Wolf at the Door (Wolf Winter #3) - T.A. Moore Page 0,71

eyes puffed out over slab cheeks and nose flattened over its broad mouth, held more of the human than the other monsters. Jack set his teeth in that snot-wet snout and tore it open. The monster screamed, reared up onto its bowed back legs, and slapped Jack off like a bug. The splintered bone claws that poked out of its paws raked his ribs open to the bone.

With a grunt, Jack landed in the snow. He made himself stagger up onto his paws, each breath a stab of pain down his bloody side, and growled a challenge at the thing. It squealed and rubbed its ruined face into the snow. As it looked up, a bloody frost crusted around the hole he’d left on its face. The blood-rimmed bulge of its eyes glittered with spite as it lumbered toward him.

“Wolves!” someone yelled, panic in their voices. “The wolves are here.”

Shauna’s da, a sable-brown wolf big even in the dire-sized pack, went through the chain-link fence instead of over it. It came down on top of some of the prophets who were still human-shaped, and the rest of the Pack trampled them underfoot as they stormed the prophets’ den.

It didn’t take long. Kath, sleek-furred and silver-gray, went for the hamstrings. The prophets who dropped behind her, enraged or screaming, she left for others to clean up. It had been a hard winter, the Old Man was still lost, and not all the Pack had fallen in behind Kath. Some of Lachlan’s wolves weren’t there, and the ones that had traded camps had torn ears and chunks of fur missing. If the prophets had rallied, ghoulish and alien as they pulled patched and rotten wolves over their bones, they could have made a fight of it.

Maybe not a long one.

They didn’t. Prophets were cowards and killers, oathbreakers and perverts. A few of them had hammered their flaws into horrors, but without a Rose or Job to rally behind or kidnapped children to hide behind, the prophets weren’t suited for conflict. Even magic and stolen skins couldn’t change that.

They broke and fled on lame feet, the ripe stink of carrion trailing behind them whether they fled into the storm or into the Wild.

Jack snapped and snarled at the bulldog to keep it hemmed back from the fight. His ribs were broken, sharp against his lungs as he twisted and jumped, and the vision in one eye was smeared gray and red from a claw that had scraped down his face. The bulldog had signs of wear too. Thick strips of flesh hung from its shoulders and gut, left to bleed as the monster’s body repaired more important injuries to throat and bone. He’d ripped off a strip of muscle from its cheek on the last pass, thick as gristle between Jack’s fangs, and the grotesque jaw hung stroke-slack on one side. Tendon and skin writhed like worms as the prophet’s curse worked blindly to reshape the monster into something that killed easier.

Gray and black fur blurred through the compromised vision in the corner of Jack’s bad eye. He thought it was backup and wasn’t sure if he was grateful or resentful that they thought he needed it. Then the wolf barreled into him, breath sour as rancid cheese, and they tumbled over each other as sharp fangs tore at Jack’s ears and thick ruff.

His first suspicion—always read—was that it was Gregor, but even if Jack’s brother had his wolf, Gregor wouldn’t try to kill him now. It would be a fair enough fight when that happened.

Lachlan.

The mouthful of fur that Jack ripped from Lachlan’s throat was dry and matted. It stuck to his tongue and the roof of his mouth, annoying and scratchy. Lachlan landed on top of Jack and used his weight to pin him down.

Snow hung between them like smoke as Lachlan peeled his lips back in a snarl, teeth dull against the bright red of his mouth. His breath was hot enough to steam and more even.

There was something wrong with him. Jack wasn’t sure what exactly, half-blind and his brain fogged with blood lust, but he didn’t question it either.

A massive paw swung out of the snow and slapped Lachlan off Jack’s chest. The huge wolf yelped like a puppy in surprise as he was flung into the air. Then the monster screamed, and the sound gargled out of its loose throat as it lumbered after Lach. Bad wolf or good wolf, it didn’t matter. The prophets might have