Page 52 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

Before I can change my mind and throw myself into Nan’s lap like I did as a kid when I was scared of thunderstorms, I force myself to duck out of our hiding place. Turning deeper into the woods, I take off at a jog, my legs already protesting all the unfamiliar cardio.

Without Nan’s cumbersome wheelchair, I make better progress. Soon, I’m ducking and weaving between trees and hurdling shallow ravines, feeling a bit like a doe on the run. Seeing Bambi once was enough without having to live it.

When a masculine shout sounds behind me, I redouble my efforts, my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest and flee ahead of me. “Stop!” he calls out.

Figuring my options are to either let him tackle me and grapple with a man twice my size or make a stand, I tug the gun from my waistband and wheel around. Bringing the gun to bear, I bark, “No, you stop.”

Panic sparks in my chest when two men slide to a halt only a few yards away. Where’s the third? Worry for Nan threatens to choke me, but I force it back.

“Let’s be reasonable,” one of the men says, raising his hands in surrender so his gun points to the sky. It’s not much comfort when the second man still has his steady aim trained on me. “You’re outnumbered. Tell us where the wolf is, and we’ll let you and the old lady go.”

I doubt that somehow, but my mouth is too dry to voice my skepticism. “What’s in it for you?” I finally manage to ask, my voice raspy. “Mathis is dead. Who’s paying you?”

The men exchange glances, and a pit of uneasy knowing settles in my stomach. “Who said Mathis is dead?”

“The wendigo…” I reply faintly.

“The beast gave it its best, and it’s still out there trying.” The brute smirks. “But Mathis has the resources to hide for a very long time.”

I can’t fathom Mathis managing to sneak away from Job.

It’s like trying to hide from Death himself.

With my breath fogging in front of my face and the trees towering overhead, this place looks a lot like Job’s domain, and I shudder at the thought of encountering the wendigo on the hunt.

That might even be worse than facing down the mercenaries in front of me.

“He just wants his werewolf back,” the man continues, his tone cajoling. “Give him up, and you can walk away. ”

In a rush, it hits me that I’m going to die here. Whether I give up Chase or not—which I would never do—there’s no way these men are going to let me walk away.

But I’m certainly not going to make it easy for them.

I’m not prepared for the recoil from shooting a gun.

In theory, I knew it was a thing, but in practice, it literally knocks me on my ass.

That might be for the best, since a bullet goes whizzing by inches above my head.

I scramble to turn over and run, ducking behind a tree as shards of bark go flying from another errant shot.

I cry out as one bites into my cheek, white-hot pain blooming below my eye.

I blink a few times, reassuring myself that the shot didn’t blind me, before peering carefully around the trunk.

The man I shot is down, holding his bloody knee.

An odd surge of pride and bile wells up before I swallow both down and look to the other man.

I duck behind the trunk again just in time to avoid another shot, though I feel the reverberation when the bullet lodges in the thick trunk.

“We could have done this the easy way!” the man barks.

Yeah, I could have handed you Chase’s location before kneeling for you to shoot me mafia-style , I think wryly. The adrenaline is making me loopy, and the mix of fear and righteous indignation is dizzying.

The crunch of boots in dry pine needles warns me that the man is advancing, and all irreverent thoughts freeze. I’ve never been in a shootout. Do I lean out and try to hit him first? Do I run? What if the guy I shot in the leg gets his wits about him?

Before I can make a decision—and I’m pretty sure any one I made would have ended in my demise—there’s a panicked shout followed by a spine-tingling snarl.

A shot rings out, and I flinch. But I’m pretty sure I recognize that snarl, and I can’t leave Chase without backup.

I let myself have one steadying breath before flinging myself around the trunk, gun leading.

The man I shot is flat on his back, my irate black wolf looming over him with his fangs bared. The other man is crumpled on the ground, unmoving. His dark clothes and the dirt hide the blood well, but scarlet splatter on his face tells the story.

“Chase, don’t,” I say weakly, staggering forward on trembling legs .

Chase shoots me an incredulous look, and I know what he’s thinking. This man was sent to kill me and Nan and drag Chase back, kicking and screaming, into captivity. But it’s one thing to kill someone in self-defense and quite another to finish the job after the danger has passed.

Still, looking down at the man’s mulish expression, I also don’t need him following us.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I swing the gun toward his other knee and pull the trigger, the recoil still knocking me back but less so now that I know what to expect.

“God fucking dammit!” the man screams, writhing in pain, and a big wave of holy shit, I just did that washes over me. Fingers too numb to hold the gun any longer, it falls to the dirt with a dull thud , and I stagger to one side to throw up at the base of a tree.

Too absorbed in my misery, I don’t notice the sounds of Chase shifting, and I jump about a foot in the air when his hand lands on my shoulder. “Come on,” he murmurs, “we have to go.”

Thankfully, Chase had the mental wherewithal to pick up the gun, and we leave our hunter cursing us to the depths of hell and back. His screams ring in my ears, and I sink further and further into cold shock. I just did that. I just did that. I just did that.

When a familiar rock formation comes into view, I ask faintly, “How did you know where she was?”

Chase taps his nose. “Followed your trail backward.”

Thank God Mathis doesn’t have any werewolves working for him. He should have recruited Chase, not locked him up like a zoo animal.

“I don’t know that I can face her,” I admit in a warbling voice.

“She’ll just be glad you’re okay,” Chase reassures me, his big palm running up and down my arm as if he can rub feeling back into my numb soul. I almost wish he wouldn’t. Numbness is easier to handle than guilt and fear.

“I don’t feel okay.”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You will. It just takes time.”

And I guess he would know, though he’s never seemed to have the same qualms about hurting people to protect me as I do .

Speaking of which… “There was a third guy. And a driver, too, I think.”

“Yeah,” he agrees darkly. “There were .”

I try not to think about our body count, but the number keeps flashing in my mind in neon lights.

Six. Six men dead, and one with no kneecaps.

Not to mention however many the wendigo savaged in his hunt for Mathis.

Which, if the mercenary was to be believed, wasn’t even a successful hunt. Mathis is still out there.

“Anna! Chase!” Nan must have caught sight of us, and sure enough, she sounds so relieved. Will she judge us for what we had to do?

I can’t dawdle out here in the cold forever. Taking a deep breath, I slip from under Chase’s arm with a fond pat on his chest and go to face the music.

* * *

We debate taking the hunters’ SUV and leaving our car, but with the strong possibility that the car’s GPS can be tracked, we decide to leave it.

We do, however, leave all of our clothes minus the ones on our backs and the tracker we pulled from Nan’s wheelchair in the SUV and hide it in the woods before the tow truck arrives.

The mechanic diagnoses the car with a leaky radiator, among other, less urgent problems. He’s skeptical when we tell him to patch it up as best he can. Short of an imminent threat of it blowing up, we’re going to limp it along to Alaska.

With the car in the shop and a few hours to kill, we find a run-down thrift shop and set about buying some essentials without losing what little remains of our funds.

While it takes Chase all of five minutes to toss together some T-shirts, flannels, and jeans, I’m far less efficient.

I’m going through the motions of flipping through garments, but I’m not really seeing the fabric.

My mind is still back in the woods with the bloody mess of my attacker’s knees and the eerily still body.

I was in the car when my father died, but I don’t remember much besides flashes of that night.

I do, however, remember in excruciating detail watching Mom draw her last breath.

I was no stranger to death even before our escape, but there’s something different about seeing Smarman or any of Mathis’s henchmen dead and knowing it wouldn’t have happened if not for me.

Suddenly, a curtain of multicolored fabric swings in front of my eyes, the musty smell of old mothballs assaulting my nostrils.

I blink a few times, trying to focus back on the here and now, and nearly recoil at the monstrosity before me.

The Christmas sweater is made of patchwork neon with tiny quilted Santas rocking chartreuse and hot pink.

“Just in time for Christmas,” Chase quips, waving the abomination again. “Try it on.”

My eyes snag on the price tag. “We can’t afford that, even if I wanted to blind everyone I meet.”

“That’s not the point. Try it on.”

Too tired to fight him, I slide the sweater from the hanger and tug it on over my clothes. It hangs nearly to my knees, and the sleeves dangle almost as far. Before I can whip it back off again, Chase takes my shoulders and firmly directs me to a mirror in the corner.

The laughter is slow to come, but every time I look at one of the creepy, grinning Santas, another chortle escapes until I’m bent over laughing but also crying. I can’t tell if I’m broken or amused or devastated or just thankful to be alive and here in this weird little shop with my family.

“See? Sexy,” Chase drawls, doubling my laughter.

“If you think that, there’s something wrong with you.”

“You could make a garbage bag look sexy,” Chase replies with a grin, pleased that his distraction is working.

“A garbage bag would be sexier than this.”

“If you think that’s bad, just wait for what else I have in store for you.”

We spend the next half hour picking out outfits for each other, and it becomes something of a competition to one-up the ridiculousness on each turn.

Chase squeezes himself into a flying squirrel onesie; I try on a paisley dress with bell sleeves straight out of the seventies.

Chase dons a sequined blazer that would be at home on an Elvis impersonator, and I strut my stuff in a snakeskin miniskirt.

I’m pretty sure Chase isn’t being sarcastic when he suggests that I buy that one.

Even Nan gets in on the fun with a black-and-white cowhide hat and a vest so fringed it resembles a bowl of spaghetti. It gets caught in her wheels, and we’re all in stitches as we struggle to free her.

By the time we walk out, we’re all smiling. And even though I haven’t completely shaken the slimy feeling in the pit of my stomach, at least it’s a start.