“She’s coming,” Simon said.

“She’s already here.” Malcolm stood to his left, staring through the glass into the wild woods beyond the well-tended garden. “I can see them moving. They’ll attack soon.”

Dusk had fallen, but outside the windows of Hartley Hall it appeared as bright as a milky day thanks to the moon rising in the east. Its radiance illuminated the lines in Simon’s face as he looked out the French windows in the Blue Room. The scattered clouds glowed with the eerie light, while the high, manicured hedges stretching off to the dark forest looked almost otherworldly in the moonshine.

Simon placed a hand on the wall and closed his eyes, seeking out the power of the runes he had scripted throughout the house and across the grounds. To his relief, they were all as he had placed them, waiting. So he reached out, touching them all, and took control of their power. He could feel the connections through the aether as if he now had a series of outposts along a frontier, but in the face of the threat lurking in the forest, his magic seemed distant and weak. Simon’s jaw tightened as Kate entered the parlor in close conversation with Penny. Nick was on their heels.

Kate wore her bandolier of vials, carried a sword in her hand, and sported a pistol in her belt. Simon studied the martial figure with appreciation. Her face showed no fear, only the resolve to protect those in the house. She took a position at his shoulder, peering through the glass. He took strength from her tenacity.

“There’s not much time, I assume?” she asked.

“No. They’re scurrying around. Is everything prepared?”

“As best we could.” She smiled back at Penny. “Miss Carter is a wonder. She prepared a number of swords with silver nitrate and managed to provide some of the men with silver loads for their firearms.”

Penny hefted her thunderous stovepipe weapon. “Have you seen the workshop her father has here? If I had a few days, we could hold off an army.”

“No doubt,” replied Simon. “I wish we had those days, but I’m sure you’ve worked miracles in the time you had. And I’ll remind you, Miss Carter, that this isn’t your fight. I would rather you place yourself out of harm’s way.”

Penny regarded him with a hand on her cocked hip. “Just give us a rousing St. Crispin’s Day speech, will you?”

Simon nodded to her and looked around the room from under a downturned brow. His face remained a mask of effort as he gripped the doorframe. His air of authority was all the more powerful as the tattoos on his bare forearms shone with eldritch energy. His voice deepened. “The way to win this battle is to stand together. They will concentrate their attack on the house, most likely at this place because the hedges provide good cover nearly to the door. So Malcolm and I will hold the line here in the Blue Room. Kate, you and Penny take the library in the east wing to cover the entrance to the wine cellar.”

Kate gave Penny a glance over her shoulder, and the engineer shot her a lopsided grin.

Simon continued, “Nick, your task is to cover the rear entrance in the west wing to ensure no beasts threaten the servants in the scullery.”

“Where’s the dog?” Nick huffed a disgusted breath. “I’ll stand near him. He always turns out well.”

“Good idea,” Simon nodded at his friend. “Kate, if you and Penny find your position in the library untenable, fall back to the wine cellar. We can give ground but not people. Those creatures out there have no goal but to kill all of us. We won’t let that happen. Our duty is to destroy them. Destroy them utterly. Every one of them you kill is one that can’t hurt us in the future.”

“Hear hear,” Malcolm muttered.

“Very well.” Simon stared into Kate’s bold green eyes. Part of him was apprehensive for her, but the other part was struck hard by her unabashed fire and valor. “Off you go. Good luck, everyone.”

“I’ll see you when it’s over.” Kate hefted her long sword and laid a hand on her pistol. She gave Nick a sharp whistle and jerked her head toward the door. He looked annoyed but followed her and Penny.

“She’s quite impressive.” Malcolm’s eyes lingered on the door.

“She’s an Anstruther,” Simon said, annoyed by the Scotsman’s ill-timed observation.

Malcolm grinned and flipped back his long coat and pulled his sleek Lancaster pistols. He nodded toward a grove. “There.”

The darkness abruptly shifted and a lanky form moved just shy of the line of trees. Then others moved on the western side. A howl reverberated through the woods outside. Reflexively it brought the hair standing straight on end along Simon’s skin.

“Here they come!” shouted Malcolm in a voice that boomed through most of the house. A horde of werewolves broke from the darkness and swarmed through the mazelike hedges like an onrushing wave. Simon’s hand slapped the wall beside him and his skin smoldered with wisps of greenish smoke. Within fifty yards of the house, runic symbols flared to life on the ground under the charging beasts. Explosions sounded on all sides of the house as the traps were triggered. The werewolves were flung up into the air as the runic bombs exploded. The surprised pack retreated and milled together back at the edge of the forest.

“God Almighty,” Malcolm whispered with a quick glance of amazement at Simon.

Beads of sweat appeared on Simon’s brow as he controlled the magic of the runes outside. His intense stare never left the window. “There’s our girl.”

From the edge of the woods, a figure stepped forth into the moonlight and Malcolm exhaled sharply. The giant creature’s light grey fur shone almost white, as did the enormous battle-axe clenched in her right hand like a banner of war. It stood almost as tall as she. Her howl of rage shook the glass in front of Simon. An exclamation slipped unintentionally from his lips. Simon took in the heavily scarred leather armor that Gretta wore and the huge helmet adorned with a terrifying wolf’s head.

“She won’t stop till she gets what she wants,” Malcolm warned.

“That won’t happen,” Simon stated, his mouth drawn to a thin line.

Gretta threw back her shaggy head and howled again, loud enough to make Simon wince. Suddenly the werewolves all darted forward. They crossed the garden quickly, vaulting the torn bodies of their comrades. Simon placed his hand lightly on the doorframe beside him, his demeanor unflinching as five huge, slavering werewolves rushed onto the brick walkway, charging at him with nothing but a pane of thin glass to protect him. His muscles strained as primal aether surged through him.

Malcolm stepped back to raise his weapons but held his fire, his eyes narrowed to determined slits.

The werewolves launched themselves at the two men, but instead impacted something hard. Amidst a bright flash of light they were thrown back violently into the others rushing forward behind them.

Malcolm gave a shout of victory. “Losh!”

“I’m surprised it held.” The sheen on Simon’s forehead grew more pronounced. “Not my most elegant casting.”

Werewolves gathered themselves and rushed the barrier again. The light flashed hot and more of the creatures were bloodied and killed. Still Gretta drove her pack forward.

Another horde of werewolves tore out of the darkness and threw themselves at the barrier. They tore against the runic protections with tooth and claw, screaming in pain but refusing to quit.

Gretta fixed Simon with an icy glare through the glass. She snarled at him with stark hatred, knowing full well who was responsible for the deaths of so many of her soldiers. She lifted her massive axe and threw it tumbling end over end straight at Simon’s head.

It crashed directly in front of Simon’s face and embedded itself in the wall of magic. It was an attempt to break his concentration. It failed. He shouted defiance in a hoarse roar and the runes held with another flash of bright light. His own body echoed the flare as the tattoos all rewrote themselves furiously over his skin.

Most of her pack was flung back, either dead or quivering hurt. Gretta stood rooted to the ground and roared in anger, bearing the brunt of the blast. Her weapon was heaved back toward her with tremendous force and she caught it in one large, fearsome, clawed hand. Then she sprung straight at Simon.

He tried to reconnect the runes again, but his body was spent. He felt his muscles weakening.

“Let it go!” Malcolm shouted.

Simon knew he was right. His meager protections would be useless now against the fury of this werewolf, and he would need his reserves. At least he had winnowed the pack. He released his hold on the wall, his fingers contorted with rigid stiffness. Malcolm grabbed his waistband and hauled him back into the room.

Gretta crashed through the glass. Four werewolves rushed in behind her. Around the house more crashes could be heard. A sliver of light traced a rune on Simon’s forearm and he knelt. The scribe put his hand down and a violent rumble of earth swept the smaller werewolves off their feet.

Malcolm stepped out from behind Simon, both pistols firing rhythmically, all the shells slamming into Gretta, forcing her back with each impact. The silver seemed to have little effect on her, but her scream of pain was so massive that spittle sprayed over both men.

“MacFarlane,” she roared. “I’ll eviscerate you! What you did to my wulfsyl killed too many of my pack.”

Malcolm grinned wickedly in response.

Simon leaned against a chair, breathing roughly, trying to tap into any energy he had left. A werewolf leapt for him. He reached out for his walking stick on the table. Spinning around and pulling out the sword, he stabbed the beast. He said a single word and the blade glowed. The werewolf suddenly went rigid, and its slobbering jaws snapped shut so hard that it bit through its tongue. The werewolf convulsed and lay still.

Malcolm sprang back to Simon’s side, and together the two men faced Gretta and two werewolves climbing back to their feet. The third one lay struggling across the jagged teeth of the broken French doors. Glass jutted up through its neck. Bright red blood sprayed the floor. The little silver dust coating the panes worked well enough on the rabble.

“Gretta’s mine,” Malcolm snarled.

“By all means,” was Simon’s reply with a weary wave of his hand.

Gretta swung her massive axe toward Malcolm’s head. The Scotsman ducked just in time to hear the weapon whistle over him. It was followed by a swipe of claws that Malcolm barely dodged by flinging himself over a couch. The furniture disappeared in a flurry of horsehair stuffing and oaken splinters. Malcolm rose over the shambles and swung out with a claw of his own. The blade of his knife struck her deep in the shoulder just shy of her chest. Her cry was agonizing since the man’s blade was laced with pure silver.

An explosion abruptly rocked the house and dust shook loose from the ceiling. Penny, no doubt. The sound of musketry came from various directions as the men of Hartley Hall laid into the enemy. Simon’s heart pounded with pride. That was all the contemplation he was permitted as two more werewolves sprang at him. With a whisper on his lips, he dug into his reserves once more for strength.

Simon stabbed his sword deep into the throat of the first one. It fell into him, but he didn’t stagger, his feet rooted to the floor. His hands dug deep into its fur and he threw its limp body into the path of the second one. They collided and crashed in a heap. Another creature entered the room so Simon hefted one of Kate’s fine sofas and flung it at the newcomer. Its attention was on Gretta and Malcolm so the hurtling furniture took it full in the face, driving it back on its haunches and out of the room. By then the other werewolf had disentangled itself from its dead brethren and was stalking Simon with a slavering roar.

There was a fire glowing in the fireplace. Simon maneuvered so that he crossed close in front of it. His hand found a symbol he had scrawled previously on the hearth. With a word, he threw himself to the side, just as the jaws of the werewolf closed on the meat of his biceps. The fireplace belched a furnace of flame, engulfing the werewolf. The heat washed over Simon, making his skin prickle. The escaping hiss of the flames caught Gretta also, but Malcolm managed to dart aside at the last moment, separating them momentarily. The stench of burnt hair and flesh filled the room. Gretta’s leather harness smoldered. The bottom of Malcolm’s coat flickered with flame.

Simon gained his feet unsteadily and staggered at Gretta. Her attention was on Malcolm. The Scotsman was breathing heavily and bleeding from a number of wounds. Simon ran her through with a whispered word.

Gretta screamed and struck out. Her large, clawed hand slammed against Simon. His chest constricted in agony, then he was flying through the air. He impacted against the wall. Simon held on to consciousness by an act of sheer will, nothing more, but his body didn’t respond beyond that. His breath was a wheezing attempt. He raised his head with trembling neck muscles to see the massive werewolf stalking toward him. Her leather armor sizzled and her fur was singed black as coal.

Suddenly Malcolm leapt into view with pistols firing another barrage. Gretta staggered, but then surged forward in a berserker rage so fast that Simon couldn’t see her. Her massive head snapped at Malcolm and he barely had time to drop his pistols and hold her jaws at bay. She shook her head free and battered Malcolm across the head. He flew back into the unsteady Simon, and the Scotsman collapsed into unconsciousness. Simon struggled to raise his sword.

Gretta’s clawed hands crunched through plaster behind them. To Simon’s amazement, the wall shifted. She pulled back, creating a shuddering rain of dust and a deafening creak of timber. Gretta vanished amidst a deep rumbling sound and an avalanche of bricks and timber. Simon raised his hands but there was no stopping the side of the house and part of the floor above from coming down on top of them.