Page 45 of Storm of Shadows

“What’s that?” the first girl asks.

“A wolf!” one of the girls behind me says.

“A white wolf!” another says, as the ground underneath us seems to vibrate with the coming beast.

The tall girl looks down at me in shock.

“Shit, she’s not …”

“Fuck!” the girl gripping my hair says, releasing her fist and sending me tumbling into the dirt.

And then they’re off, scattering through the trees as the pound of those paws comes dangerously close, so close I can smell the beast, can hear its panted breath.

It’s too late for me to run. Instead, I stay as still as I can, face down in the dirt. Maybe it won’t see me and will take after those other girls instead.

Except I’m not that lucky, because in the next moment, I hear the wolf come to a skidding halt and then it’s padding softly towards me.

There are many ways I imagined dying at this academy – especially after my fall from the net. None of them involved being mauled by a wolf.

I try to calculate how far behind the other runners must be, whether they’d even help me if they reached us in time.

Without moving my head, I glance around, searching the dirt for a weapon – a rock, a stick, anything at all. However, there’s nothing big enough to fend off a giant wolf.

I curse myself. Day four and I’m already tapping out. All those plans I had, all those promises I’d made to her in my heart. All of it’s come to nothing.

I hear the wolf sniff the air, padding closer and closer, its breath coming in loud huffs.

And then it stops. I pray it rips out my throat – at least that will be quick.

But nothing happens. For several seconds the world is as still as I am and then suddenly I feel something wet and slippery hit my ear. I jolt, expecting the sharp cut of teeth to follow. They don’t, just that wet slippery object again.

A tongue!

The wolf’s tongue.

He’s licking me, drawing his tongue over my ear and my cheeks, under my chin. He pants excitedly and I’m reminded of Baxter, my old dog from home, how he’d jump up and lick my face whenever I returned home or whenever I needed cheering up.

Is this the same? Or is the wolf simply sampling me before he devours me completely?

I decide I have nothing to lose.

I roll over and sit up, and the wolf comes charging at me, his tail swinging side to side in excitement. He licks my face again, then at my hair that’s come loose from its tie.

I can’t help myself – I miss Baxter, about the only thing I do miss from home. And so I bury my hands in the thick fur around his throat and stroke him.

“Well, you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” I coo, as the wolf attempts to lick at my hands. “And I don’t think you realize, but I owe you one. You just saved me from a beating.”

The wolf stops licking at me, and gazes off through the trees, sniffing at the air. I take the opportunity to stroke up his head and along his fluffy ears.

He’s about three times the size Baxter was, and Baxter was a big dog – one my dad brought home with the intention of making a guard dog (not that we had anything to guard). Fortunately, he proved to be a big softie – just like this wolf.

“You look pretty terrifying,” I tell the wolf, as I rub at his sternum, his eyes drifting shut in pleasure, “but you’re really a big softie, hey?”

The wolf opens his eyes and snarls quietly at me as if he understands and doesn’t like that observation.

I laugh and raise my hands.

“Sorry.” I giggle.