creature anyway.
The beast skidded on four massive paws, spraying sand into her eyes. Spittle spattered her cheeks. Hot, fetid breath surrounded her.
She pulled out her only weapon—from her sock.
A claw gouged her thigh, dragging her closer, as its jaws opened monstrously wide.
Erin screamed and punched her arm past those teeth, deep into its maw. She drove the atropine dart’s needle deep into the monster’s blood-rich tongue. Her arm jerked free before the jaws shut.
Startled, the wolf dropped back and spat out the crumpled plastic syringe. Erin remembered Sanderson’s warning:
Corrupted or not, a beast was a beast. She hoped. What if the drug had no effect? Her answer came a heartbeat later.
The wolf shoved back another full step, stretching its neck. A howl ripped from its throat. Its eyes bulged. The atropine had spiked its blood pressure. Oil-black blood gushed from its bullet wounds, pumping onto the sand.
She felt a grim satisfaction as it howled, pictured the freckle-faced young corporal who gave her the dart.
But the beast, too, sought revenge. Fury and pain twisted its features into something beyond monstrous. It bared its teeth—and lunged for her face.
Rhun could not fathom what the woman had done, how she had driven the grimwolf back, made it scream so. But it gave him time to reach the beast. Pain and anger blinded the creature, but it still must have sensed his approach.
With a roar, it twisted away from Erin and sprang for his throat.
But Rhun was no longer there. Still running, he arched back and slid on the soles of his shoes, passing under the slavering jaws. A mere handsbreadth from his nose, teeth gnashed together. He dropped on one shoulder and skidded between the front legs and under the beast. Once there, he lashed up with his silver dagger, jabbing deep into the belly, one of its few weak spots. He dragged the blade’s razor edge through muscle and skin, using all his power. He said a silent prayer for the beast, for what was once one of God’s creatures. It did not deserve to have been put to such a cruel use.
Gore poured down on him, soaking his arms, his chest, his face.
He rolled free and crouched to wipe his eyes.
To the side, the soldier ran up, firing point-blank at the beast.
Its muzzle reached for the night sky, wailing—a wail that faded until, at last, it crashed to the sand.
The dark ruby glow faded from its eyes, leaving behind a rich gold. The wolf whimpered once, a flicker of its true nature returning—but only at that last moment.
A final spasm, and it lay still.
Rhun raised two fingers and made the sign of the cross over the animal’s body. He had set it free from its eternal bondage.
The woman climbed out of the rocks, fragrant blood streaming from a cut on her thigh. The soldier held her back. He kept his weapon pointed at the grimwolf’s body.
“Is it really dead, Korza?”
The beast’s blood steamed off of Rhun’s body. He tasted iron on his lips. It heated his throat, bloomed in his chest. It overwhelmed his senses. In his time doing God’s work, he had faced countless temptations and had faltered only one dreadful time. Yet, even steadfast determination could not prevent his body from reacting to the blood.
He turned away.
Behind him, the twin heartbeats of the soldier and the woman thundered for his attention.
He refused it.
He reached back, pulled his cassock’s hood low over his eyes, and faced the silent desert—hoping they hadn’t seen his fangs begin to lengthen.
16
Dying along with Hunor, Bathory writhed in pain, curled over her stomach, straining against the helicopter’s straps. Her fingers clutched hard to her belly, trying to stanch the flow of blood, the tumult of gore through rent flesh.
She felt her blooded bond mate’s life escape. She longed to follow it, to gather that spirit to her bosom and comfort it in its journey.
But he was already gone, his pain fading from inside her. She stared down at her pale palms. She was whole—but not unwounded. Hunor’s last whispery howl of release had left her hollowed out as surely as if she, too, had been gutted.
That last cry was answered by another.
Magor mourned loudly in the cargo hold behind the cabin, calling out for his twin, the anguished mewling of one littermate for another. The two pups had been cut from the belly of a dying she-wolf. They were a gift from Him, blood-bonded to her during a dark rite, becoming as much a part of her as the black tattoo on her throat.
She twisted in her seat and placed her palm against the wall that kept her from Magor, wanting to go to him, to pull him close, to hold together what they once shared, as if cupping a feeble flame against a stiff wind.
How could she?
Three were now two.
The words from an old Hungarian lullaby crooned through her, bringing with it the promise of security and peaceful slumber. She gave that to Magor.
Magor calmed, his love entwining with her own, merging them together.
Two would survive.
For one purpose.
Vengeance.
Fortified, she collected herself and stared across the cabin.
The helicopter fled through the deep night, leaving the ruin of Masada far behind. Her remaining men sat subdued and silent in the seats across from her. Although spattered with blood, none of them had been wounded.
Tarek muttered Latin prayers, a reminder that long ago he had been a priest. As his lips moved, his cold eyes stared at her, having witnessed her prostration and grief. He knew what that meant.
Only one creature was capable of slaying a grimwolf in his prime.
Korza was still alive.
Tarek’s gaze flicked to her shoulder. Only then did she note the fear burning there. She touched her fingers to her upper arm—they came back wet.
With blood.
Lost in Hunor’s agony, she must have ripped herself against a bolt sticking out of the neighboring wall,
