The werewolf stopped, turned, and tilted his head so that his dark eyes were just visible beneath the sharp line of his cap's brim.

  "You must be mistaken, young man," he said calmly. Idiot. No regular person stays that calm with a weapon pointed at them.

  "Oh right, and I must’ve dialled the wrong number earlier too. My whole day’s been one big mistake! Cut the nonsense, we don’t have much time!"

  "I’m afraid I don’t follow," he smiled.

  The door behind me slammed unexpectedly. From within the guttural snarl, the kind that claws at your insides, came the shifter’s voice.

  "I’ll explain everything!"

  My dear brother was losing control. He had shifted into combat form, shoved me aside with a hairy paw, and took a step toward the werewolf.

  "Logan, hold!" I barked and grabbed at him with my free hand. He dragged me along for a few feet before I managed to push through to his mind.

  "Stop, you idiot! We can’t die before Jenny’s safe!" I shouted. He froze. I’d found the right lever, and I pulled again.

  "That’s the plan, remember!?" I waited until he turned his head and I saw reason flicker back into his eyes.

  "The plan! Stick to the bloody plan!" I repeated, then added a lie loud enough for the werewolf to hear. "We save Jenny, and we get out of the city. Now get back in the house, while we still have something to bargain with."

  Logan gave in, reluctantly. He shot the werewolf a look full of hatred, then disappeared back inside. I wiped the sweat off my brow with a sleeve and said to the beast in the cap,

  "Not much time, as you can see. For many reasons. And don’t even think about storming the house — there’s a magically reinforced basement. The entrance is hidden, and you lot could spend an eternity looking for it. Meanwhile, my brother and I have signalling flares at the ready."

  "You reckon he’ll remember the flares?" the werewolf asked mockingly. At least he’d dropped the act. "I’ll remind him. I’ve got decent protection, you won’t break through with one hit."

  The werewolf pulled a black cylinder from his pocket, about the size of a pillbox, squinted one eye, and peered at me through the other.

  "Shite. You realise you’ve got poisoning from whatever that thing is under your shirt?"

  "I’ve got ointment in my rucksack. If I make it to morning — I’ll use it."

  "You think this’ll last ‘til morning?"

  "This’ll last me a lifetime now." I was hinting that we’d have to flee after the exchange. A lie, of course. I fully intended to face the consequences for what I’d done, but here and now, only lies could keep Jenny alive. And I lied like I’d never lied before. "Unless you’ll take cash. About twelve thousand in metal and notes. That’s all I could get, I cleared out everything I could lay hands on."

  "Oh, poor you!" the werewolf exclaimed. "Only twelve?"

  I chose not to respond to the sarcasm, brushing it off.

  "It’s a substantial amount."

  "Yeah, it’s a bloody fortune!" the werewolf barked. "You know how many lads drop dead in factories and slog away on farms for coppers? They’ve never seen money like that, never will! And some little bastard nicks twelve grand out of his family stash like it’s nothing!"

  There was hatred in his voice, and I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

  "Well, there’s your fortune. Just give us the girl."

  The werewolf crossed the road and stepped onto Feron’s oddly green lawn.

  "Not another step," I warned, raising the sawn-off and drawing a signalling rod. I didn’t want a fight, not now, but I needed to stall. Give our allies time to get into better positions.

  "Don’t feel like the king of the world anymore, do you, lad? Legs shaking?"

  "I admit I’m frightened. But it doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind. Unlike you, you’re getting worked up, flea-ridden mutt. Cool it!"

  "Because I know what hunger is. What it’s like to beg just to scrape through one more bloody day! I know what bone-deep cold feels like. You ever wake up next to a frozen corpse? Ever had to nick coal from the railway to stay warm in winter? Risk getting clubbed by a guard and left for dead on the tracks? You know what they do with dead strays? Burn them in train furnaces! But the living ones… in the harsh years, they envied the dead!"

  "Don’t worry," I replied, unshaken. "You’ll get a proper warm-up in the afterlife."

  The werewolf laughed.

  "I’ve seen hell in this life, posh boy! You couldn’t imagine it, curled up in your soft warm bed."

  My grandfather was a wise man. He used to say that, from time to time, we all stare into the abyss, but not all of us fall. How much does it take for a boy to turn bitter and break? How long would the Sparrow brothers have lasted in the slums? Knuckles, for one — Harry still can’t shake that rotten thief’s glamour. Looks like that’s the sort of crowd they recruit new werewolves from. I’d need to look into that.

  What stood before me wasn’t some lad, but a grown man, if you can call a creature that rips out hearts a man. He had more than one death behind him. More than one heart.

  I shook my head.

  "So, what are you then, some kind of people’s avenger? Punishing the rich for your wrecked childhood?"

  "Yes... you know what? Exactly!" the werewolf declared with a smile. "That’s justice."

  "Tell me, justice-boy, how many hearts have you torn from the chests of people like me? … And how many from people like you? What kind of hearts built your power?"

  That question made him bristle, and I understood why. There are plenty of gifted in the country, but the moment one shows promise, a patron swoops in. And the higher their potential, the higher up the ladder their patron sits. Influential folk don’t just let their assets vanish without a trace, not without a scandal. So the flea-ridden bastard sated his hunger on those no one would miss: strays, pickpockets, and thugs. Strong hearts are rare among them, which meant he’d need a lot of victims.

  "I’ve got more than enough strength to savour your heart!" the beast growled. "Time you lot learned what it means to be weak."

  "So that’s why you took the girl — to feel strong?" I scoffed. "Like some useless husband who beats his wife to feel like a man? And when you're licking the vampires’ boots, does that make you feel powerful too?"

  "What?" the werewolf frowned. "Leeches are our rightful prey!"

  "You really don’t know who ordered the attack on the clan? Or are you just pretending?"

  "The attack was sanctioned by our own clan leader!" the werewolf snapped, and immediately looked like he’d said too much.

  "‘Blood and Moon’, was it? Doesn’t sound convincing. And the orders here, in Avoc, they come from a vampire."

  "I’ve torn a dozen of those bloodsuckers to shreds with my bare hands!"

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  "A dozen, eh? That’s how they managed to grow a whole crop of werewolves without raising suspicions. Let me guess: all pups, around two years old, right? Street kids, criminals… and beasts, of course!" I paused. "Not predators, though — chimeras. Most likely dogs, maybe other domestic animals, but that’d be messier, too much hassle."

  Bullseye. The werewolf didn’t just look surprised, he looked rattled. I had a solid chance to dig deeper, but just then, one of the windows of house number sixty shattered into a thousand shards.

  Neither of us expected it. We both turned at once. I caught a flicker of electric discharge, like my uncle’s movement trick. It took just a split second to take it all in.

  We struck.

  The werewolf was a touch faster, but I, thanks to the spell, was nearly keeping pace. He had to cross the distance between us. I only had to activate the enchantments on my bullets.

  My mind was already hovering near the two unfinished sigils, just one rune each left to activate. Maybe it was all the training, maybe the imminent danger sharpened my focus, but I managed to light them both at once. The circuits closed, and in the subtle layers, my bullets gleamed with ethereal fire, releasing a thread-thin beam toward the werewolf and past him, over his shoulder.

  But at this range, missing was impossible. The barrel was nearly pressed to his chest.

  I pulled the triggers.

  The sawn-off bucked like a mad three-year-old bull, spitting two blinding streams of flame and letting loose the enchanted rounds. The werewolf’s chest sparked gold as his shield flared, his knitted jumper bloomed into a fiery flower. The shielding amulet detonated, the blast flinging me against the doorway and hurling the beast onto Feron’s lawn.

  A stick with an untouched cardboard target landed nearby. McLilly hadn't even dropped out of invisibility.

  From house number sixty came another explosion, a girl’s scream, and a furious roar.

  I had just regained my balance when the door tore off its hinges, smacked me in the back and head, and pinned me to the floor. Then, suddenly, more weight pressed down, as if someone had stepped on it. If it weren’t for the stone-like armour my body had turned into thanks to the amulet plate, I’d have been flattened into the floorboards.

  "Get off!" I barked.

  The door was lifted. My brother had grabbed it and now used it as a weapon, slamming it down onto the werewolf. The enchanted, magically reinforced wood struck the beast’s outstretched claws with a dull thud.

  No longer a stranger on Feron’s lawn, he now looked like something straight out of hell. The cap was gone, his jumper burned away across the chest, revealing blistered flesh. From a gaping hole on the right side of his chest, shards of bone poked out — ribs. But under the glow of blood-tattoos, they were knitting back together: crooked, fast, but effective.

  Damn. A regenerating one. Too bad I missed the heart, would’ve bought us a few precious moments.

  More windows shattered in the next house. Orange lights stitched through roof and wall — Uncle Bryce was at work. As for the green flashes... I had no idea, and now wasn’t the time to find out. We had our own fight here.

  The creature’s long jaw twisted in a snarl, yellow fangs flecked with blood. The door groaned in its grip before the beast tore it from Logan’s hands and slammed it down on my brother’s stone-hard skull.

  The plate on his chest held, his skin had visibly greyed under the magic’s effect. The door shattered into thick boards, and Logan, unfazed, landed a textbook one-two punch to the werewolf’s jaw. His fists had turned to stone too, the beast actually staggered. Its red eyes dimmed for a second.

  I drew my pistol. No way I was getting into a brawl. Logan drew his blade.

  Before I could aim, a shot rang out.

  The bullet flew just past the werewolf’s eyes, scorching his left one with powder gases. He yelped. To the side, barely two metres away, Brian fell out of invisibility, arm extended, revolver smoking. The warlock was aiming for the temple. Solid plan, but luck or instinct saved the bastard.

  The werewolf dodged, snatched a board with a door handle still attached, swung it, and snapped it over McLilly’s side, right where the lock would’ve been. That was enough to send him flying over a low garden fence onto a scrappy neighbour’s lawn.

  My chance.

  I fired.

  The armour-piercing bullet struck the beast dead in the forehead and ricocheted skyward, carving a trench in his scalp.

  "What the!?"

  The splinter still clutched in the werewolf’s paw from hitting Brian came flying at my head with the speed of a bullet. The latch clanged off my forehead, then also ricocheted upward, but the force knocked me flat, and my pistol slipped from my grip.

  For a moment, the world spun sideways. When it settled, I saw the werewolf, skin glowing red from fire-runes, grab Logan’s arm with one paw and his blade with the other. His massive claw easily wrapped around my cousin’s wide cleaver. Dark blood welled down the blade, but the wound didn’t seem to bother him. He began to slowly twist the blade from Logan’s grasp.

  I reached for my pistol, but my hand landed just beside it.

  Bloody hell. Concussion.

  If I fired now, I could kill my own brother, but wait. He’s got a plate too!

  I snatched up the gun, took aim, and fired. Six shots, one after the other — all wide.

  Meanwhile, the werewolf had nearly pried the blade free. Logan, desperate to redeem himself, released the hilt and jammed two fingers into the freshly healed gunshot wound in the beast’s chest, punched right through it, gripped the bone, and ripped out a chunk of the bloody rib, leaving it jutting from the creature’s chest!

  The werewolf roared, runes flared to life across his skin, turning him into a red-and-green torch. The magic in his tattoos burned out violently, devouring his life along with the ink. Blood and fire swirled into a dense magical aura, and out of it, suddenly, a translucent figure with a dagger took shape.

  With a brutal kick, the werewolf hurled Logan into a brick wall, then slashed the invisible attacker across the gut. McLilly dropped out of invisibility again, this time, seriously wounded. The illusion of an unconscious body on the neighbour’s lawn vanished, and the warlock collapsed to the ground, clutching his abdomen.

  The werewolf raised a claw to rip his throat, but before he could strike, I pulled out my Bulldogs and fired twice, just to distract him. Surprisingly, I hit him: once in the jaw, once in the armpit. It didn’t do much. Even the rib sticking out of his chest was now wrapped in fresh skin.

  Brian, though, got a set of claws across the face, his jaw twisted, but his throat remained intact.

  Logan pushed off the cracked wall and charged at the werewolf like a thick-headed bull. The beast, maddened by the magic coursing through him, didn’t even try to dodge. My brother rammed him clean into the road and planted him backside-first through the window of the first car he hit.

  Another kick sent Logan flying again.

  The werewolf climbed out of the wreckage, crumpling the Cooper’s bodywork like paper, then roared, and was immediately knocked off his feet by Fred Boily.

  Fred’s spirit animal was a squirrel, which in hybrid form gave him ridiculous teeth, inhuman reflexes, and incredible raw power. Ted Feron followed, and he, uniquely, was a woodpecker shifter. The only one I knew with a real beak.

  Fred held the werewolf’s head down while Ted literally pecked his eyes out. In a matter of seconds, the beast, once seemingly invincible, was pinned, bound hand and foot.

  "Jenny? Where’s Jenny?!" Logan burst out.

  Ted nodded toward house number sixty. The roof was smoking now, and it looked like a fire had started inside.

  "Alive."

  Logan vanished like the wind.

  I exhaled in relief, then got my head back on straight and hobbled over to Brian. McLilly was holding his guts in with both hands. I knelt beside him and gently prodded his forehead with a finger.

  “F-f-fuck!” he hissed through gritted teeth, but found the strength to move his hands and ask, “N-not… nothing foreign in, right?”

  I took out a dagger, carefully cut away the tattered clothing sticking to his hands, and examined the bloodied mess. There — a shirt button wedged between two loops of intestine. I pulled it out and held it up.

  “Nothing else I can see.”

  Brian, pale as death, gave a tiny nod, then let his head drop back into the grass, arching in pain. The ghastly wounds across his blood-soaked belly were closing, slowly but surely. No violent surge like the werewolf’s tattoos, but methodical, patient restoration. Every piece of torn flesh slotted back into place, sewn with quiet, ruthless magic, leaving no ugly scars in its wake.

  Brian slumped across the lawn.

  “I hate your plans, Duncan. We agreed you’d aim for the head. My arm nearly fell off holding that bloody target.”

  “Oi, don’t blame me! They started it!” I gestured toward the neighbouring house, then turned to the shifters. “What happened over there?”

  “No idea,” Ted replied for both of them. “But they did a bloody good job. Dragged the werewolf straight through the house and chucked him out the window. Five hostages, all alive.”

  “Five?”

  “Family too.”

  “He didn’t get away, did he? I mean the werewolf.”

  “No. We’ve got him wrapped up. That’s two locked down — not bad.”

  “Seems not,” Fred said. “This one is dead.”

  “How? We were careful!”

  “We were,” Ted said. “The lads? Not so much. Look at him — skin and bones. Burned himself out completely.”

  "What if we use an elixir?"

  "Pointless," said Uncle Bryce. "You’ll just waste a valuable resource. Whoever came up with those tattoos clearly didn’t give a damn about the wearer’s health."

  I hadn’t noticed him come up, though, to be fair, I wasn’t exactly trying. I’d relaxed. But...

  "I’ve got something to say about that."

  "So have I," Uncle grumbled, then barked, "Drop the bloody shield and get it off before you turn to stone entirely, you half-witted little idiot! One’s brainless, the other’s barmy, both my bloody nephews!"

  "Right! On it!"

  The tone of that order gave me a miraculous burst of motivation. I tore off the protective amulet with unusual enthusiasm. Since the plate was under my shirt, I ran off to fetch the ointment and smeared it across my chest, stomach, arms, and face.

  Back was tricky. I had no idea where Feron kept a mirror. But Uncle, his wrath mellowed somewhat, decided to combine his lecture with rubbing down my spine himself. It was during this somewhat humiliating procedure that Sean returned.

  He said nothing about the door. Nothing about anything, actually. Just opened the basement and let Sharon out. The moment she saw him, she threw her arms around his neck, and the two of them... well, we decided to give them some privacy.

  On the way home, all the scolding fell on me alone. Logan was in no state to listen, he and Jenny were locked in a full-body embrace on the back seat, clinging to each other like they were trying to fuse by sheer force of will. No idea if they even noticed we were moving.

  Uncle, naturally, was on a roll. And this wasn’t even the bad part. When the aunties get hold of me, then I’ll scream.

  Although… what am I even worrying about?

  I’m sick. I belong in a hospital.