“You little wretch,” he yelled, throwing me against the wall. Even with his wounds and his power fading, he was so much stronger than I.
I used the windowsill to pull myself up and turned towards him. He was on his feet now, hunched over and clutching his ribs. One side of his face looked human, the other wolfish, as if he could no longer change into his full wolf form. He roared.
Everything slowed down. As he came at me, I reached into my coat pocket, grabbing the broken stub of wood that was still attached to the spearhead. A new strength, like I had a direct line to Grettir himself, took hold of me. Skoll leapt and I set my feet, caught him below the chest with the spear, and pushed with all my might. He yelled and hurtled past, but as he did he reached out and snatched hold of my arm. I dropped the spearhead. His claws dug into my flesh as he dragged me along. He crashed through the stained-glass window, the image of the lamb smashing into a thousand pieces and showering us both. I was yanked around and my gut slammed into the windowsill. My arm felt like it had been pulled right out of its socket. I hung there, my head and chest over the edge, looking down, the blast of cold air bringing me to life.
Skoll dangled beneath me, his claws still poking into my arm. His other hand, half claws, half fingers, gripped the windowsill, leaving grooves in the wood. Below him was a drop into darkness off the edge of a cliff.
The church was cracking and groaning like he might pull the whole building over with him. His left hand slipped from the windowsill, caught my wrist, and he latched onto my arm with both hands.
I stared down into his face. It changed so that it looked more human. Not Uncle Thordy’s face at all, but younger. His hair blonde and soft.
Andrew.
“You. Must. Help me.” It sounded like Andrew’s voice. His eyes were narrowed, his face helpless. “I can’t hold on, sister. Don’t let me fall,” he said helplessly, “help me. Don’t let me die again.”
He looked so much like Andrew. So alive. So real.
“I’ve got you,” I said, edging slightly ahead, trying to find a better grip with my feet. I started to pull him up. My brain was getting fuzzy. There was something about his eyes that wasn’t right.
I pulled him an inch higher. Then another, so he could almost grab the windowsill on his own.
“You’re a good sister. Higher.”
He looked down. The back of his head was all black curls and matted hair, his neck covered with fur. Not like Andrew at all.
I stopped pulling. He glanced back at me. Andrew’s features were melting away like wax. Skoll’s left hand shot up, grabbing at my hair.
“I don’t want to be known as the girl who was killed by the wolf,” I said and I struck him. Hard.
He snarled, changing back to his wolf form, trying to get a better grip, his muscles in his arm bunching together. I pummeled him again with a fist.
He swung away from the wall, taking a clump of my hair in his hand. He was hanging on only by his grip on my useless, dislocated arm.
Then, with one final effort, I pushed and he fell like a stone, down, down, down, screaming all the way. He hit the edge of the cliff wall, flipped around a couple of times, and finally crashed into the rocks below.