Page 41 of Grace of a Wolf 2
"I don't care what it was." I let the shift take me, welcome the split of bone, the stretch of sinew. "I'll kill them all."
A dishwater-blond wolf lunges for my throat. I catch him midair, claws ripping through his ribs. Blood sprays across my muzzle as he drops, lifeless.
Three more charge and I dive low.
My claws tear through soft underbelly, disemboweling one. The others hit Fenris; he snaps a spine in his jaws and crushes another underfoot as he grows another foot in size.
If he keeps this up, he'll burn out before we get through them all.
I have enough power to get through this,he growls.Now focus!
They keep coming. Ten. Twenty. Too many.
My dominance lashes out, a tidal wave of power capable of stopping a heart. It slides off them like mist.
Then they are not wolves,Fenris says, his voice eerily calm in the havoc.Only graves await those who oppose our throne.
A russet wolf sinks her teeth into my thigh. Pain lances up my leg. I grab her by the scruff and slam her into the marble floor. Her skull cracks, broken as easily as splintered wood. But there's no time to finish her—two more have already taken her place.
I feel Jack-Eye's arrival as he tears through the back ranks, but there's something more important for him to do.
Get to the hospital,I snap.Find Grace.
I can't leave you—
FIND HER!I rarely touch him with dominance, but there's no time for hesitation. Grace is in danger.
He hesitates, then vanishes in the chaos.
I'll clear his path,Fenris snarls, leaping over the pack. He crushes wolves like ants under his paws, drawing attention as Jack-Eye slips through the breach.
One wolf with strange markings circles me, too calm. I feint right, then drive forward. He pivots fast—but not fast enough. My jaws close around his throat. He drops.
More come.
I twist and crush the leg of one attacker in my jaws—bone splinters. But the wolf doesn't scream. Doesn't flinch. His teeth stay buried in my hindquarters.
Do you feel it?I ask Fenris.
Indeed.
There are no yelps. No howls of pain. Only the mechanical rhythm of violence: bone cracking, flesh tearing, silence.
They don't fight like wolves. They fight like machines. Like puppets with no souls.
I tear into another throat. Blood mats my white fur crimson. My wounds throb, but adrenaline overrides pain.How many left?I demand; he has a better view of the battlefield.
Less than half.
The weight of four wolves drags me down, their jaws locked deep. Blood slicks the floor.
I thrash. A russet she-wolf gnaws into my shoulder. Her teeth grind into my bones, and she refuses to let go.
A flash of blue light and Fenris towers above, a mountain of snarling fur with wolves clinging like ticks. He shakes. Bodies fly.
He barrels toward me.
With one sweep of his paw, he flings the wolves off me. One slams into a pillar. It cracks.
