Free Where Wolves Run: A Novella of Horror by Jason Parent

utensils fell from the spots on the walls. The beast did not seem harmed, but it was slow to change its trajectory. Konrad seized upon its delay, grabbed his bow and arrows and hurried into the night.
    When the werewolf followed, squeezing through a doorway not meant to accommodate its girth, Konrad was waiting. He loosed the first arrow into the beast’s chest, a direct hit, though it barely penetrated the demon’s thick muscle. The werewolf pulled the arrow from its body and tossed it aside as if it was a minor inconvenience.
    Konrad’s second shot was even less effective; the werewolf effortlessly swatted it out of the air. Konrad did not get a third shot.
    The werewolf leapt off its back paws, propelling itself high into the night sky. It crashed down in front of Konrad. Its long fingers grabbed around his head. Again, Konrad found himself flying. He braced for the impact.
    He hit the cold, damp earth with a soft thud. His bow was no longer in his hand and his arrows were strewn about the grass. Out of the corner of his eye, Konrad saw the werewolf leap. He rolled like a log until he found his belly and pushed himself up to his feet.
    Again, the werewolf was slow to turn. Konrad rushed toward his dagger. Instead, he ran straight into the beast, who had pounced directly into his path.
    The werewolf rose on its hind legs, standing like a man. Konrad gazed up, way up, at a towering, slobbering horror.
    The beast stood thrice as tall as Konrad. It began to circle him, dropping back down to all fours. Its loathsome snarling fumed hot breath that smelled of corpses and plague. Here, it would swat at Konrad. There, it would gnash at nothing beside him. It was baiting him, toying with him before making the kill.
    As he came full circle back to the threshold, Konrad’s foot brushed against his dagger. The beast swiped half-heartedly at his head, and Konrad easily ducked it. While he was crouching, he picked up his blade.
    When Konrad drew it before him, the werewolf seemed amused. It swatted at Konrad’s hand, but he pulled it back in time. The two continued to circle. Each time it swiped, the beast bared its chest, an opening if Konrad had the courage to take it. The beast clearly thought nothing of him despite his silver dagger. He was a plaything to discard after use, an appetizer before the main course.
    Konrad let his mind return to that night one month ago, the night he heard beasts like Joren—no, beasts including Joren—devouring his mother. He let himself remember, and he let himself feel it. He remembered his heartache. He remembered his dread. But most of all, he remembered his howling mad desire for revenge.
    His mind went blank, filled only with the reds and blacks of raw emotion. His body acted on instinct, some inherent mechanism for self-preservation. He lunged at the monster, his dagger raised. And he thrust it with all of his might.
    A fierce backhand sent him soaring into the front of the house. On impact, the air rushed from his body. His vision wavered between blurred light and eternal darkness. He struggled to maintain consciousness, so he could see his end come. He prayed it would be swift.
    The werewolf loomed over him. It clutched at its chest and the dagger’s hilt extending from it. The beast fell to its knees, its eyes no longer vibrant but dull and hopeless. Its hair receded. Its fangs shrank, square human teeth appearing where Father had spared them.
    Soon, only Joren remained. His expression showed only astonishment, shock in knowing that a weak little boy had bested him. His mouth dropped open as if to speak, but nothing came out. He fell over, dead.
    Konrad gave up his own fight with the waking world. Darkness took him prisoner, sweeping away the kindness of light.

 
    13.
     
    The sound of hooves hitting dirt, a horse driven to its full potential, stirred Konrad from uneasy rest. His head rang, dull bell-tower tones. He rubbed his temples. Stinging hurt resonated from his chest as his