Condemned

32 | Jael

Shilo howls.

At the third inflection, I launch into a run.

There's no such thing as a blind spot the closer I get to the house. I have to skim by the groomed portion of the property, but I should, as far as I know, be at the edge of the frame.

In the sliver of light that remains, Ishmael might notice movement and recognize me, but Rollin is on watch. Hopefully, he'll assume I'm Shilo or miss me completely if he's as tired and cranky as Shilo has claimed.

An immediate call to Ishmael would be the worst-case scenario. He would leave his dinner party for something like this. Rollin would have to be sure, though. Being wrong would have consequences that he'd go out of his way to avoid.

Brock is, of course, a bigger concern, one I'm expecting. I will have to deal with him directly, and there is the very real possibility of harm.

At a particularly dark, steep, narrow portion of the path leading to the barn—the venue for Sam's ritual—I transform into human form and set up the tripwire that Shilo hid for me.

Brock treads up and down this path regularly. Everyone does, at least occasionally. I couldn't prepare, in full, ahead of time, and the ground is rumbling already. I don't have much to do, but it's stressful, naked and cold, the wind unrelenting. And I'm hindered by the deepening darkness. Plus, it's critical that I avoid being seen.

Once the wire is attached, I flick it, and become a wolf again, and rather clumsily at that. The task is complete, though not in record time.

I dive beneath a pile of leaves in the adjacent ditch, no doubt exposed in some facet, just as Brock turns the corner, Sam draped over his shoulder.

He trudges down the hill. I wish it were faster, and Brock, more oblivious. From my lousy angle and somewhat shrouded view, I still get the sense that he's looking for trouble. It's right in my direction. Did I leave scuff marks or is my body showing?

I suppose it doesn't matter as long as he falls. Just keep your eyes off the wire, and there is still hope...

Three, two, one...

He steps down, about an inch shy of the wire. His second leg comes forward and bumps against it. His momentum isn't quite committed to that next step. Still, like a centuries-old tree chopped to a point of no return, he begins to tip, seemingly unaware of gravity's intended course for him. He catches on, though. His reaction is delayed, but he's experiencing one, a little early for my projection.

Brock tries to get that foot out, not to move himself forward, but to prevent himself from falling. He fails. Well, sort of. From the weight of him, the tripwire snaps out of the tree trunk. With a bellow that Ishmael, the witches, and Maleceks could probably hear from inside the house, he collapses, but only to his knees.

This isn't ideal, but it may be my only chance to kick him while he's almost down. My gut tells me to pounce, and I listen to it, without any delay. While I'm bounding forth with all my energy and strength, my teeth bared, Sam has hooked a leg over Brock's other shoulder.

She supports her weight with his ear and gives it a hard twist. Then, with sudden and shocking dexterity and aim, she stabs something sharp into eye. A nail, maybe?

Shockingly enough, Brock does bleed, and it's a gusher. For the first time in my recollection, he wails with what must be actual pain.

I can't go for his throat with her in the way, so I latch on to his left wrist.

He wrenches his hand free of me. "You are next week's dog chow," he tells me, taking a meaty swing at my head.

Only he could make that sound terrifying.