Condemned

33| Sam

Rain begins tapping on the fallen leaves and thrumming against the earth beneath my feet.

The wind picks up, and there's a howl to it. It sprays mist in my face and moistens my robe. It'll soak through within minutes. No matter how this vampire-werewolf thing plays out, it'll be miserable, probably for the rest of my short life.

I was freezing before I was wet, but strangely enough, that sensation is fading the longer I'm being held captive. In fact, the chill has ignited something in me—the will to survive by any means necessary.

"Sam, I need an answer," Bryony stage-whispers in my ear, ensuring that Jael can hear her, too. "You'll go back with me no matter what. I'm just giving you the option to take the deal. It's contingent upon your good behavior."

Good behavior. Hmm. Where has that ever gotten me?

"You will play nice, Sam. Walk with me," she insists, and it pokes into my skull. "And I'll put in a good word for you."

I could play along, pretending she succeeded. But then I'd be twiddling my thumbs, simply hoping for someone to intervene on my behalf.

This has happened only once in two weeks. I suppose I should give Jael some credit for trying, but after all that's been said and done, I can't rely on him. His intentions are questionable, and his competence in this new terrain, even more so. During our last forest experience, I dragged him out, and we only had football players and cheerleaders to evade.

"It must be amateur hour." I've apparently conjured a voice from somewhere other. "Get out of my fucking head."

Compared to Ishmael, her glamour attempt was barely a graze. I'm embarrassed for her that she even bothered.

At my voice and uncharacteristic words, Jael, the mighty wolf, takes a few steps back.

Bryony tightens her grip around my neck, unafraid. She makes her distaste known with a little cluck in her throat. About to utter some inane comeback, I bite down on her arm—and mean it this time—before she has the breath.

Her skin is as tough as leather. Worse, maybe. It's hard to make a comparison. It's not like I've ever done this before. I don't let that dissuade me, latching on and twisting, like a rabid animal. I retract my head with a mouthful of cold, rancid flesh.

I spit the chunk to the ground, ready for another attack—anyway, anyhow—but she shrieks and nudges me off her with a force I'm not sure I could ever match.

While I'm falling forward, to an inevitably painful landing on my knees, hands, stomach, or face, there's a brownish blur whizzing past me, heading in the opposite direction. It's followed by a growl, a yelp, and a tussle.

Teeth, hair, nails, clothing, flesh...

I skid to a stop, losing skin on my knees, naked chest, palms, and a little bit of my chin.

That's it. I have nothing left. No deal to take. I blew it. Unless...

I sluggishly turn my head, afraid of what I might see.

Bryony is face-down on the ground. Her red, wavy, formerly well-tamed hair is tangled and splayed out. Jael has his full wolf-weight on her back.

She's twitching, losing the battle, but clinging to the vendetta that isn't quite over. Then, like the strike of a viper, his teeth sink into the back of her head and neck. There's a nauseating squish and crunch. He yanks hard and his mouth retracts with gray matter and sinew.

She does bleed, but there's something abnormal about it. It looks like liquid tar in the shade of the trees and waning light.

It must taste as foul as it looks. Jael coughs and splutters the mouthful onto the ground. There's some retching behind it, a few very dog-like sneezes, and some bounding around, as if the jarring motion would somehow rid him of death's aftertaste.