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It was time to kill this fucking wolf.

As I’d anticipated, it started bucking as soon as I jumped on its back. Wrapping my legs around its torso as tight as I possibly could, I pressed my gun against the rapidly moving, roaring head of the wolf.

I was wincing, holding my breath and maybe dying from blood loss, but I smiled. Even with a demon-blessed witch’s protection, this would kill it.

“Hasta luego, baby,” I grunted as the wolf thrashed. My finger pulled the trigger.

There was a click then … nothing.

Well, not nothing, since I was currently clinging to the back of a seriously pissed off, feral werewolf. There was plenty of growling, bucking, and swiping of claws. There was searing pain in my calf, the burning of my muscles as I held on, the clatter of my teeth crashing together that echoed through my brain. But no resounding gunshot tearing through flesh and bone and brain matter.

Something was wrong with this gun too.

It had malfunctioned or jammed, but not because of lack of care on my part. I was meticulous about cleaning and maintaining my weapons, since they were the only thing that stood between me and death. They didn’t just even the playing field; they gave me the upper hand.

This malfunction was entirely mystical, I knew that for certain. The magic curling around this wolf was powerful, complicated, and annoying as fuck.

“Fucking witch.” I dropped my useless gun to the ground.

My limbs were trembling from the pressure it was taking to keep myself attached to the beast, and now that I didn’t have the means of killing it, jumping on its back seemed kind of stupid. My knife wouldn’t do much, and I couldn’t reach it anyway. The creature was just too big.

Just as I was preparing to make a flying leap from the beast’s back, a searing-hot sting spread across my ribs. The wolf had somehow managed to contort itself around and scrape its claws down the side of my torso. I didn’t feel any organs tumbling out, so I could only hope the angle made it impossible to tear through too deeply. It hurt like a son of a bitch, though.

I stifled a scream, lurching backward. The ground came quickly, and I didn’t land gracefully. I rolled in the grass, groaning at the searing pain as I clambered to a squat, grabbing my Hail Mary from my jacket.

A silver grenade. Break in case of emergency kind of weapon. It wouldn’t kill it, but it would hopefully incapacitate it enough so I would have time to run.

Hence why I didn’t use it. Because I didn’t fucking run. Cowards ran. Incompetent hunters ran. Hadley fucking Harris didn’t run. I finished the job.

But I was fresh out of efficient weapons, my calf was likely in ribbons, and I had tears down the side of my body that might or might not have been a mortal wound. My need for vengeance almost overcame my need for survival. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let that fucking wolf finish off my family.

It wasn’t running toward me. It was standing, eerily still, watching me with that same creepy acumen that made it seem human, calculating. Drool dripped from its muzzle, and I swore, its lips stretched into a smile as it realized that I was severely injured.

I didn’t break eye contact with it as it came closer, growling, nostrils flaring. The expanse of the creature was beyond comprehension—at least seven feet tall, able to walk both on hind legs and on four. The shape of its snout and muzzle were much sharper and more angular than a normal wolf; the features were almost human, but a monstrous mix between human and beast. The dense fur was shiny, healthy, not matted and stinking like previous werewolves I’d tumbled with.

This one was bigger, stronger, and a lot more intelligent than any other I’d encountered. It must’ve had something to do with the witch it was aligned with—the witch I obviously had to kill before I attempted to face this wolf again.

That’s if I survived this encounter.

I gave myself fifty-fifty odds.

I let the wolf prowl a little closer, my bloody palm cooled by the metal of the silver grenade.

It maintained unnerving eye contact with me.

“Yeah, you keep staring, you mangy mutt,” I rasped. “I’ll be the last thing you see before you die.” My swagger was almost entirely fake.

I let out a growl of my own, then I pulled the pin, hurling it as blinding pain radiated down my side. I didn’t think about what might happen if the wolf was somehow enchanted against the grenade too. Because if it were, I’d be another corpse for Shay to vivisect, another case for Colton. And another victim for Dante.

I would not be a fucking ghost to motivate men to violence or revenge. I was going to survive, willing it so as I threw the silver grenade. It was still flying when I turned and ran.

The faint yelp that echoed through the trees let me exhale for a second before I pumped my limbs harder, crashing through brambles and branches.

I grinned as more angry yelps echoed from behind me, imagining the thousands of microscopic silver particles embedding in its skin, fur, teeth, and eyeballs.

It was incredibly painful, incapacitating them for a few minutes, at the very least. I ran for the hollowed-out tree I’d scoped before I made camp. Again, I never intended to run and hide—this would be the second time in my life I’d done it—but I always had a Hail Mary plan.

Which in this case was disguising my scent and hiding in a fucking hole in the ground. Hardly a personal triumph. And I sure as shit wouldn’t tell Dante about it. Nor would I admit to myself that maybe it would’ve been better to do this with Dante, since I didn’t have the information about the witch, and this would’ve been a prime moment for one of his crafty spells.