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We raced by the house once, as if we were fishermen on the way elsewhere, studying the grounds. By daylight it was bigger than I had thought, with a long, two-story screened porch starting on ground level and the rest of the house up on stilts to protect it from hurricane surge. It stank of werewolves and blood and pain, which made my face contort in what might have been considered by some to be a really ugly smile.
Brute gave a low chuff, a darkly gratified sound I’d heard during the fight with the werewolves in the night. It was the sound he made when he got to kill something that needed killing. My eyes met the wolf’s icy ones and something exchanged between us. We might not like each other, but we understood each other. We were both killers of a sort. And I absolutely did not like that about myself.
Eli pulled the airboat to a halt far downwind and turned off the engine. “Tromp back and attack by stealth or race back and execute a Normandy?” he asked. When I looked confused, he said, “The One Sixteenth hit the beach by daylight. World War Two.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Yeah. I remember my history lesson. They died like flies.”
“Beach the boat for a frontal attack, versus time and energy to muck it back overland, time when they might heal and be stronger.” He looked up at the sky and the sun that was already below the tree line. It would be dark soon. The moment the moon rose, they’d be stronger, healing the damage the silver bullets had caused, and helping to extrude the bullets. Always assuming they were still alive, of course.
Brute chuffed and stared back down the canal. An immediate beach landing was his vote. But I tilted my head, thinking about the low ground, the house’s floor plan, and even the foliage I’d seen as we raced by. “How about we point the airboat at the beach, but we all jump off before we get there? The boat makes a lot of noise from the beach side, gets their attention, draws them toward the water, and we take them from the rear.”
Brute yipped and grinned, his tongue hanging out to one side.
“Could work,” Eli said, turning my suggestion over in his mind.
Half joking, half provoking, I added to the wolf, “Keep out of the line of fire, dog face. No one here likes you well enough to cut silver out of your hide.”
Brute narrowed his eyes at me, as if telling me that payback would be painful. But there was something different in his gaze this time. To call it friendlier was an overstatement, but maybe less animosity after the fights in the swamp and a day in a roaring airboat.
“Enough,” Eli said. “Jane, you drive. Angle in close to shore on the first pass. When you swerve to angle back out, the wolf and I’ll jump. Brute will head for the far side of the house; I’ll be in the trees for a clear shot. Take the boat down the canal a ways and then head back at speed for the Normandy. Make sure we get at least three minutes to get in place before you hit the beach.”
“Maybe I was stunned and not hearing right. Do I remember you telling me not to take so many chances? To be more careful?”
“If they’re in wolf form, you’ll have the advantage. They’ll have to charge you across open ground, giving Brute plenty of time to hamstring them, and you and me plenty of time to fill them full of silver. And the shooting angles should keep us out of the line of fire.”
“And,” I said, “if they’re in human form, all bets are off. They’ll shoot me, then Brute, then hunt you down and shoot you. This is Louisiana in the middle of nowhere with werewolves who hunt and take down humans like it’s a game. And eat them for supper, by moonlight. They’ll have guns.”
“Yeah.” Eli grinned, showing teeth. “That’s the most important part of the plan. Don’t get shot.” I didn’t roll my eyes, but it was a near thing. He turned on the airboat, put me in the driver’s seat, and gave me a quick tutorial. Once I was satisfied, I made sure my weapons were easy to hand and gunned it down the canal. I’d be glad if I never heard the sound again.
? ? ?
Eli’s plan would have worked except the wolves were on the beach when I roared up. They were in wolf form, waiting for the moon to rise. Or maybe they had smelled me as I roared past and decided to meet me head-on. Whatever.
It was too late to abort. I had still-shot visions of what might/could/would happen, no matter what decision I made. In half a second I saw what would happen if I tried to whirl the airboat back into the canal. The big wolf would jump on board and eat me. In the next half second, I saw what would happen if I raced along the water and tried to draw them after me. The big wolf would jump on board and eat me. In the final half second, I saw what would happen if I rammed the shore, hoping to break a few legs—hopefully not my own. And that seemed like my best shot. I yanked my seat belt tighter, braced my booted feel on the bench seat in front of me, and rammed the accelerator forward.