The Hunted

Twenty-Eight

Blake

Ten feet away from where Blake stood, the werewolf snarled. His mouth turned up into a sneer, narrowed animalistic eyes – near glowing – focused on her.  The veins in his neck bulged as a feral expression crossed his face. 

            Blake had half a second to survey her surroundings, the copse of trees that encircled her, familiar and welcoming.  Their branches were low-hanging, trunks sturdy.  Hard ground that would hurt if she fell on it but at least there was traction and no mud to slow her down.

            There was no fear pulsing through her body – only adrenaline and pure excitement.  She bounced on the tip of her toes, waiting because she knew that he would make the first move.

            The werewolf lunged for her but Blake spun out of the way.  He blinked – surprised at her speed – and then growled as she brought her blade down on his back.  He spun away before it could strike but not fast enough to avoid the elbow to the nose that Blake delivered.

            He cursed, loud and crude, blood gushing from his nose.  Blake gave a throaty little chuckle and flipped the blade in her hand.  The wolf spat on the ground, blood spraying, but his nose had already stopped bleeding. 

            "Damn human," he muttered seconds before he reached for her again.

            His fingers wrapped around her arm as he wrestled the blade from her but Blake used the momentum to propel herself, reaching for his other hand as his grip faltered.  She grabbed his wrist and pulled as she ducked under his arm so that his elbow was bent awkwardly.  Blake had been in this hold before and knew that it hurt. 

She was in control now and it was easy to kick at the juncture of his knee, sending the wolf to the ground.  She reached into her pocket with her other hand, pulled out the makeshift dagger she'd shoved in there, and pressed it against his throat.

            Blake leaned down to murmur in his ear, "I win, werewolf."

            A crude curse was the only response.

            Laughing, Blake released him and the werewolf jumped to his feet.  Gone was the snarling, angry creature – replaced by someone who grinned and looked a more little impressed.

            She tossed her makeshift dagger – a sturdy stick she'd found in the woods – to the side as Phillip said, "Okay, I admit it.  You're better than I remember you being."

            Around them were murmurs of appreciation and Blake looked up into the faces of her small class.  There were only ten werewolves in the group and all were people that Blake had become familiar with. 

            Blake had started her class by having the group run through a series of warmups before partnering to do basic punching combinations.  She walked between them, correcting form and showing them how to properly shift their weight, and when they'd mastered punching she'd worked on blocking and footwork. 

            That had been when Phillip started running his mouth claiming that since he'd been part of the group to bring Blake in before, he was confident that he could take her on now in his human form and win.  Monroe had then dared Phillip to put his money where his mouth was and somehow it had turned into an all-out betting war about who would win in hand-to-hand combat between Blake and Phillip. 

            What stemmed from there was a trash-talking and betting fiasco.  Since they didn't use money within Sanguis Ridge, they bartered things like early morning patrols and helping wrangle the children at the school.