I dove to the floor, landing on my hip to fire at his hind paws. He sprang above it, letting it fly beneath him. “Five.”
Weapons are all around you, Francois had said as he trained me. Find one and pick it up.
At the Leónes’ shop, weapons were literally all around me. Deadly pokers and blades and iron bars that would maim or kill any human opponent. But would prove utterly useless against a Lycanthru wolf. The only thing that killed them was silver, and the only silver weapons within reach were those at the end of my bolts.
I scrambled to my feet and backed away fast as Grenault marched at me. He had suddenly grown tired of waiting, his fangs dripping saliva. He was coming for me.
I could draw the silver blades that Pierre had fashioned for me, to gut the beast’s stomach. But since Grenault was fast enough to avoid my bolts, I could never manage to stab him at close range before he seized my wrists. My only chance was to sink a bolt into him. Just one.
I dove to the other side and fired quickly, hoping to graze his ribs. “Four!” he shouted as he knocked the bolt aside. I stepped farther back, taking more time to aim, considering every opening. I aimed at his head, but fired down at his paw at the last second while holding his gaze. He swatted the bolt away, still quicker. Still striding toward me with the furnace grate shield. “Three!”
I backed away fast, keeping him in my sights. Careful not to stumble into anything in the cluttered shop. Not that it mattered. I would be dead in seconds.
I fired again. And again.
"One!" he said with another swat.
He continued toward me with grinning fangs, his whole being like one of my nightmares. Looming and inescapable. I had to end him now, with the only chance I had left.
I waited for an opening, and shot my final bolt.
He deflected it easily. "None,” he growled.
I stood a few feet from him, struggling to steady my breathing. I was surrounded by awls, pokers, shears, even a sword. But none of them were silver, only iron and steel. The silver vat had cooled too much to coat a weapon, even if I could reach it.
I was dead.
He tossed the furnace grate aside, letting it crash onto the floor with an echoing ring. Then he approached slowly, examining me like I was an intriguing insect.
Or a savory meal.
He seized the crossbow from my fists and tossed it aside. I felt naked without it as I forced myself to stand my ground, with nothing between us to protect myself. I stared up into his hideous yellow eyes. Into the last monstrous face I would ever see.
His thick left paw closed around my throat, choking me as he lifted me off my feet. I tugged at his arm but couldn’t break free.
“Right where we left off,” he said.
I clenched my teeth. I had no choice but to overcome my reflexes and let him choke me while I sank a blade into his giant arm.
Too late. His other claw cut into my side, setting my ribs ablaze with pain. I cried out, gasping as he released my throat to rest his paw on my hip. He held me aloft, like a slab of meat on a butcher’s hook, as I grit my teeth.
Then he rushed at the far wall, ramming me against it. I screamed at the impact, which drove his claws a little deeper. I squeezed my eyes tight against the agony, against the purr of his voice.
“It’s over, little Helena.”
12.
Grenault held me high against the wall of the Leónes’ blacksmith shop, like a butcher hanging meat. His right claw remained in my side where it had poked through my reddening blouse and skin.
“So much for the ‘Red Rider’,” he growled through his sharp teeth.
He yanked his claw free and dropped me to my knees. Clutching my side, I instinctively started stuffing folds of my tunic into the open wound. The cut didn’t feel deep, but if I didn’t stop the bleeding I could pass out or die on the floor within minutes.
A rag hung over the edge of a small table. I snatched it and pressed it firmly against the wound, feeling a fresh sting of pain. I grabbed at a rope dangling from a hook by the front door and coiled it around my waist. I grit my teeth and tugged it tight to secure the makeshift bandage.
“Go ahead,” Grenault said, his black figure towering over me but making no move. “Lick your wounds, little kitten. I wouldn’t want you to lose all your blood at once. The Lycanthru will want to watch you bleed all week.”
I struggled to my feet, my legs shaking as I rested against the rear wall. I could endure the pain for now. But I had no idea how to survive, let alone rescue Madame Leóne.
Grenault’s furry chest heaved with satisfaction. “This is how your life ends, and how mine begins. Won’t you look pretty, strung up before the Lycanthru order like an innocent fawn, ready to be picked apart, piece by bloody piece?”
I pressed the rag against my side, struggling to regain my footing and stand tall. “All right,” I panted. “You’ve won. You can take me to the Lycanthru.”
“Oh, rest assured, I’ll take you,” he said in a steady growl. “Once I’m done with you. This was supposed to be a celebration, to share with my closest friends. Robillet. Tumier. Devereaux. And Jareau. We met each other years ago, in the mine. Later we shared a house together to cut expenses.” His voice lowered, his yellow eyes turning to slits. “The house is empty now. Because of you.”
I met his vicious gaze. He meant to exact revenge, and then take me prisoner if I survived.
“As for the lovely Lisette, don’t imagine I’ll leave her behind,” he said. “You’ve been a tough meal to work through. And she’ll be my sweet dessert.”
I clenched my teeth and threw myself at him, with no thought except to stop him, any way I could. Before I could strike him, he seized both my wrists and held my arms high. “Is that all you have left, Mademoiselle? You’ll find me much harder to kill than my friends.”
His hind leg kicked me square in the chest, knocking me across the room. My gloves came off in his hands as I slammed against the front doorframe. He flung away the gloves and strode toward me. “Pitiful. Nothing but an arrogant child playing at being a soldier.”
I struggled to rise, my chest stinging, my back stiff and sore, my ribs on fire. He leaped at me in three giant steps. “Here, let me help you up, Mademoiselle.”
He grabbed my arm at the elbow and twisted, yanking me to my feet. I cried out as he spun me away to crash into a pile of iron filings. I ground my teeth, aching all over, and scanned the pile of sharp pieces.
Not an ounce of silver among them.
“No point in searching for a silver weapon, Helena,” he taunted. “I looked around the shop before you arrived. Had I found anything, I would have removed it. It’s just you and I now. My claws and fangs, and your soft, innocent flesh.”
My cloak closed around my throat suddenly as my head jerked backward. He had seized my hair and hood together, strangling me with my own cloak as he yanked me to my feet.
“Where are all your threats now, Helena?” He dragged me toward the door, my boots scraping the floorboards as the noose of my cloak tightened. He hoisted me to my feet, then hurled me to the ground. I fell hard to my knees, gagging as I regained my breath. Struggling to rise, I wondered how quickly I could limp to Crimson and escape. But how could I abandon Madame Leóne?
I was only deceiving myself. There was no way to save her. I couldn’t even save myself.
There are weapons all around you. Find one and pick it up.
“On your feet, you insolent child,” Grenault snarled, seizing the nape of my neck to hoist me up. I kicked at his stomach. His paw slammed down on my thigh like a brick. I cried out for an instant, then shoved aside the throbbing pain in my leg, the searing agony in my side.
There are weapons all around you.
No. There was nothing. I had nothing left to fight him except my own weak strength.
Grenault backhanded my face like the kick of a horse. “I’m enjoying this far more than I anticipated, Helena. I might wait on tending to Lisette. Perhaps you deserve extr
a attention.” He seized my tunic and pulled me to his chest to backhand my other cheek. Then he struck me again. Until my head lolled like a rag doll. I struggled to focus on his leering yellow eyes, his delighted fangs.
“Slow down, Mademoiselle,” he said softly. “You’ll have plenty of time to bleed.”
I hung in his grip, too tired to remain standing. He was killing me, inch by inch. I was dying.
He batted me toward the front door. I lay still on the ground a moment, then struggled to push myself up, for all the good it would do.
Father Vestille’s voice echoed in my ear. You have to exercise your faith, to find another way.
Except that there was no other way. I couldn’t lift tables or iron furnace grates like Grenault. What could I use against this monster? What would bring down a giant house like him?
I had failed Madame Leóne, and I would pay for it with both our lives. Lord, help me. I’ve got nothing left. Give me strength and save us from this monster!
I grabbed the edge of a table to pull myself up. The other end of its surface held saws and hammers, along with some silver candlesticks that Grenault had missed. Or perhaps had ignored. A candlestick might stun him at best, but I was too weak to even swing it hard. I rose to my feet, looking above the table to see the fiery torch on the wall.
The torch.
Fire could bring down a house or a barn, or an entire forest. But would it burn a Lycanthru wolf?
Exercise your faith. Weapons are all around you.
I leaped up suddenly with new hope, my thigh stinging as I forced myself to bound onto the tabletop. I plucked the torch from its holder and whirled to face Grenault. Towering above him for the moment, I waved the torch as a warning.
He grinned, stepping forward.
“A blazing torch,” he chortled, continuing toward me. “Isn’t that frightening? All the better to cook you with.”
My breath came in gasps. I had lost my last gamble. Grenault would cripple me and drag me back to the Lycanthru, to torture and devour me along with Madame Leóne.
Yet something stirred inside me, giving me fresh confidence. Perhaps I could still bluff him somehow. I dropped to the floor and lifted the torch, as if the fire might threaten him. Keeping up my bravado with the only weapon I had left, as Grenault continued to edge closer. Closer. As he –
As he edged.
He crept toward me with a broad grin, sliding one paw forward, holding one paw back. The same fighting stance Francois had taught me, keeping myself ready to advance, or if necessary – to retreat. Could Grenault be tricking me with the same bravado I used? Using threats to hide his weakness?
I shoved the flame toward him suddenly.
He flinched, jerking away from it.
He was bluffing.
“I see the hesitation in your steps,” I said.
He grimaced. “Aren’t you clever?”
He growled and spread his claws, lunging at me. I bowed my head low and shoved the torch at his chest, hearing the hiss of sizzling flesh as the fire raced across his fur. Smelling the sickening burnt odor as he clawed at the bright, spreading flame. Listening to Grenault’s high pitched howl.
The monster was dying.
I touched the torch to his shoulders, thighs, head and pointed ears, as he screamed and screamed, the flames whirling about him as he searched for somewhere to run. I felt as though I had become the monster myself, but I couldn’t let up. I had to destroy him, once and for all, to keep him from rising again.
I circled around him, trying to keep him in one place as I touched the flame to all sides.
“Helena, the furnace!” Madame Leóne shouted.
I glanced beyond him to see her, moving quickly past the smoke to open the furnace cover with some sort of long stick. Then she stepped into view again, revealing the pitchfork she carried. “Here!” she called, tossing it to me.
I seized it, dropping the torch, which Madame Leóne hurried to retrieve from the floor. I drove the pitchfork into Grenault’s blazing torso and shoved as hard as I could. I charged toward the furnace with a primitive war cry, pushing him with my last remains of strength. His shrieks turned to sickening whines as his body got stuck halfway inside the furnace hatch. I kept shoving the pitchfork’s tines at him, pushing and pushing, watching the flames break his body down.
Until his limbs folded inward, crackling, as he crumpled into a heap of raging smoke and flame.
I forced the last pieces of him through and snagged the furnace grate with the pitchfork to close it, sealing him inside. Where he continued to burn up, his smoke billowing into the chimney.
“They burn,” I said, thrilled and exhausted. “I can burn them …”
The pitchfork slid from my fingers as I fell to my knees and rolled onto my back.
“Helena!” I heard Madame Leóne’s footsteps rushing for me.
“Red!” Pierre suddenly shouted. The sound of his frightened voice was as soothing as a fresh rain.
“What in blazes is happening here?”
I heard Monsieur Leóne drop his heavy pack of metal tools at the doorway. “Pierre, help me open these windows!” I heard them rush to the walls, opening shutters to let the smoke out.
“Hurry, she’s been stabbed!” Madame Leóne cried.
“What?” Monsieur Leóne asked.
“Frayne, quickly, I said! Grab some towels from the kitchen and some water!”
“Of course! I just – of course!” Footsteps bounded to the steps leading into the house.
Madame Leóne sounded frantic. So concerned for me …
“Red!”
I opened my eyes. Pierre bent over me. His beautiful brown eyes bulged as though he had seen a ghost.
“Red, are you all right?”
“Very,” I said, feeling relaxed. “Wolves burn.”
He knit his brow. “All right, well – good to know.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Pierre, fetch Doctor Renoire. Now.”
He nodded and sprang to his feet. I heard him dart out the door, heard his horse whinny outside and break into a gallop. Crimson whinnied after them, standing ready for me to emerge. Always ready.
“Pierre’s bringing the doctor,” Madame Leóne said, patting my hand. “Just hang on. Diamond’s a fast horse.”
“The fastest,” I admitted dreamily. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Helena, you saved my life from – that thing. Thank you.”
“I stopped him,” I said. “Tell Father Vestille – I stopped him.”
“I will. Just lie still. I’m going to press on this wound until – oh, Frayne.”
“Here you go, all I could find,” he said, bending beside me. “What on Earth happened? What’s she doing here?”
“A wolf,” Madame Leóne said. “Helena saved me from it.”
“And brought it to our doorstep!” he raged. “Into our house! Precisely what I warned you both about! And now – dear Lord, her whole side’s bleeding.”
“Yes, I need that water.”
“Of course. Let me fetch a pail.”
His heavy boots pounded away again. I had upset him. Made a mess of his shop. Endangered his entire family with the silver bolts Pierre was making for me. Perhaps he would forgive me.
“Helena, I’m going to remove this rag and treat your wound properly,” Madame Leóne said as she fiddled with the rope to untie it. “You’re going to be all right.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”
I would survive. I had survived. Against the worst Lycanthru I had yet faced. I had become as ruthless as they were. As much of a monster as they were. And I would not stop or slow down until I destroyed every last one of them.
Father Vestille had been right. So had Papa and Francois. I had exercised my faith and found a new weapon. I would never again permit myself to fear or hesitate. With the Lord’s help, I would beat them all.
Just like Grenault.
I closed my eyes, smiling as Madame Leóne tend
ed my wound.
I had stopped the bleeding.
I would end this.
NOTE FROM AUTHOR D.A. RANDALL:
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D.A. Randall
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R I S I N G
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THE
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Please enjoy the following excerpt from the next Red Rider novel:
RED RIDER
R I S I N G
THE RED RIDER SAGA
BOOK 2
RED RIDER
R I S I N G
Favreau stood gaping at the gathering wolves, his fingers loosening and tightening on his gun. The wolves moved closer, ignoring their fallen companion as the mounting rain pelted his carcass.
“Papa, there’s more of them!”
“… get back inside,” he said quietly. He started to back away slowly.
The wolves picked up their pace.
Favreau continued to back up. He lifted his musket to a firing position, but abandoned the effort as the wolves kept coming, kept grinning.
They weren’t rushing at the pigs, or even at Favreau. They focused their attention beyond him, at the porch.
At Lucille.
My head pounded with terror. They had planned this, waited for this opportunity. They stole a pig every couple of nights to draw the family out into the open, until they found an opportunity to attack Favreau’s daughter. Then they all emerged at once, the same way they must have attacked Francois at his home.
The Red Rider (The Red Rider Saga Book 1) Page 8
