Wolf's Bane

by Kelley Armstrong

  Elijah taps my arm, and I follow his finger to see grass swaying, as if something is moving through it. I glance over to see Mason, predictably not huddled close to us, like a kid who doesn’t want to be seen with his uncool parents.

  “Mason!” I hiss under my breath.

  He glances over. Then he jerks back with a yelp, his arm flying up, blood drops flicking. Logan yanks him closer to us.

  “Something bit me,” Mason says, the puncture wounds already closing. “I felt—”

  The invisible thing lunges, hitting Mason so hard he falls against us. We yank him back, but the thing has his arm, fangs raking through flesh. Mason kicks, and his foot makes contact, hitting with a thud.

  I kick as hard as I can. My foot strikes something solid, and a yelp rings out, weirdly pitched. Then a growl and a snarl, and I kick again, and the thing must have been leaping at us, because my foot hits it full on, and it yowls as it flies back, setting a maple sapling shaking.

  The wind whips up, and in that wind, I feel what I sensed earlier, something cold gripping at my heart, fraying my nerves, infecting me with rage.

  “Run!” I say.

  “Where?” Elijah says, shouting to be heard over the wind.

  “The cabin!” Holly shouts. “It’s warded. Get to the cabin.”

  Someone reaches for my hand. Even before I look over, I know that touch. I glance toward Logan. His hand tightens on mine as that horrible wind becomes the howls of a dozen beasts on our heels.

  And we run.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kate

  I’m glancing over my shoulder when I trip. In my defense, I was making sure the damned vampire kept up. Everyone else runs behind me in a tight knot, but Mason has to hang back, as if we’re strolling through a mall and he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s part of the group.

  If the guy is that survival-averse, I should let him dawdle. It’s not as if he’ll die. In fact, the Machiavellian thing to do would be to let him lag behind as a chew toy for the hell beast. But Mason’s behind Logan, and there’s a chance—a good one actually—that his “lagging” is actually “staying between Logan and the hell beast.” I think someone has a crush. Which is terribly sweet. So, I cannot help but worry about him, and I glance back . . . and trip over a vine.

  It isn’t more than a stumble, but I’m in the lead and when I trip, arms flailing, it ripples through the ground, everyone pulling up short. Everyone except Elijah, who dives to my unneeded rescue, damn him . . . and slams into my side instead. With his werewolf strength, it’s like being hit by a bag of cement. We both go flying and crash into the undergrowth.

  When we stop bush-surfing, Elijah looks down at me, his eyes dark with worry. “You okay?”

  “I was . . . until I got body-slammed by an idiot who thinks I need”—I throw him off, his landing thump punctuating my words—“rescue from a killer vine.”

  “I was just—”

  A growl reverberates around us. Elijah and I both look around, seeing nothing but thin air. Thin air that growls and likely has fangs big enough to skewer us whole.

  “Logan?” I whisper. “Run.”

  My brother’s behind me, and I don’t dare turn to look, but when I tell him to run, there's no answering thunder of footfalls.

  “Take the others,” I say, my gaze fixed on that low growling. “I’ve got this.”

  “We’ve got it,” Elijah says.

  Brave words, but I don’t think he has any choice in the matter. We’re lying on the ground, and when he goes to rise, there’s a chomp, as if the beast lunged at him, jaws snapping in warning. Telling us to stay down.

  “Take the others, Lo, please,” I say, my voice low. “Elijah and I will keep the hell beast distracted.”

  “Hell hound,” Logan says.

  “What?”

  “It’s a hell hound. They can materialize but—”

  “Really?” Mason says. “Does this seem like the time for a bestiary lesson? Fuck this.” He charges. “I’ll keep it busy while—”

  The hound snatches his arm before he can finish. Blood flies. Mason flies too, a six-foot-three quarterback of a guy whipping through the air like a rag doll.

  I vault to my feet and rush the hound, or where I presume the hound is, given that it still has hold of Mason, jerking him by the arm as blood spatters the trees. I hit the beast in the side and slamming a wall of coarse fur.

  Elijah and Logan leap into the fray. They miss the beast—easy to do when you can’t see it. I’m gripping fistfuls of fur, feet flying as I try—and fail—to kick the beast.

  “Here!” I shout.

  Logan understands what I mean: hit here, where I’m clutching the hound. He slams his fist into it. Behind us, the spellcasters do their thing.

  Elijah roundhouse kicks the beast as Logan punches again, and his foot doesn’t come near Logan’s arm, but my brother still snarls at him.

  I throw myself on the hell hound, and as I hit the beast, it shimmers. I blink. It’s definitely shimmering, revealing a ghostly outline of a black-furred flank.

  “Hit it harder!” I shout.

  I grapple the hell hound as I haul myself onto its broad back. I can see the midnight black expanse of fur. I can also see the beast’s head, jaws still clamped tight on Mason’s arm, his flesh ripping beneath massive jagged teeth.

  Mason lashes out, smacking with his free hand, but while he might not be screaming, his eyes are doing it for him, bright blue wells of agony, his face contorted, his jaw wired shut. He’s in too much pain to focus his blows, and his fist only swings blindly at the beast.

  Holly pauses her casting. Her spell must be failing. I’m certainly not seeing any magical assistance as the guys pummel the beast, I grip its back and poor Mason is whipped from side to side, his arm shredding.

  “Just repeat after me,” Holly’s voice is sharp with frustration. “Say the words.”

  She begins casting again, and this time, Allan’s voice chimes in, falteringly saying the words after her.

  The hell hound continues to take shape, opaque now, a huge, black thick-furred beast. From my vantage point, I can only see its back and hound-like ears. Even that’s a blur. Yet its attention is on the vampire in its jaws, as if the werewolf on its back is little more than an annoying flea. That’s what I feel like, too, clinging here.

  Grabbing one fistful of fur at a time, I haul myself up the hound’s back. I almost fall twice, but I finally reach its huge skull and bash my fist down on its muzzle.

  The hell hound barely flinches.

  I snarl a curse. That’s a sensitive spot on a canine, but apparently hell hounds don’t quite fit the genus. When I curse, though, Elijah shouts, “No, keep at it! You’re making it materialize.”

  “That’s not—”

  The hound’s head jerks back, hitting me in the chin, my teeth snapping shut. Blood fills my mouth. I spit it out, and say, “It’s the casters.”

  That’s what Holly’s doing. A witch spell to make the hound materialize, with Allan repeating her words, throwing his sorcerer magic into the mix.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Logan says. “Keep—”

  The beast spins, Mason dragged behind as it turns on the annoying werewolves. There’s a horrible tearing sound, and Mason howls in rage and pain as he goes flying. Blood spurts, hitting me full in the face. I gasp and rub my face against the hell-hound’s thick fur. Then I slam my fist down on its snout again, just as it snaps at Logan.

  I strike again, this time aiming my fist at one red eye. Contact. The beast yowls and bucks. I grab it by the ears, my fingernails digging in. Its head whips back and forth, and I grab its ruff again before I lose my grip. I ram my fist into its eye. As it yowls in pain, Elijah runs in front of it, wielding a tree branch, twice as thick as a baseball bat.

  “Duck!” he shouts as he swings the branch back.

  I bury my face in the hound’s fur. A tremendous blow rocks through the beast as the wood cracks, and then I’m flying, still on t
he hound, both of us sailing through the air as Elijah shouts, “Kate!”

  We hit the ground, the huge beast atop me. I start to scramble out. A snarl as the hound twists. I see my foot, right next to those massive jaws. I pull away, but it’s too late. The beast grabs my foot, and I sail into the air.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Logan

  Hell hound. We’re fighting a hell hound.

  That isn’t possible. Hell hounds exist only in demon dimensions, and whatever is going wrong here, we have not crossed over into another world. And, yes, when my sister is clinging to the back of a giant monster, standing back to muse on the implausibility of it doesn’t help anyone.

  In my defense, while pondering, I’m still pummeling the beast with everything I have. Also, the impossibility of the situation is only a fleeting thought, carried along on a rush of all my data on hell hounds, my brain sifting through the minutia, searching for something that will help. Clearly this hound isn’t going to stop because a few teenagers are beating on it.

  Kate’s clinging to the hound’s back like a cowgirl on a bull. Holly and Allan are casting together, forcing the beast to materialize. Elijah is . . . I don’t know where Elijah is, and I don’t really care. He was fighting alongside me, and I want to grumble and say he was only getting in my way, but that would be a lie. He’s a werewolf, and apparently he knows how to fight, so even if I’d rather we’d left him behind, I was grudgingly glad for the assistance. Now, though, he’s taken off. As reliable as ever.

  Elijah’s gone, and Mason . . . I’m trying not to think about Mason. I saw him whipped by the hound, heard that terrible sound as his arm tore free of the beast’s teeth. I keep telling myself he’s all right. No, he’ll be all right, once he heals, and he will heal.

  Do I know that for certain?

  I do not.

  My concern right now, though, is for my crazy sister riding atop a hell hound, bashing its snout and ramming a fist into its eye as the beast bucks and snarls.

  Someone yells, “Duck!” and I spin to see Elijah swinging a massive branch at the hell hound. The hell hound with my sister on its back.

  I lunge to stop him, but it’s too late. Kate ducks, and Elijah smashes the branch into the beast’s head. The beast topples back onto Kate.

  I’m running for the hell hound as Kate scrambles to get free. She kicks . . . and the beast spots that foot, flying straight for her head. She sees her mistake, eyes going wide as she yanks her foot back. The hound chomps down on it.

  Elijah makes it to the hell hound first. I snarl at him to get out of my way. He ignores me, of course, and dives in to Kate’s rescue.

  Elijah grabs the hell hound’s snout, one jaw in each hand as he pries them open. His face screws up like a weightlifter trying to pump twice as much as he should. Sweat breaks out on his forehead. His fingers accidentally slip into the beast’s mouth. If Kate does pull free, he’s liable to lose a finger or two. For reckless heroics, he’s as bad as my sister.

  “Grab the top!” I shout to be heard over the beast’s snarls. I lock my fingers around the bottom of the hound’s jaw. “Grab the—”

  Elijah lets go of the lower jaw, grabbing the snout instead. I hate to give the guy any credit, but he’s probably saved my sister’s foot. The hound’s teeth haven’t done more than break the skin.

  Elijah and I struggle to pry the beast’s jaws open, but we can only keep them from clamping down.

  “Hold on, Kate,” I say between gritted teeth. “Just let us—”

  She yanks her foot free, scraping over sharp canines, blood welling. Then she shouts, “Let go!” and I see her foot pull back for a kick.

  I release the top of the hound’s snout. Elijah hesitates until he sees her foot slam out, and then he lets go fast as Kate’s foot plows into the hound’s jaw. The beast tumbles back.

  The hell hound barely skims the ground before it’s on its feet again, slavering as bloody froth drips. It has fully materialized now, and I’m looking at a beast twice the size of a wolf and triple the weight, with four-inch fangs and glowing red eyes. It’s canine, but grotesque, like a toddler mashing a dog-shaped figure from raw clay, features askew, thick legs and lumpy torso and misshapen head.

  Kate inches closer to me, and Elijah glances over sharply, as if surprised she’s taking refuge. She’s not hiding behind me—she’s moving beside me, shoulder to shoulder, facing off against the hound. Elijah grabs the fallen branch and steps Kate’s way, flanking her.

  The hell hound lowers its head between its shoulder-blades and snarls at us.

  “Yeah, we can see you,” Elijah says, wielding the branch. “You aren’t hidden anymore.”

  The hound snaps and snarls, but it takes a slow step back. Elijah starts to lunge, and Kate grabs his sleeve, murmuring, “Let it retreat.”

  Those red eyes fix on Elijah as the beast steps back again. It’s watching him, ready to charge us if he so much as test-swings that branch. If he does, the hell hound won’t need to take him down. I’ll do it myself.

  The beast takes another two careful steps backward. One final snarl, and then it wheels and runs into the forest.

  “Keep watching in case it changes its mind,” Kate says.

  Then she runs to Mason, and pride surges in me. My sister can be the most impulsive, reckless person alive—jumping onto a hell hound, really? I grew up trotting along in her footsteps as she barreled into danger, expecting me to follow. I do follow, though, because she’s always the first person throwing herself into battle, and she’s the first one checking afterward to make sure everyone is okay.

  As Kate runs to help Mason, I scan for any sign of the hell hound returning. It seems to be gone. I don’t like that, though, and when Elijah says, “I’m going to scout,” I don’t stop him.

  “Don’t go far,” I say.

  He turns a cool look on me. “I’m not a child. I’m not a Pack wolf either.”

  He means he doesn’t need to obey the Alpha’s son, but I snort and say, “Yeah, I can tell.”

  His dark eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you nearly got my sister killed, flinging that around.” I nod at the tree limb in his hand. “I know you two aren’t fake dating anymore, but I’m going to warn you to stay away from her. She doesn’t need a guy who’d sacrifice her to save himself.”

  “What?” he sputters. “I almost got killed by those crazy half-demons—” He shakes his head. “Forget it. I might not be Kate’s favorite person right now, and I earned that, but I would never do anything to hurt your sister. I knew she’d duck when I told her to. I’d have stopped swinging if she didn’t. I don’t know what your problem is Logan—”

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

  He flinches before barreling on. “I’ve barely spoken to you so yeah, I haven’t—”

  “I know who you are, and I know why you don’t like using my name.”

  His mouth opens. Shuts.

  “Tell her or I will,” I say as I walk away. “And I’m going to, as soon as I get the chance. She needs to know you’re up to something, and you cannot be trusted.”

  I jog to where Mason sits propped against a tree as Kate examines his arm. I’m surprised he’s letting her do that . . . until I see she’s not giving him a choice. He’s still grumbling, like we’re all making too big a fuss over this, and please, can we just go away and let him brood in peace?

  “Take the others and get to the cabin,” Kate says, not looking up from her ministrations.

  “No,” Mason growls. “Tell your sister to stop playing doctor with me. She’s really not my type.”

  Kate manages to flash him a finger, while still working on his arm. “He’s still bleeding. Just take the others and go.”

  I shake my head. ‘The hell hound’s gone, and we need to stick together. We’ll leave as soon as he’s ready.”

  “Can you make him sit his ass down?” Kate says. “Before I kick it down?” />
  “Can you make her let go of my arm?” Mason says. “Before she snaps it off?”

  “The bone isn’t broken,” she says. “Your arm won’t come off that easily, which is unfortunate, because I’ve always wondered how that works with vamps. Do they regrow a new limb? Or do they lose it for good?” She looks up at Mason. “We could answer that question right now, for the sake of supernatural medical science.”

  He only snorts and rolls his eyes.

  “I think they lose it for good,” Holly says, standing nearby as she and Allan scan the forest for the hell hound. “That’s what the lore suggests.”

  “It doesn’t grow back,” I say. “But the arm can reattach itself if you hold it against the stump.”

  “Really? Cool. Where’d you read that?”

  “Jiskani’s medieval treatise on the healing properties of vampires.”

  Holly sighs. “I’ve been looking for that one.”

  “God save us from the geeks,” Mason mutters.

  “No,” Holly says. “The geeks will save you. Next time a hell hound attacks, you can let it take your arm, knowing you can reattach it. Well, as long as it doesn’t run off and eat it for dinner.”

  Mason mutters under his breath. I pace around, squinting into the bushes. Kate’s right that we need to keep moving. There’s no way I can leave her behind, though, so I’m playing along with her, joking and acting like everything’s fine, and we’re safe here. We are not safe here. Not one bit. Yet the others are taking their cues from us, and we need to keep them calm.

  The woods remain silent and still. If I strain, I can hear shouts from camp, and I try very hard not to think about that. We can’t go back. We need to keep moving. Stabilize Mason and then run for that warded cabin.

  “Everything okay?” Holly asks.

  “All quiet,” I say. “A hell hound is like any other predator. Once it realizes you’re not easy prey, it backs off.”

  Kate’s look calls me on the lie, but she nods, satisfied with it.