow and smelled like the bottom corner of a dumpster.
Calmly, the werewolf came up behind Tomas. Sam stood up, bracing to run from the two of them when the enormous werewolf struck Tomas with one large fist to the back of the head. Tomas fell to the ground. He lifted himself on his arms, trying to stand back up, but he never got the chance. The mottled werewolf struck him again—two more quick punches to the head, and that was it—Tomas collapsed into a heap of fur and blood on the floor.
Sam backed away, reaching down to pick up the useless sword when a familiar voice actually laughed. “You can thank me for your fur and fang, but your mother’s genes definitely prettified you,” Robert Calhoun said.
Sam almost dropped his sword. He stared at the hideous werewolf with his father’s voice. His father was close enough now that he could see his eyes in the dark hall. They were, Sam was surprised to notice, just like his father, brown and warm. And right now they were not the least bit afraid.
Suddenly, Sam remembered Sarah. She had been dragged to the opposite end of the ballroom. “Sarah,” Sam whispered.
“I’ll help you,” his father said.
“No,” Sam said. “There’s a little girl, and Mr. Witten got shot. They need help too. You should go to them.”
They were stopped by a loud crack—high-pitched, almost shrieking as a deep line raced up one of the glass windows toward the ceiling—thin, long tinsels of glass falling like needles to the floor. Outside the building the wolves paused to let out a unified howl before resuming their rhythmic pounding—louder and louder, harder and harder, faster and faster until, at once, the chasm of glass opened and quivered, the east wall cascading down like a thousand waterfalls.
The wolves poured forward, a river that had broken through—hundreds of feet running into the ballroom. Then suddenly a strange swirl of air blew across the east wall and around the wolves, circling the atrium before becoming a barrier of wind and snow, a thick pane of storm. The wolves pushed against it, unable to break through the heavy, windy wall.
“Zinnie,” Sam whispered. “She’s still alive.”
His father frowned. “But she won’t be for long. A magical snow storm is not as easy to conjure as restorative tea.”
Sam turned, running as quickly as he could to where Brandt was dragging Sarah and kicking at the dogs, his ankles a mess of bloody bites. The three-legged dog was down, one of her remaining legs broken. She lay on the floor, still growling.
But the other dog was fierce, jumping high and hard at Brandt’s arms and sides, tearing into his skin. Every time she did, he struck at her face, neck, and back with fists or elbows, cracking the dog’s bones and teeth.
Sarah, for her part was kicking, punching, and wiggling in an effort to get loose. But Sam knew that to the enormous Changer, she was no more than a stuffed toy. And that softness in the arms of such brute, cruel strength made something in Sam break open.
He lunged at the werewolf.
Brandt turned around and caught Sam in the face—a simple slash with his free hand. It tore across Sam’s forehead and through his eyebrow—blood dripping down the side of his cheek.
Brandt laughed. “Suits you, half-breed. I’ll get you a hair bow to go with it. Crimson. Like the sun will be when we’re done.” He nodded to the hill.
Sam knew he needed to help Ella too, but right now he had to get Sarah away from Brandt.
Brandt smiled again. “Just like a half-brained half-breed to choose the wrong priority. But no matter what you do, I’ll still have your girl. Bet
I can do all kinds of fun things with her after you’re gone.”
Sarah bit into his shoulder, and it must have been a good bite because Brandt flinched, then cursed, grabbing for her throat.
Sam flew at Brandt’s arm, this time with his teeth instead of his fists. He ripped into Brandt’s skin, tearing it, so that it hung off his forearm, exposing the bone.
Brandt dropped Sarah and ran at Sam.
Sam had never seen so much blood. It was getting to him more than the actual fight—dripping into huge puddles on the floor. It made him feel dizzy.
Brandt slammed his hand into Sam’s face, sending him to the ground, flat on his back. Sam gasped and stood up. Blood was everywhere. Sam couldn’t tell what was his and what was Brandt’s. Sam closed his eyes. Then he could only smell it, and he found that, as a werewolf, that wasn’t half bad.
He ran with his head down toward Brandt—an angry goose. It probably wasn’t the coolest move ever, but it knocked the wind out of his opponent. Brandt took a few steps back, still dripping blood wherever he went. Sam bit his lip, willing the wooziness away and trying to pull himself together. Brandt was feeling the effects of the lost blood too—his face pale, his breath fast. Still he seemed to sense Sam’s weakness and ran at him with his bloody arm outstretched—little flicks of blood flying everywhere.
Sam took a deep breath and rammed into Brandt with his shoulder—hitting him solidly under the outstretched arm. But Brandt was heavier than Sam. He used his weight to fall forward, dragging Sam to the ground with him. They both smacked into the stone floor. And then Brandt raised himself up and began to pummel his good fist into Sam’s back and face. Sam had seen this move before—seen the way Brandt could punch a kid into submission.
Brandt hit Sam’s eye, then cheek. Sam felt dizzy from the blood and punches. Golden daggers stabbed into his vision. He couldn’t beat Brandt with weight or force. He needed to think, but how could he when his face was being broken into bits?
Sam rolled over, holding his hands over his head. Force equals mass times acceleration…. Everything was foggy. From what seemed like millions of miles away, Sam heard screaming. And then almost in his ear, Brandt let out a terrible yowl.
Sarah had stabbed Brandt’s foot with the sword. Brandt stood up and turned on her, running with a limp, but still easily fast enough to catch Sarah. He lifted her up like he was going to throw her body into the hillside in front of him. And then she swung her legs, which were just below his waist, and kicked him. Right in the balls. Some things just work better than physics.
Brandt dropped her and staggered back a step.
Sam grabbed the sword, putting his weight behind it and running his fastest with the blunt end forward. He hit Brandt in the skull with as much speed and acceleration as he could muster. When he did, Brandt crumpled. This time he didn’t get up.
Sarah stood shaking, and walked around the unconscious body, then over to Sam.
“That’s two points for you,” Sam said. “I was about to pass out. So far, you’ve taken out Vivi and Brandt.” Sam smiled, but Sarah broke into tears, hysterical gasps that seemed they would break her in half.
She pressed her body into Sam’s huge chest, burying her face in his fur. And then he realized it—he was still a furry beast, and she was willing to touch him.
Gently, he pushed the hair back from her face and wrapped his arms around her, holding her until the crying slowed, and then—when he looked down at his friend, he saw that his own arms had shrunk back to human size along with everything else.
“You know, it’s experiences like this that formed the basis for Beauty and the Beast,” Witten said from several feet away. His niece was seated in his lap, her head against Witten’s shoulder. Mr. Witten was sitting up, pale and in his human form. He looked like he’d suffered from a fainting spell, not been shot in the chest and then fallen down a cliff.
Near them Jack was laid out flat, his eye and face swollen and bleeding.
Sam stared, “Is he…”
“He’s alive,” Witten said, playing with a curl on the little girl’s head.
“Don’t know how much good he’ll be if he’s bleeding inside his skull as much as he’s bleeding outside,” Sam’s dad said, looking to the hilltop.
“Did you do that?” Sam asked, stunned at the thought that his father could strike another creature like that.
“This little lady had already weakened him for me,” Sam’s dad said. “But he was starting to come to, so I made sure he was done for the night.” He tried to smile, but he was looking to the balcony, his forehead a crush of worry.
Sarah was staring at the hilltop as well. “Ella,” she whispered. “He’s still got her.”
Sam started to run toward the stone steps, but his father—the only one left in a wolvish form—grabbed his shoulder. “Stop son,” he said. “She’s the only one who can do this.”
“How can she?” Sam said.
“If she can’t, there’s nothing on this earth you can do to help her.”
The old anger poured into Sam, and he felt himself shifting back into beast. “You don’t care. You’re just afraid.”
“I am afraid. But I do care. Only, son, you’ve got to realize it’s not always weakness to leave another to find her strength.”
With that, he smiled at Sarah.
Sam looked up to the hill, then over to Sarah and his father. And then a mighty crack shook the ballroom—the sound of thunder at its last, its greatest, the sound of one final jolt before the storm withers and blows away. Witten hovered over his niece, Sam over Sarah, and his dad over both of them. And then at once, the snow storm keeping the wolves contained wavered and stopped—melting snow left in a circle around the atrium.
“Zinnie!” Sam screamed. Nothing screamed back except the normal winter wind that swept through the ballroom, chasing the birds and butterflies to the hill.
Hundreds of wolves filled the hall, surrounding the room like they themselves were a new wall. They wandered among the sleeping partygoers, sometimes sniffing, sometimes stopping as though to stand as a sentinels.
A small pack of fierce, black wolves ran toward Sam, Sarah, Robert, Witten, and Emmaline. They formed a tight circle around the group, pacing and drooling, their eyes wild and bloodshot, their ribs a stark outline through their underfed bodies.
“They’re starving,” Sarah said, as one looked at her directly in the eyes and growled.
“Oncle?” Emmaline asked in a trembling voice.
“They will wait,” he answered tensely. “Until the Alpha gives the sign for attack.”
Chapter 64
Loco was the only friend now left at Ella’s side. From his mouth, he dropped a small round bullet. It looked like a simple copper bullet from a regular gun.
“It’s not silver,” Loco said, his voice still startling to Ella, though she knew that he would speak. “Jones gave this to me when he let us into the mansion,” Loco said, worry soaking into his brown eyes.
Ella picked up the bullet and held it near the gun. There were too many questions; she couldn’t ask them all.
Napper had been waiting for the wolves to break the wall and surround her friends. Now he smiled, every line and feature of his face kind and grandfatherly, except for his eyes which burned with a sharp, deliberate hatred. “Here, dear,” he said, grabbing the gun and bullet before Ella could move, and loading the gun. Then he smiled again and set the gun on the stone tablet. “Now that that’s loaded and completely useless against me, let’s get on with this, shall we?”
Loco growled low, but didn’t move.
Ella looked down at him. “It’s okay, Loco. It’s okay.”
Napper laughed. “No,” he said, striking Loco on the head with his fist, “it’s not.”
The dog collapsed instantly.
Ella sucked in her breath, feeling the room spin around her, sure it would collapse just like Loco had.
Below them, released from their snowy wall, the wolves howled triumphantl
y.
“I won’t place it,” Ella whispered, tears covering her cheeks. Napper had told her that if she placed the stone, the innocents would be spared. It wasn’t true. If she placed the stone, hundreds of people would die. People and dogs and half-breeds—Ella had a best friend in each of those categories. If they weren’t already dead, then they would be when she placed the stone. The wolves would kill them, the Changers would kill them, or Napper himself would kill them.
“I won’t place it,” she repeated, louder this time. “You lose.” She stood with her back to the stone tablet, and looked Napper squarely in the face.
Again, he smiled, no grandfather left in any of his features—all of them stone, brass, and sharp-tipped diamond.
He moved so quickly, she almost didn’t see him. In less than a second, he had grabbed her right arm, twisting it behind her back so that her hand with the stone dangled behind her, over the tablet. He held her there—arm wrenched in an awkward and painful position, his face and body in front of her, so close they were almost hugging. “In this game there’s only one way to win and one way to lose,” Napper hissed, no silk left in his voice, no sweetness left in his scent. He was the most repulsive of them all. “Now place the stone.”
“No,” she whispered.
Napper dug his claws into Ella’s wrist so that her blood began seeping into his fur. She leaned back, pulling her face and chest away from him. He laughed and dug harder into her wrist.
“Place it,” he said.
Ella felt the tears roll down her cheeks. She couldn’t run and she couldn’t hold the stone much longer. She was only a human girl with human wrists and when enough pressure was applied to the tendons and nerves, she would drop the stone. When she did, it would fall onto the tablet and she would have placed the stone.
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