Free Lycan Fallout (Book 2): Fall of Man by Mark Tufo

hitting his mark. Bailey was doing her best to parry his paws, making sure he could not get in a lethal blow or bite. Bailey had backed up and was circling the fire, trying to keep that one small piece of defense between her and her adversary.
    Nemmon leaped over the flames, his arms outstretched, his mouth open, saliva hanging in thick ropes in hopes that he would soon be eating. He jumped past the point of the blade, and Bailey twisted the rifle quickly, landing the thick butt stock against his sensitive snout. He barked out in protest and reeled back, his foot landing in the small fire. The resultant scream was ear-splitting. Bailey had lost her footing and Nemmon had recovered much quicker than she. Had not Oggie interjected himself in between the two, Nemmon would have ripped her throat out. The dog and the werewolf were nearly the same size. This was a side of Oggie that Bailey had a tough time reconciling; he was usually so easy going and fun-loving. The loyal dog was now all bristle and teeth.
    Nemmon’s attention shifted to the dog. Oggie would sidestep each massive paw swipe. He seemed to be cognizant of the fact that he was leading Nemmon further and further away from Bailey, who had since stood back up. She was looking for a way to get back into the fight and not get meshed between fang and claw. When she saw her opening, she drove the point of her blade deep into Nemmon’s throat as he howled. The cry was choked off and cloaked in liquid as blood ran down, filling his lungs. He clawed at the blade at first then he began to claw at his own chest in hopes of opening it up to allow the suffocating fluid out. He fell backwards as Oggie lunged, his front paws slamming into Nemmon’s chest, the blade falling free. Nemmon was breathing fast, shallow breaths, a look of sheer panic and terror pulling his eyes open wide.
    Oggie moved off Nemmon’s chest, his features beginning to soften as he reverted back to his true form. He was dying. Breealla sobbed as she ran towards him, not caring in the least that he was still in the midst of his transformation. For the smallest of moments, his eyes took on a predatory stare and then switched back to those of a young boy on the verge of death. Bree’s tears rolled off her cheeks and onto Nemmon’s as he took one final intake of air. His eyes froze open as his head fell to the side.
    “You killed him!” Bree railed at Bailey.
    Bailey stepped away. There was nothing she could do or say that would ease the grief and pain Breealla was feeling. She had her own worries and problems to deal with as well. She stripped off her jacket to see an angry set of scrapes that started from below her breast and trailed off on her ribcage. Not life-threatening—at least not now. If she didn’t clean them out properly, they could eventually pose a problem. She had more punctures in her skin than she could dare to count; the cold water of the pond was all-too-happy to point all of them out as she removed her clothing and waded in. She dipped down, letting her head submerge. When she came up, she wished her problems could be as easily removed from her head as the water when she ran her hands back through her hair.
    Michael is surely dead , she thought. I hope you have found the peace in death that eluded you in life. Her flesh goosed as she walked out of the water. She applied some salve to the myriad of wounds and waited until she was mostly dry before donning her clothes. In the morning, she would bury Nemmon and take Breealla back to her village where they would prepare and wait for the inevitable attack of werewolves and Lycan.
    With what little time she was being afforded, she hoped it would be enough to wipe the dirty blotch of this night free from her. She held little hope in that regard.
    Midday was rapidly approaching when Bailey finished laying dirt atop Nemmon. She’d physically had to remove Breealla from her brother and then she’d had to carry her away from the gravesite. It was