I knew several things instantly, putting it all together in overlapping possibilities. There was no scent of Rick on the wolves. I’d been set up. The weres in the hotel had gotten loose and called their buddies. Or there had been an undetected wolf watching when I went in the hotel rooms. I hadn’t sensed a sentry, but there might have been one. Or maybe the helpful clerk had placed a call when I left. However it happened, they’d been watching for me. And I wasn’t getting out of this one without an ass whupping.
It was six to one, two humans, four oversized wolves, and a car full coming back this way for the second wave. The humans were the most deadly, despite the wolves having fangs and claws. The humans had guns; they took cover behind truck doors.
I had to get through this bunch. Fast. I aimed Bitsa between two wolf attackers. Pulled the M4 left-handed, clumsy. Needing the right on the accelerator. Thumbed off the safety and braced the butt stock against my forearm. I didn’t need to ready the tactical shotgun for firing. It was built to be ready. I pointed it at the wolf on the left. Estimated he was forty feet away. Gunned the engine. Eating up the distance until I was close enough to fire. “Die, doggie,” I muttered. And squeezed the trigger.
The firing concussion was muted by the riding helmet. The weapon bucked. The hand-packed round hit the wolf in the ribs under his right front leg. The silver fléchettes exploded inside, ripping through and out in a spray of blood and gore. Not a direct hit, but good enough. I pointed the gun at the wolf beside him, much closer now. Braced the barrel on my right arm. Pulled the trigger. The first dogboy was still twisting and falling when his partner took the second round in the neck, dead on his feet. Not hard to do. Not hard to kill. Living with it later would be a bitch, though. Living was always harder than killing. A lot harder.
Threat level down by two. I took my first breath since gunning the engine, tasting burned powder and blood, hot on the air. I took out a wolfman next. Only feet away. Easy shot to the leg, showing beneath a car door. He fell, his mouth open, screaming; his gun spun in the air.
I was on them. Level with the semicircle of attackers. I tried to swivel the M4 as a human, hiding behind the wheel well, stood. But I was moving too fast to point and shoot. The gun boomed, kicked, and I missed by a mile. And felt the punch to my left side as I was hit. Beast slammed adrenaline into my system.
From the left a shadow loomed.
I tried to lift the M4 into firing position. My left arm wasn’t working.
The shadow fell toward me. Dark body. Paws out. Vicious snarl I heard over the engine and the firing concussions. Before I could react, he hit. Claws against my helmet, scraping. Jaws brushing my nape. Hot, fetid breath.
His body hit my shoulder. Twisted me around on the bike seat. Slinging the shotgun toward him, but my hand wasn’t working well enough to pull the trigger. My right foot slid off the footrest. My helmet was yanked to the side by claws, adding to the twisting torque. Then the axis of the wolf’s leap left him behind.
Another wolf hit the front wheel. His paw disappeared into the wheel spokes. He screamed. Blood splattered. I kicked out, pushing on his body to face myself forward. His own weight pulled him from the bike. Bitsa recovered as if by herself, and roared ahead. Only speed saved me.
I was past them. But I was hurt. I had missed the second human, the shooter. Blood was running across my leg. Fast. And I couldn’t catch my breath. I shrugged the M4 into a better position on my lap and bent over the bike, roaring down the road. Knowing I was leaving a blood trail a puppy could follow. I had to get to Leo’s to get help. My heart pounded, too hard, too fast. Pain spread, wrapping around me like a silken web, an unseen spider drawing the strands tighter. I wasn’t going to make it. I had too far to go.
Shift, Beast growled. Now.
I let off the accelerator and allowed the bike to slow, my left hand barely holding on to the M4, unable to manage the brake or clutch. Bitsa sputtered, the wrong gear for the loss of speed. I turned off the road onto an overgrown track in the scrub, an unused farm field entrance or hunting trail, and bumped over the ruts. Thirty feet off the road, Bitsa died. I braced with both feet on the ground and eased her down. And the world tilted. Spun. I landed. My face in the dirt. I heard my pained grunt. The light of day began to telescope down. Until I could see only a sliver of a broken beer bottle in a clump of spiked grass, the label weathered into a gray glob. I felt my heart stutter.
Beast roared up over me. Filling my vision, her scream echoing inside my head as her killing teeth tore through the gray place and took me by the throat.
I panted. Little puffs of breath. Painpainpain beating with heart. Tilted head and let helmet fall to ground. Swiveled ears to hear, rotating both, searching for wolves. Pack hunters. Only silence. No cars. No soft feet padding close. I fought pack hunters once before, in hunger times. Killed many. But lost hunting territory. Humans and pack killed all prey. Mountains on fire killed rest. Did not want to fight pack again.
I sniffed breeze. Smelled rats, many. Stray cat. Smell of yellow jacket nest in ground, sound of buzzing nearby. Painful stingers like big teeth. Manure from horses and cows. Smell of chickens. Close. But no pack. Pack had dead to mourn. Was safe for now.
Looked around. Huffed breath. Was lying in Jane blood and Jane clothes, pelt sticky. Needed food inside Bitsa, for shift. But Bitsa was on side, food underneath. Stupid Jane. I pulled back paws from boots, paws and claws pushing on dead cow skin. Stood, back paws inside more cow skin, front paws inside Jane jacket. Jane guns and Jane claws of steel tangled in cow. Pulled self out of stupid human clothes. Saw bullet drop from side to ground and pawed it. Ugly man guns. Shook pelt free, hacked. Shook again, standing in sunlight, free of Jane except for her blood and her gold necklace. It bounced against my neck.