Blood and Silver is available exclusively in The Reader’s Lounge

“She said she would rather kill him than look in his direction…but she wanted him, and he knew it.”

Blood and Silver is available exclusively in the Reader’s Lounge. To read each chapter as it is written or listen to the audiobook, click the link!

CHAPTER ONE

The priest was absolutely terrified, but that was to be expected; being hunted by a werewolf was not a soothing experience.

“Did you hear that?” he squeaked, clutching the silver cross to his chest with shaking hands.

It was difficult for Alix not to roll her eyes or snap at the man. She reminded herself that he volunteered to help and that alone deserved respect. So, as she scanned the shadowed undergrowth, she said, “Of course I did, just as it intended me to. They want you to hear every cracking branch, see shadows move in the dark, smell the musk of their pelt. They need your fear, Père Henri. They want you to run.”

The wide-eyed young priest gulped and edged closer to her on the dirt path. He breathed in short, quick bursts and stank of stale sweat. Worse, his heart galloped like a panicked horse. If the wolf didn’t attack soon, she would need to put some distance between the father and herself.

A branch snapped, the priest jumped, and she gritted her teeth. Not long, now.

Pére Henri muttered to himself in a constant litany of regret. “Why did I agree to this? Lord, why would I put myself in this foolish position?”

“Because,” she said, carefully calculating her words for effect, “your parishioners are in danger and they need a man of God to protect them from being torn to bloody pieces in their beds.”

His heartbeat redoubled and the scent of his fear billowed out in an invisible cloud, but the priest didn’t break, even when a shadow passed between them and the full moon, throwing the forest path into momentary darkness.

She slid her hands over the pistols hiding beneath her red cloak and listened intently to the sounds of the night. Crickets, owls, and frogs had ceased their symphony. A westward wind rose, making the shadows shift beneath the trees as it carried the scents of the night toward her.

“It has been a quarter of an hour,” Père Henri whispered. “Why does it wait?”

“Because,” she said, slowly thumbing back the hammers on her revolvers. “There is more than one wolf. And,” she gave the frightened man a predatory smile, “because they know who I am.”

Père Henri began praying in a quavering voice, stumbling over the words as his courage broke. His steps faltered. His fear hit a crescendo, and a blood-curdling howl split the silence. The air filled with the sharp scent of human urine.

Poor Pére Henri.

The proof of his vulnerability was too much for the wolves. A large female and smaller male broke cover from opposite sides of the road ahead and hurtled toward them, too fast for mortal eyes to reliably track.

“Run!” Alix barked at the priest, who hiked his skirts above his knees and fled back down the moonlit path with the panicked speed of a hare. He could not outrun them, but he made a distracting target. Fleeing prey was irresistible.

Alix wrenched her eyes from his retreating figure, spun, pulled the revolvers from beneath her cloak, and fired with both hands. Thunder and fire erupted, and the wolves leaped aside into the trees, disappearing into the shadows.

She had creased the male, who crashed into the bushes, thrashing as he tried to cope with the pain of a silver-inflicted wound.

Ten bullets left.

The female spared a glance for her companion but didn’t stop running. Her instincts had taken over, and Pére Henri was a mouthwatering target she couldn't ignore, not to defend her partner, or even to protect herself from the woman with silver bullets.

Alix leveled both pistols and opened fire again. The first bullet took the wolf in the foreleg, breaking the bone with an audible crack that sent her tumbling through the underbrush with a yelp of pain. The second shot went wide, but it gave Alix plenty of time to drop out of the way as the male leaped at her from the shadows. These two were clearly inexperienced.

Alix rolled to her back and fired two shots at his underbelly as he sailed over her head. Six bullets left. He hit the ground and somersaulted to a stop, a crumpled heap of blood and fur and twisted limbs. She spun to her feet and sprinted after the priest, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Damn.

He was faster than she thought, and that meant no distraction for the remaining wolf, who limped out of the bushes and onto the road, massive head held low, moonlight glinting off of an impressive set of teeth as she snarled and circled. Only a fool would think the wolf any less dangerous with a broken leg, and Alix was not a fool.

She angled her body to keep both wolves in her sights. The male wolf wasn’t getting up, and the female was still fast enough to dodge before Alix could squeeze the trigger. She had to anticipate the female and fire where she would be instead of where she was.

Her fur was matted, her muzzle stained with the blood of some innocent who had already been savaged, and her amber eyes were trained on Alix with the burning intensity of intelligence, not merely animal hunger. Now that the spell of Pére Henri’s fear was broken, her human mind was back in control, and that made her more dangerous.

Only four silver bullets remained.

The werewolf circled slowly, just far enough away to dodge if Alix raised her arm, and kept her left ear cocked toward her fallen comrade, who whimpered and twitched in the dirt.

Following an instinct, Alix turned both pistols on him. The female lunged, throwing her body between the woman with the guns and her dying male partner, and Pére Henri screamed in the distance.

Gunfire roared, but Alix didn’t wait to see where she’d hit the female because the coppery scent of human blood filled the air. She fired, then turned and sprinted toward the screaming priest.

Somehow, Pére Henri had climbed an ash tree, but that wouldn’t save him from the werewolf slavering beneath the branches. She had not heard three. The wolf leaped twenty feet and sank it’s claws into the bark.

The father screamed again and scrabbled higher as teeth clacked shut mere inches short of his feet.

Alix took aim as she ran and fired before something hit her from behind, sending her sprawling into the dirt. The female. How was she still on her feet? The silver wounds should have incapacitated her, if not killed her outright. If the wolf hadn’t been seriously wounded, the impact of her attack could have broken Alix’s back, and she would never have healed an injury like that fast enough to save the priest.

Alix rolled to her feet, pistols in hand, just as the smaller male limped into view on the road behind her. For an instant, her mind went blank. The silver should have poisoned them to death by now.

Pére Henri screamed again.

Three werewolves. None of it made sense, but she didn’t have time to discover what was wrong. She had to get them both out of this forest alive with only two silver bullets. Taking the best option available, she sighted down the length of the barrel and fired at the female. The first shot went through her left eye, and the second took her in the chest.

Alix didn’t generally aim for the head; it was too small a target to track and hit reliably, especially on a creature that moved as fast as a werewolf. But she was injured, and her only chance of keeping Pére Henri alive was evening the odds.

The female dropped without a sound and didn’t move.

The male wolf sent a heartbreaking howl tearing through the forest as Alix holstered the empty pistols and drew her silver daggers, sparing a quick glance for the embattled priest. He had climbed higher, into branches too slim to bear the weight of the hungry wolf, who stood on its hind legs, snapping and clawing at the bark in frustration.

Pére Henri didn’t have long.

Neither did she. The wolf closed the distance between them faster than she would have thought possible and hit her like a runaway train. She wrapped her arms around his thick neck and clung to his body with her legs as they hit the ground. He rolled, snapping and scratching, but she held on.

All she needed was a single opening, and her dagger would slide between the creature’s ribs like a warm knife through–what was that smell?

Her heart dropped. Another wolf? She couldn’t take four at once, not without a better plan and more bullets. This job had only been for one werewolf, and she’d brought enough bullets for two, just in case, but not four.

She didn’t have time to wait for the perfect opening, so she released her grip on the creature’s fur, planted her feet to stop them rolling, and stabbed his broad ribcage with both daggers.

The scent of the other wolf grew stronger.

The injured beast twisted like a snake and struck, sinking his teeth through her forearm from one side to the other, locking her right arm in place. The fool didn’t know it, but he’d just sealed his own fate. While his jaw was clamped on her arm, she shifted her grip on the dagger in her left hand, jerked it out of it’s chest, and drove the full length of it through his throat at an angle. Hot blood covered her hand in a silent rush.

The wolf released her arm and jerked away, pulling the handle out of her slippery fingers and twisting on the ground like a worm as he was wracked by the dual pain of his poisoned injury and of the silver.

If the blood loss didn’t kill him, the wolfsbane would.

She didn’t have time to check her own wound because the new wolf was so close she could taste its scent in the air. Something was strange about it, but that thought died away as the biggest werewolf she’d ever seen came crashing through the bushes at a speed that should have been impossible, its sleek body aimed at the tree where Pére Henri’s grip was faltering.

She sprinted toward the tree at an angle to intercept the wolf, dagger held low as she crushed the undergrowth beneath her boots, and leaped. They collided mid-air and hit the ground in a tangle of thrashing limbs. Pain shot up her forearm but she ignored it and held on. It was a good thing she landed on top, because if the wolf had landed on her it would have crushed her ribcage.

As they struggled, she managed a deep cut on the wolf’s left haunch, but it twisted away, faster than it should have been able to, and launched itself at the tree before she regained her feet.

The scent of Pére Henri’s fear was thick in the air, sour and sharp, like a good beer, mixed with the unmistakable tang of human blood. It must have been so tempting the wolf couldn’t even be bothered to defend itself.

Her mouth watered, but she gritted her teeth against the tempting smell and crouched to leap. She had to get between the priest and the snapping wolves.

Before she could jump, both werewolves hit the ground in a swirling, slavering ball of fur and teeth. She dodged them and only spared the odd sight a glance before jumping to the bottom branch and hauling herself up. Both her right hand and bark were slick with blood, making climbing difficult.

The father clung to a high, thin branch with desperate strength, his face white in the moonlight, one leg dangling uselessly beneath him.

“Pére Henri, hang on!” she shouted above the snarling.

He grunted, but his arms shook.

She hauled herself to the branch beneath him, set her hip against the trunk, and reached up. “I’ve got you.”

His head shook violently, eyes closed.

“Dammit, father! If you fall, I won’t be able to save you, and you can’t hold on much longer. I’ll catch you, I promise.”

And if he didn’t hurry, whichever wolf won that fight would be snapping at their heels.

He opened one eye a slit, then glanced down at the fighting werewolves. If it was possible, his face paled further. He didn’t know that the wolves shouldn’t be fighting. With as much fear and adrenaline as he was pumping out, they should be killing themselves trying to get to him. But she would take whatever small favors she could if it meant getting the priest out of this mess alive.

“Come on,” she said, reaching toward his waist. “I’ll catch you.”

He released the branch only reluctantly, slipping low enough that she could grip his belt. She pushed hard against the trunk for balance, grateful for the size of the tree, and pulled him toward herself.

He shrieked when his grip broke, and she jerked his flailing body upright, catching him as his feet hit the fork in the branch and his knees buckled.

“I’ve got you,” she said.

He wrapped every available limb around her and held on with whatever strength he had left. At least the tree was wide enough here that he wouldn’t fall into the tangle of wolves. She leaned out to get a look at the fight. The large wolf was winning, tearing great chunks of flesh from the smaller male and spattering the forest floor with blood.

“The fight is almost over,” she whispered to Père Henri’s shaking form. “I’ll drop on whichever wolf wins and kill it, and then we’ll get you out of here.”

“No,” he begged, momentarily tightening his grip.

“If I don’t, it will come up this tree, and I cannot fight it here.”

“I cant…”

She pried his arms off of her, made sure he was safely balanced against the trunk and swung out onto a limb, prepared to drop…but the fight was over. With a powerful twist of his body, the large wolf tore out the throat of the smaller creature, then spat the flesh on the ground. That was a wound even a werewolf couldn’t heal from.

Without bothering to watch his enemy die, the large werewolf staggered toward the treeline and disappeared into the shadows. Had he been so badly wounded that he would slink away to die? That wasn’t common. Most werewolves would fight and hunt as long as there was blood in their veins. But she couldn’t complain. This was the chance she needed to get Pére Henri to safety.

Maneuvering him out of the tree was nearly as hard as fighting the werewolves had been, and he clung to her like a child once they were back on the ground.

“There,” she said, trying to untangle his arms from around her neck. “We’re safe. You can let go.”

He did, but sank to the ground in a heap of black cloth and clutched his leg, rocking back and forth.

“Oh God, my God,” he prayed, “protect me against evil.”

“Don’t worry, Father,” she said. “People only turn if the wolf savages them unto death.”

He turned his face up to her, panic in his eyes, and then looked back down at his leg. For the first time, Alix noticed the wound. She had smelled the blood but was too focused on the fight to realize what it meant.

She sank to her knees next to the priest and pulled his robes aside. The flesh of his thigh was torn, gaping like a dark, hungry mouth, and a steady stream of blood spurted to pool on the ground beneath him. The fight by the tree had lasted less than a minute. Pére Henri would be dead in less than three more.

She ripped his belt off and applied the tourniquet, though she knew it was useless. Once the wolf had damaged his femoral artery, there was no saving him.

She tied off the tourniquet, but kept pressure on the wound and said, “Listen to me, father. I can staunch the bleeding for a while and try to get you to the village, but there is no equipment there for a transfusion. By the time–”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “I understand.”

“If you die like this, from the wound…”

“I will turn. I know. You warned me before we came here.”

They locked eyes and dread condensed like ice in the pit of her stomach.

His shaking increased, silent tears spilling down his pale cheeks. “Can I–can I pray?”

She swallowed and said, “Of course, father.”

He was halfway through his prayers when his voice weakened. “There’s no time,” he said, falling back against the trunk of the tree. “You must do it. You must–” he swallowed, his delicate adam’s apple bobbing. “Must do it.”

“I’m sorry, father,” she said as she clenched her jaw and drew the silver dagger.

He placed one cold, wet hand over hers and said, “You helped me protect them. We protected them, didn’t we?”

She hadn’t cried in more years than she could count, but tears stung her eyes. “We did. You did.”

He nodded, then took a few quick, shallow breaths, and said, “I feel it, the darkness. It’s like a blanket rolling over me. Do it, my lady. Do it now!”

“Forgive me,” she breathed.

The smile on his face was small and weak, but real. “There is always forgiveness for you.”

She closed her eyes and plunged the dagger into his chest.

His heart fluttered around the blade, trying to reject the foreign object, trying to beat, perhaps even trying to change, but the silver prevented all of it. She sat there with his body in her lap, fingers curled around the blade, till all chance of his changing was long past.

He had been a brave man, braver than she’d given him credit for. And he had protected his village. The people of St. Michelle would no longer cower in the night, afraid of disappearing, or of losing their children, because their parish priest had used himself as bait to draw the monsters away.

“Well, Alix,” she said, voice heavy with disgust. “You’ve earned your coins.”

She buried the priest beneath the tree and fashioned bent branches in the shape of a cross to mark his faith, misplaced as it might have been. The dead wolves had shifted to their human bodies as the magic deserted them in death. Seeing the bodies of werewolves she’d killed become innocent-looking mortals never got easier, but tonight, something was different.

The dead male beneath the tree wasn’t a young man, but he had the sinewy body of a laborer, in drab brown wool. Nothing strange about that. Some men who desired power or strength would seek the forbidden rituals that bonded their spirit to that of the dark wolves. But the other two, a boy no more than fifteen, and a girl nearly into adulthood, both had snub noses, freckles, and red hair. A sister and a brother? Their clothing was also poor, threadbare, and stained.

They bore no resemblance to the dead man.

Werewolves were solitary monsters, too violent and single-minded to cooperate with one another. That made them easier to track and kill. Sometimes a bond between mates was strong enough to keep a hunting pair together, but that was rare, not only because the nature of werewolves didn’t allow it, but because the chances of a loving couple being turned together were slim.

So who were these people, and how had they managed to hunt and fight together?

Dawn began bleeding color and light into the sky, stealing the darkest shadows and turning the world silver-gray. She didn’t have much time.

Alix disposed of the bodies in the usual way, stringing them up by their ankles and tying dried wolfsbane around their necks. Anyone who came across the bodies would know what they had been. Her job was done, and she needed to find a safe place to rest and recover.

She slogged through the underbrush and back toward the road, turning south, and pulling up her hood against the oncoming dawn. Towns and villages were often as afraid of their heroes as they were of their monsters, and it didn’t help that she was both. So, resting in a cave somewhere would be preferable to going back to the village. Not for the first time, she wished she had a horse, but the animals would never abide her.

Alix was wondering what it would be like to simply relax and let a beast of burden haul her tired body to the next town that didn’t know her name when she caught a familiar scent. Her pistols were in her hands before she remembered they were empty. She traded the pistols for daggers and stalked into the underbrush.

The scent and then the sound of heavy breathing led her farther into the trees. There, beneath the branches of a scrubby bush butted against the granite face of a cliff that lined the road, something moved.

She adjusted her grip and pushed the branches aside.

A man lay curled in a fetal position on the ground, long, dark blonde hair covering his face. He had several wounds, was scratched and bruised, with blood plastering his shirt to his skin. Another victim of the werewolves? No wonder she smelled the beast on him.

She slid the daggers into their sheaths and nudged the man’s shoulder with the toe of her boot. Wounded men often woke from sleepy delusions ready to protect themselves from more violence, but he didn’t move.

“Are you okay?” she asked, nudging him again, but he only groaned and curled more tightly, arms wrapped around his middle.

All she wanted was a warm place to sleep, something to eat, and maybe some wine to drink away the vision of life leaving Pére Henri’s eyes. But she couldn’t leave the mauled man to die of exposure or lie there till the scent of his blood drew more mundane predators.

With a sigh she bent and slid her arms beneath the man, wincing when he sucked in a pained breath, and hefted him onto her shoulder.

He was too big to carry far, as his feet nearly dragged the ground and his limp weight was awkward, but she should be able to get them to better shelter than the underside of a bush before her strength gave out.

The scent of his blood was tainted by the wolf stink and the dirt clinging to him, so the smell was manageable, but the faster she could put a safe distance between herself and the wounded man, the better. Caring for him would be easier after she’d recovered and she wasn’t so thirsty.

As it was, his blood was already beginning to soak the shoulder of her cloak. It seeped through her shirt, warm and wet against her skin. She swallowed hard and focused on the other sights, scents, and sounds of the wood, trusting her instincts to guide her.

The man groaned and tried to roll off of her shoulder.

“Nope,” she said as she tightened her grip. “I know it’s uncomfortable but you’re going to have to put up with my shoulder in your guts for a little while longer. I think I hear…”

The wind had picked up and a hollow humming sound echoed off to their left. She found a game trail leading toward the cliff face. Sure enough, behind a stand of saplings, was the thin crack of a cave opening in the rock.

She squeezed through the opening and was relieved to find the place shallow and relatively clean, if not musty and damp. A fire would make the place downright cozy. The man grunted in pain when she plopped him down against the inside of the cave wall.

“Sorry,” she muttered, then turned to forage some firewood, but he reached out and gripped her ankle with surprising strength for someone so battered.

“Wait,” he croaked.

She jerked her ankle out of his grip and said, “If I don’t get you warm, you’ll probably die. And if I don’t get away from you soon…we’ll both regret it. I’ll be back with firewood.”

If she were a normal person, or even a good person, she’d try to staunch his wounds first, make sure he was out of danger and comfortable.

She was neither of those things.

But she was tired, tempted, and too weak to trust her self-control. Alix didn’t need another death on her conscience tonight, so she crept back into the lightening woods and began searching for dry wood to warm and clean the stranger, instead of killing him.

To continue reading, become a member of The Reader’s Lounge