Page 83 of Mongrel
Too bad it’s not going to work.
A second contingent of guards appears and blocks my path. Eight men, all of them armed, weapons drawn. Their swords make my dagger look trifling in comparison.
“Corner him!” The command comes from too close behind me.
“We’ve got him!” A yell of triumph comes from in front.
My stomach drops. The wolf pleads for a shift, but I know we’ll get tangled in this shirt. With the dagger clenched in white knuckles, I spin to find myself surrounded.
I’m going to die here.
“I want him alive.” Báthory’s voice, far too calm for the circumstances.
Her words bring no relief.
The guards inch forward, closing in, their scowls tinged with glee. They are as bloodthirsty as their mistress.
Panic rises to a peak, tightening my throat and causing my heart to hammer in my chest. My pulse pounds loudly in my ears. I’ve got to focus.
“Where are the other two?” asks Báthory.
I flick my gaze in her direction. Four men stand between me and the countess, with the others along my flanks equally ready to intervene.
“They remain inside the walls,” says a guard. “We’ll find them.”
Planning my attack, I aim for the men in my way first. If I can squeeze past them to plunge this dagger through her breast, my death won’t be in vain.
“Restrain him and get to it. It’s the others I want, but they’ll protect this troublesome mutt.” She eyes me, her expression caught between amusement and irritation.
I dive for her.
Ducking beneath a slashing sword, I grab the first guard by the ankle and yank. He thuds to the ground, blocking the attack of the guard next to him.
Báthory stumbles backward, scrambling away from my reach. Her other guards come to her defense. Hands clutch at me from behind. Too many, but I’ll go down fighting.
I jerk my elbow back to ram a man’s chin, then stab out with the dagger to catch another across the forearm, but my efforts aren’t enough. My wrists are wrenched behind my back. Panic rises as I struggle.
A blurred shadow streaks through my vision, laying waste to the men in its path.
Bowie? Janos? I don’t know which, but I’m filled with gratitude they’re here. Men are yanked off me. My arms are free. I spring to a fighting stance, my goal unchanged.
Grunts and groans pollute the air as the flash of dark lightning cuts a path of guts and gore through the men.
I can’t help but cringe. Blood and waste waft to my nose, suddenly so strong they blot out all other scents. My eyes aren’t swift enough to follow the trail of carnage spilling out all around me, so I focus on Báthory, who’s somehow still standing.
Gripping my dagger, I lunge.
Her evil heart is my target. But before the blade can meet its mark, I’m whipped from the air by the terrible shadow and flung aside like I weigh nothing. I slam into the stone wall with a yipe. My back, already pummeled from the earlier fall, takes the hit hard.
Fighting for air, I keep my eyes on the action.
The shadow comes to a halt. Not Bowie. Not Janos.
Another woman stands before a cowering Erzsébet. “What in the ever-shining stars do we have here?” she purrs.
A petite beauty in men’s clothes—black pants and an amber top—with two pearlescent fangs framing her wicked smile, each dripping blood down her chin. She glowers at the countess. Her chestnut hair is wild from the massacre, tousled over her shoulders and hanging messily down her back. Green eyes pass over me before returning to Erzsébet.
Around us, guards lie dead or dying. A low moan of agony rises from a twisted, mangled body unlucky enough to have survived the assault.
