Last Wolf Standing. Rhyannon Byrd
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chair. Hidden in an oriental-looking cabinet was a small TV set, which she used to indulge her weakness for all the CSI shows as well as Letterman, while a low table under the window held her speaker system for her iPod and her new laptop.
This was her space, her little getaway, her private corner of the world, and Torrance took a deep breath through her nose…waiting for the panic to ease. She counted the seconds off slowly, willing that feeling of safety that she always found here to come. But there was nothing. Nothing but that bitter lump of fear sitting in the back of her throat, churning her stomach into a knot.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, straightening her spine. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let her overactive imagination spook her out of her own apartment! Marching like a zealous militant, she went into the kitchen, poured herself a tall glass of sweetened iced tea, and then crossed back through the living room to the single bedroom. Her slightly slanted blinds allowed a narrow glance at the now swollen sky, a sharp crack of resonating thunder heralding the arrival of another storm. Ah, she’d made it just in time, she thought, forcing a small smile.
Walking to her dresser, she studied her pale reflection in the beveled antique mirror on the wall while slipping the clasps free on her small silver hoops, then unfastened her slim watch and slid off her bracelets. A refrain from one of the Celtic CDs Mic played throughout the day in the store found its way into her mind, and she began humming softly, determined to ignore that lingering unease, until she felt a cold, clammy chill crawl over her skin, her palms going damp and hot.
Something’s wrong, she thought dully, experiencing the oddest sense of viewing the situation from afar. The feeling tightened, sharpening, until she feared that she wasn’t alone, even though she’d seen no one when she’d walked into the room. But on the opposite side of her bed, just behind her, was the closet—and she couldn’t remember if the door had been open or closed when she’d entered the room…and was suddenly too afraid to look. Had she remembered to lock all the windows earlier? Damn it, living in a quiet neighborhood had made her careless, because she couldn’t remember checking them before she’d left for work that morning!
“There’s no such thing as monsters,” she muttered, determined to stay calm, but every terrifying scene from every nightmare she’d ever suffered began playing through her mind. A deep, bone-jarring tremor shook her body like a frail, fragile leaf caught in the destructive fury of a storm, and she watched in a numb daze as her hand lifted, reaching toward the surface of her dresser where she kept her mail. Her fingers touched the cold, hard metal of the antique letter opener Mic had given her last Christmas, and as they curled around the silver handle, she heard the telltale creak of a floorboard. A sickening feeling slipped through her, like something sticky and wet sliding over her skin, sending her stomach into a roiling spin. Her breath stopped, suspended, held tight in her lungs as she raised her wide eyes and caught the reflection in the mirror above her dresser.
It was behind her, at the foot of her bed, visible over her left shoulder. Tall, over seven feet at least, with fangs and fur—and a head that resembled the terrifying shape of a wolf.
She opened her mouth to scream, but before the bloodcurdling cry had clawed its way out of her throat, the beast was on her, knocking the dagger-shaped opener to the ground. It twisted her easily, taking her to the floor, where it slowly looked her over out of dark, lifeless eyes that shone as blank and black as a doll’s. Despite her frantic struggles, long, lethal-tipped claws took possession of her wrists, lifting her arms up high over her head, stretching her out beneath its hard, oppressively heavy body straddling her thighs. An overpowering combination of animal musk, pine-scented forests and a sharp acidic odor filled her head, and Torrance screamed again, if she’d ever stopped screaming—but she couldn’t hear anything over the terrified roaring of her heart, unsure if the sounds of her horror were trapped in her throat or shattering against the walls, drowned out by her heartbeat.
“Well, well, aren’t you a tasty little piece?” it drawled in a deep, guttural voice, the words awkward as they made their way past the muzzled shape of its mouth, fangs gleaming whitely in the graying light of her bedroom. It almost looked as if it were smiling at her, and for some reason, that scared her more than anything.
“Who the hell are you?” she sobbed, fear making her own voice sound demonic, deep and rasping and raw.
“My sweet, sweet Little Red,” it laughed roughly, its warm breath pelting her in the face, humid and hot and sickly. “Didn’t your new half-breed warn you about me?”
“Who? Warn me about what?” she cried, paralyzed within its powerful grip. It held her far too easily, and the cold, painful knowledge of imminent death settled heavily into her gut.
“Don’t you know the reason for a Bloodrun, little human?”
“A Bloodrun?” she grunted, so sick with fear she felt nauseous. “What are you talking about?”
“Your new boyfriend tracks down my kind and kills us like animals, simply because we accept what nature meant for us. Because we’re not afraid to embrace our natural hungers.” It leaned closer, the tip of its dark muzzle all but touching her nose, and this time she knew it was smiling as those black, shiny lips pulled back with malicious humor, its mouthful of razor-sharp teeth promising untold horror. “You’re not Dillinger’s normal taste when it comes to his playthings,” it rasped, tilting its massive head to the side as it studied her out of those emotionless eyes. Leaning closer, she felt the wet roughness of its tongue lick up the side of her throat before curling playfully around the shell of her left ear. She whimpered, hating the pitiful sound, and the monster laughed softly as it whispered in her ear, “No, you’re not his usual taste at all. But I think I’ll enjoy eating you all the same, honey girl.”
Chapter 3
They’re real…they’re real…they’re real…
Torrance chanted the silent refrain over and over within the thick, black haze of terror clouding her mind, while the werewolf’s oppressive weight held her down. She knew she should fight, struggle, scream…but after hearing those last words, all she could do was lie there beneath the monster, paralyzed by fear. It spread through her limbs like an intravenous drug, numbing her body while her heart pounded to a painful, resonating beat that threatened to rupture her chest. A lifetime of nightmares, of horrific images of blood and pain, fangs and razor-sharp claws, crept over the surface of her body like a spider, tangling her in its insidious web.
“The more I lick right here,” that gruff, garbled voice chuckled with malicious pleasure against her throat, the monster’s rank breath meaty and humid as it reached her nose, “the richer the scent of your fear grows.”
No. No. No. This can’t be happening. Can’t be happening. Can’t be happening.
Its massive head shifted, muscled, heavily-furred shoulders bunching as the creature moved down her body, dragging its mouth against the upper part of her chest revealed in the now-gaping neck of her shirt, torturing her with the teasing slide of its teeth. “I’ll tell you what,” it taunted, long, lethal claws clicking ominously against the hardwood floor, heavily padded palms damp with sweat where they gripped her wrists in a biting, bruising hold that numbed her fingers. “Why don’t we have a little fun and see just how scared we can get you?”
How scared? She was already filled with terror. The realization that she was a coward burned in her belly like acid, but no matter how fiercely her pride raged against it, Torrance couldn’t throw off the smothering wave of fear.
And he knew it.
Smiling, the werewolf cocked his head to the side as he studied her, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in her scent. “So timid, little one. That just isn’t going to do. I enjoy it so much more when my meals have a little life in them.”
He laughed at his own joke…and Torrance squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears tracking across her skin.
Oh yes, they were real. The monsters from the dark recesses of her mind truly did exist. Not just in her head, but in the flesh. She had often wondered—no, worried—after the things she’d