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Leaves and twigs snapped under my feet as I ran to my spot, my limbs near jelly, and my hands warm with blood spilling from the wound in my side. Not helpful, since the blood would make it easier for the wolf to track me. But the silver would muddy its senses, distorting its eyes, nose, and taste for a while. I would have to bet my life on that one. I didn’t have any other options.

I didn’t have weapons, backup, or the physical strength to do much else beyond shove myself in the hole, rub mud on me, and hope for the best.

Not that I had a track record of hope working out for me.

It didn’t take long for the whimpers of the wolf to turn into angry roars. For the trees to tremble, birds to take flight. It had only been a handful of minutes. It should’ve been down for longer. But the wolf was big. Old. And demon-blessed, it seemed.

I held my side, clenched my jaw, and grasped my trusty knife with a death grip, even though it would do sweet fuck all to save my life. But I would not go down quietly. I’d at least take an eye or an ear.

The thumps of the heavy body against the forest floor told me it was looking for me. I squeezed the knife tighter, pressing my other palm against my side to staunch the bleeding. It had slowed. At least I thought it had. It stung like a thousand sons of bitches. But it was a good thing it still hurt. It meant I wasn’t dying. Yet.

I held my breath as the wolf got closer, eventually hearing it breathing almost directly above where I was hiding like a fucking rat. The deep sniff of its nose reverberated through my body as I prepared myself for one last fight.

I wondered how much of me would be left. Who would find me? Colton would be called; he’d be at the scene. Gerald too, most likely.

And Dante, still masquerading as FBI.

Would they be upset? Dante would maybe shake his head at me being stupid, reckless. Then he’d move on. Another hunter lost to the job. He’d maybe talk about me over beers with surviving hunters. Use it to get him laid. Then he’d stop. Move on. Keep killing. Maybe think of me in the moments when the monsters won, when all the ghosts of people you couldn’t save came knocking. But he wouldn’t truly mourn me.

Colton would nurse the death like it was something he needed to keep alive to punish himself with. Gerald too. They’d take longer to move on. But they would, eventually.

No one would really mourn me. No one truly knew me. Dante knew the person I’d become, Colton knew the person I once was. And yet I was neither of those people. I didn’t know who I was. I’d die without figuring that out.

That didn’t overly bother me. It bothered me that someone else would kill the wolf. That Dante would, maybe even thinking he was avenging me or something.

Yuck.

What a fucking failure.

The sniffing and heavy breathing continued, though the sound had a wheeze to it as it tried to expel the silver particles from its body. I was hoping that meant it couldn’t smell me, even though I was bleeding like a stuck pig.

My muscles were tense, coiled, ready for one last fight. I held my breath when there was a pause in sniffing, a grunt, then the thump of feet against the earth as it lumbered away.

I counted to sixty, then sixty again once I heard complete silence.

Other people might’ve stayed hidden for longer, given the bloodthirsty werewolf hunting them, but no way in hell would I hide for a second longer. Yet if I didn’t move right then, I might not ever move at all. I’d just bleed out in a little hole and be picked at by lesser predators until I became a decomposed mess.

No way.

Groaning, I crawled out of the hole, picking twigs out of my hair. Then I straightened, still gripping my knife, scanning the woods for a sign of the wolf.

Nothing.

A squirrel scuttled up a tree trunk—a sign that the wolf was gone, smaller animals feeling safe enough to make their presence known.

I gingerly lifted up my shirt, cursing as I exposed the mangled skin on my side. The slashes from the claws were deep, cutting through layers of skin. I’d have to stitch it when I made it back to the house. Or get a fucking stapler by the looks of the wound. But they weren’t that deep, given the angle the wolf had to turn to get me. If it had had full range of motion, it might have killed me.

I’d survive this wound. It’d turn into just another scar. The gouges out of my calf were much deeper, torn through muscle and flesh. I tried to ignore that.

My heart finally stopped trying to escape my rib cage, and my breathing returned to normal as I looked at the tracks left by the wolf. Leading back to the campsite. I was moving slowly, much slower than a seven-foot wolf, so there was no way I’d ever be able to catch up to it.

My campsite was fucking wrecked. Tent torn apart, shit everywhere. But I found my guns, reloaded them, and checked the second for the cause of the jam.

Not that I’d find a physical reason.

Though it was a supremely stupid idea, clutching my side, I limped after the wolf. There was no way I was letting it get away. Not when it was so close.

I followed the tracks that lead away from my campsite, after dry swallowing a couple of emergency pain pills and sloshing booze on my side and calf from my hip flask. I’d also plastered on gauze from an ill-stocked first aid kit I brought on hunts like this.