He slowed, stumbled, and limped deliberately into a dark alley. Within seconds, he heard heavy breathing to match his own. A werewolf dropped off the roof, leaping from wall to wall until it reached the ground in a cloud of dust. Its tongue lolled from the slavering jaws. It sniffed the air for him. Malcolm stepped from the shadows and fired. The shot took the beast in the shoulder, spinning it to the ground. Malcolm dropped on it with the silver dagger as if to scalp it. A deep strike into its heart gave it a wound from which it wouldn’t recover.
A dark shape appeared farther down the alley and started for him. Before the beast could gain momentum, Malcolm stood and aimed with the utmost calm as if facing a challenger on the field of honor. The werewolf was in midleap when the silver ball struck its heaving chest, and it died in the air. The pistol was spinning its barrels, but hadn’t locked back into place. Malcolm couldn’t dodge the hurtling mass of the dying creature, and it smashed him to the ground with bone-jarring force.
Malcolm struggled to wrest his half-cocked pistol free from beneath the leaden carcass. Everything was agony as he twisted. A shadow fell over Malcolm. Another beast loomed above with a ruined face. Rank saliva and blood dripped. The creature tilted up its muzzle and howled, either in mourning or calling to more of the pack.
Malcolm yanked his pistol free with a hoarse shout. The barrel hissed and fell into place. The gun fired in a flare of light, cutting off the howl. The werewolf grasped its bleeding throat and fell back. Malcolm couldn’t see where it dropped, but he heard its death throes.
The Scotsman dragged himself from beneath the burden of the dead monster. He was covered in blood, but at least most of it wasn’t his. He staggered to his feet, methodically checking his loads. There were only two silver shells left. He stumbled to the far end of the alley and out into a wide boulevard. A few people watched him pass but left him alone, no doubt seeing the blood on his clothes and the heavy gun in his hand.
Malcolm now truly limped across St. James’s Park in the direction of Penny’s shop and prayed she was an early riser. Thankfully, he saw no more shadows pursuing him. He removed a flask and poured the liquid out behind him. It smelled horrific and Malcolm placed a sleeve over his lower face to ward off the worst of it. He sprayed as much as he could all about him. The stinking solution would hopefully disrupt the olfactory senses of the werewolves. He didn’t count them as skilled scent trackers, but he couldn’t take any chances. He purposefully trod through the watery sewer filth that ran like blood in the street. He threw the bottle with all his might.
Malcolm almost missed the turn to Bond Street. Another exhausted glance around him confirmed there was no sign of pursuit. He darted the last few blocks to Penny’s shop. The sign in the front window read closed. He pounded on the door, but no one appeared. He had no choice, so he picked the lock.
He nearly toppled inside the darkened shop, but there was no time for a respite. He began to scour the shelves for any shot of the Lancaster’s caliber. A large dark shape went past the window and Malcolm ducked behind the counter, yanking out a pistol. He peered around the corner, his heart pounding against his breastbone, hearing the sound of something sniffing just under the door. A huge shape loomed in the doorway. Malcolm aimed his weapon. The door smashed open and a large grey werewolf stood snarling in its frame.
Malcolm opened fire, the bullet smacked into its chest and shoulder and it staggered backward. It let out a howl that shook the windows. Malcolm stood up and fired again, aiming for its heart, but the ball shattered the doorframe. His vision and arm wavered with fatigue.
Blast it!
He was about to toss the empty weapon aside, tightening his grip on the dagger when the door to the back room slammed open behind him.
“Get down!” came a sharp order.
Malcolm hit the floor as a thunderous whomp vibrated his ears. A burst of flame lanced over his head. The fiery ball struck the werewolf and blasted the creature into bloody bits. It also took out the rest of the door and the windows.
Malcolm cautiously raised his head, shaking off dust and shards of glass from his hair. He stared at Penny Carter, who stood over him with a long brass tube casually resting on her shoulder, tendrils of smoke slipping from both ends. She was dressed in leather chaps over tweed pants and a heavy leather apron over a white linen shirt. A thick wad of wool protected her shoulder. His breath came in gasps but no words.
Penny raised a soot-streaked eyebrow. “Was that an honest-to-god werewolf I just blew to kingdom come?”
“Aye.” Malcolm nodded. He gestured weakly at the device on her shoulder. “Bloody hell.”
“You like it?” She patted the weapon. “I call it my Stovepipe Blunderbuss.”
“I’m going to call it my best friend.”
“Charles is going to have a fit.” She set the tube heavily on the floor and regarded her ruined shop. Then she shrugged. “Coffee’s on the stove and you look like you need it.”
“No time,” he wheezed, staggering to his feet.
“You’re covered in blood.” Penny’s face hardened as she pulled him toward a chair.
“You don’t understand,” He slumped against the wall. “There may be more.”