Serena crumpled the business card and then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She pulled in a shaky breath and opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a deep, male voice.
“I’m telling you: I heard something. They’re definitely in here.”
The gravel bass sounded like it was right on the other side of the wall of scrap on our left.
Serena grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Back around the corner. Back down the lane. We hung turns so sharply that my feet slid in the mud.
A black-clad figure rose up before us as we rounded another corner.
I stumbled, trying to stop my momentum as Serena let go of my arm.
The man reached for a holster at his waist, and a low, animalistic sound erupted from Serena’s throat.
She launched herself forward. In the space between one breath and the next, she thrust her hand—a hand that was no longer human—toward the man’s stomach.
It happened so fast that I didn’t realize what she was doing—not until her claws pierced fabric and tore through flesh.
The man tried to scream. No sound came out.
I didn’t want to move forward, but I had no choice: like gravity, the scene before me pulled me in. My eyes struggled to make sense of what I was seeing as I raised my hands to my mouth to stifle my own cry.
The muscles in Serena’s forearm writhed under her skin, sending ripples through thick, black fur. Everything from the elbow up was human. Everything from the elbow down was . . . not. Her arm disappeared at the wrist. It was like it had been cut off.
No, I thought, gut churning as I fought the almost overwhelming urge to throw up. Not cut off, buried. Serena’s hand was buried in the man’s body.
I turned away, horrified, as she withdrew her hand. The sound the man made as he crumpled to the ground dragged my gaze back.
Serena stood over him, shoulders heaving. “I won’t go back.”
She glanced at me, her eyes more animal than human as her bones snapped and knit back together. Her entire hand transformed from the inside out, but somehow, a red stain remained on her skin. “I won’t go back!” she repeated, her voice breaking over the words.
My hands were still pressed to my mouth. I lowered them as I slowly walked forward. Serena turned away as I crouched next to the man.
I couldn’t bring myself to touch his skin and search for a pulse.
Instead, I stared at his chest, waiting for it to rise and fall. It didn’t.
Black spots danced at the edge of my vision as I pushed myself back to my feet. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a werewolf use their claws as a weapon, I told myself. She didn’t have a choice.
Serena took a step and stumbled.
Shoving my revulsion aside, I ran forward and caught her weight as her knees buckled. This morning, back in her room, the effort to shift had exhausted her; this time it had drained her batteries dry.
Shouts rang out nearby. They echoed off the walls of scrap, making it sound like the voices were coming at us from all sides.
“Can you walk?” I asked. “We have to move.”
Serena nodded. Leaning on me, she managed to put one foot in front of the other. By the time we reached the end of the lane, she was able to support her own weight.
We turned the corner and my heart plummeted as the fence rose up before us. It was a dead end—one without a secret entrance.
The shouts were getting unmistakably closer. There was no time to double back.
I swallowed. “Can you fight?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Serena. She flexed her bloodstained hand. Pain flashed across her face, but nothing else happened.
“Right. Plan B.”
A rusting Chevy straddled the end of the lane. I headed for it, Serena on my heels.
“What’s plan B?”
“We hide.” I ducked behind the car. Small shards of glass cut through my jeans and dug into my skin as I knelt in the sludge. I bit down on my lip, hard, to keep from crying out as Serena crouched beside me.
“They went this way.” I recognized the softly accented voice of the man from the porch.
Footsteps churned the slush.
“You might as well come out,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll just go in and get you.”
For a long moment, the only sounds were the melting snow, the creak of metal, and the pounding in my chest.
I glanced at Serena. I couldn’t let them hurt her. No matter what, I had to at least try to stop them.
Stay here, I mouthed. Then, before she could argue, I climbed to my feet.
The man from the porch stood seven yards away. His eyes were the color of scotch on the rocks—brown, but cold—and he held himself like someone who was used to fighting. It was in the subtle shift in his stance as I stepped around the car, in the way he curled the fingers on his right hand into a half fist.
“Tell the girl to come out.”
“We split up.” My eyes darted to the wall of muscle at his back: four men whose barrel chests and tree-trunk necks practically blocked the view behind them. “She’s probably halfway across town by now.”
“You’re lying.”
I could hear an engine in the distance. Probably a car they could force us into—assuming they didn’t just kill us on the spot.
A wave of hopelessness and fear crashed over me, but I refused to let it suck me under. I reached for a nearby piece of metal and hefted the chunk of scrap like a baseball bat. They would get to Serena—there was no way I could stop them—but I would inflict as much pain as I could before they eliminated me.
One of the men glanced over his shoulder. “Donovan . . .”
The man from the porch—Donovan—ignored him. He walked toward me and I met him halfway, hoping to keep him from seeing Serena for as long as possible.
He glanced at the piece of metal in my hand and a flash of amusement lit his cold eyes. “Did no one ever tell you that sometimes it’s better to give up gracefully?”
“What can I say? I believe in playing hard to get.” My voice shook, betraying the fear underneath the sass.
“Leave her alone! I’m here.”
I cringed as I heard Serena stand, but I didn’t glance back. Instead, the second Donovan’s gaze flicked to her, I swung my makeshift bat as hard as I could.
The metal hit his face with a sickening crack, the impact so strong that it reverberated up my arms.
Cursing, Donovan lurched to the side as blood gushed from his nose.