Chapter 13

Adam didn’t have to go far to find the beast, because it had already been on his trail. It raked its sharp claws across the trunk of a tree, leaving a deep gouge as it stalked forward, using its enhanced sense of smell to hunt its prey despite its blindness. Silver, fire, bright light, beheading. Those were a werewolf’s weaknesses.

Killing it would be no easy task, but it was better to face the beast head-on than wait until sunrise to take care of the problem when the beast turned back into a human. By then, it could already have caused catastrophic damage. He was a blood hunter. This was what he was trained to do.

He rotated his sword through the air to test its weight in his hand and rolled his shoulders, readying himself for a fight. The creature had no sight from the earlier attack—giving Adam the advantage in this fight.

The werewolf charged first, lashing at him with sharp, dangerous claws. He dodged and attacked with his own silver sword, but the creature moved on deft feet, nearly impossible to touch. He eyed those spine-chilling claws with caution.

A single scratch could start the process of lycanthropy. One bite. One scratch. That was all it took for one’s blood to become tainted. If he wasn’t careful, he could suffer a fate worse than death. He didn’t want something foreign to take control of him. He had to end this fight. And fast.

With skillful movements, he struck at the werewolf, but the beast deflected each blow with a swipe of its steel-like claws, the clamor ringing through the still forest. No matter how hard or how fast he struck, the werewolf countered every strike and dealt attacks of its own. The werewolf lashed out, and he barely managed to dodge the attack, the claws slicing air inches from his face. He clenched his jaw in determination and rotated his sword enough to deliver a scratch across his opponent’s arm. The werewolf yelped in surprise, leaping away from the sword’s reach.

He furrowed his brows as he stared at his foe. The werewolf was blind! How could it possibly parry every attack?

It dawned on him. The werewolf could hear the sword moving through the air. Couple it with its heightened sense of smell it made a frightening enemy, even without its sight.

He changed his tactics. He had to remain quiet, which was no easy feat. He wasn’t graceful. He wasn’t one to tiptoe. But he had to try. His brother’s life possibly depended on it.

Thoughts of Zachariah helplessly trapped in the vodryx cell gave him the energy and the drive to keep him going. Instead of swinging his sword, he lunged, jabbing at each opportunity he found. The change of tactic seemed to work, as the werewolf had a harder and harder time deflecting each lunge. The sword pierced its leg, making the creature howl and jump backward. He followed after, seeing the end in sight. He could do this. He could win this fight. And the werewolf knew it too.

Unfortunately, backing a monster into a corner made it grow more determined, making it much more dangerous.

Thoughts of Willow filled his mind, much to his annoyance, as he disliked getting distracted during a fight. He had backed her into a corner and part of him was afraid something awful was to come his way. But he tried to push the thoughts away as the werewolf took a swipe at him and he dodged.

The werewolf leaped forward, parrying attack after attack, not seeming to bother avoiding the small cuts he dealt with his sword. On quick feet, the werewolf moved in closer, looming over him. He gasped in shock as his sword missed its target, swinging wide, and he didn’t have enough time to correct his attack. He cried out as the werewolf’s massive claws raked his side, cutting effortlessly through his leather armor, several gashes spilling blood across his clothing.

He couldn’t stop himself from sinking to his knees, and despite his best efforts, he could no longer hold onto his sword. The weapon dropped to the ground, his own blood dripping onto the flat surface of the silver. The wound burned with excruciating pain—a pain so great he doubted any amount of magic from the blood gem could heal him.

Holding his injured side with one arm, he gritted his teeth as he focused on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His head spun, and the world seemed to tilt sickeningly to one side, but he knew giving in to the dizziness would mean giving into death.

And without him to stand in the werewolf’s way, who was to say it wouldn’t go after Zachariah next? Or Willow, who was next to defenseless with a simple dagger to defend her in a fight? Somehow, leaving her vulnerable felt wrong. Vampire or not, it wasn’t the right thing to do.

No, he couldn’t give up.

Taking deep, unsteady breaths, he grunted as he shakily got to his feet, continuing to hold his bleeding side while watching the blind werewolf’s ears twitch as if listening to his labored breathing. It growled when it realized he was alive, that the blow didn’t finish him.

The werewolf lunged forward, and it was all he could do to dodge, a hair’s breadth away from his other side being gouged in a similar fashion. Left with few options, he had no choice. He had to use it.

His blood gem pulsed red as he called upon the magic hidden inside, all the souls he had trapped over the years fueling the power he needed. The blood gem would feast on Adam’s remaining energy, especially with how much magic was required to do what he needed to do.

Exhaling he released the dam of magic through his hands, blasts of fire hitting the beast one after the other. A wall of fire slammed into the werewolf, causing it to stumble backward, and before it could recover, he sent another blast of fire pinning the beast against the tree. The werewolf looked ready to leap to the side and escape into the forest, but he couldn’t let it get away.

With one last reserve of strength, he pulsed another wave of fire from his fingertips, slamming it into the werewolf, who yelped as it hit its back hard against the tree and slumped into a heap. Although the werewolf was still conscious, it didn’t move. It appeared dazed, unable to stand.

He approached slowly, cautiously, continuing to hold his bleeding side. Still, the beast didn’t rise. After a few moments, the werewolf finally lifted its head, breathing heavily as its blind, beady eyes stared into nothingness.

“The Dunmere Crusade is coming,” the werewolf said in a gravelly voice, speaking for the first time. He’d heard a werewolf speak once before, but it still caught him off guard. “It appears you have chosen a side.”

His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “The Dunmere Crusade? What do you mean?”

The werewolf didn’t answer. It continued breathing heavily, accepting defeat.

“Tell me!”

The werewolf closed its blind eyes, sitting with its back against the tree, unmoving despite its chest rising and falling with each breath it took. It was waiting. Waiting for the end. And he would deliver just that.

With pained, trembling hands, he picked his silver sword off the ground, grimacing when the movement pulled on his injury. He felt more lightheaded as his blood continued to soak his clothing. Yet, he had to finish the job. He had never left a job undone, which was the blood hunter way. Well, except once. And he was continually paying for it. Willow was overly chatty for a prisoner.

The werewolf seemed to know what was coming because it bowed its head, keeping its eyes closed. It looked…defeated as if it knew fighting was futile. Adam had won this fight. This was his kill.

He fingered the grip of his sword, getting ready to strike. He would end it quickly. First a beheading. And fire to finish the job.

But…this felt wrong. Guilt overcame him, and he wasn’t sure where it came from. He was rarely torn with guilt, yet as he stared at this creature who looked to accept its death, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to kill it.

He roared as he dipped into his last reserves of energy and swung the weapon with all his might, the sword whistling through the air as it gained the momentum it needed. And then…

He redirected the attack at the last second, the weapon missing its mark and sticking into the trunk of the tree mere inches away from the werewolf’s neck. He breathed heavily, the exertion of the blow nearly knocking him unconscious. The werewolf opened its eyes wide in shock.

“You didn’t—”

“Go!” he growled, placing a hand on the tree for support when all his body wanted to do was give up and crumple to the ground. “And if you show your face here again, I will finish you. Do you understand?”

The werewolf leaped onto all fours and quickly disappeared into the darkness of the forest. It wasn’t until its dark silhouette vanished from sight when his posture slackened considerably. The immediate danger was gone, but now he faced another beast of a threat. He needed to stop lycanthropy from happening. He would rather die than become a werewolf. How long did he have left? Thirty minutes? An hour? He could already feel an unnatural pulse where the werewolf had struck him in the side. The transformation already began. He had to stop it. And he had to do it now.

His head spun sickeningly, and he felt like retching as he stumbled back toward the cabin. The painful pulse in his side increased to the point where he could hardly bear the agony. He had heard rumors that turning into a werewolf was one of the most agonizing things, apart from getting burned at the stake—however, they were just rumors because no one who got burned at the stake survived to tell the tale.

He stumbled on his own foot and would have fallen flat on his face if he didn’t catch himself on a tree stump as he remembered he had left Willow alone to fend for herself. Though, he quickly chastised himself for his worry. Here he was gushing blood, his body in the process of lycanthropy, and he was worried about the vampire?

“Daggers!”

He staggered toward the cabin and made a slight adjustment on his path, veering off to where he left Willow. He took a deep breath through his nose, attempting to push away the pain, not wanting her to see his weakness.

He rounded the bend in the path and—

She let out a shrill scream, startled as she held Zachariah’s knife menacingly in her hand, her eyes wide like a crazed woman. When she saw it was him, she sighed and lowered her weapon.

“Adam! I thought you were the werewolf! You scared me half to death… Did you kill it?”

“I’ve taken care of the problem,” he grunted.

“Oh, that’s a relief. And here I thought—”

She paused suddenly, her nostrils flaring. She clenched her fists and backed away from him until she was trapped against the tree. Although she tried to bolt away, the vodryx chain kept her bound, preventing her from fleeing. At first, he assumed she was attempting another escape, at least until he saw her crimson irises. She was thirsty. She smelled his blood.

Daggers…

She wrenched her head back and forth as if trying to fight off her urge to feed, her fangs sprouting from her mouth as she gnashed her teeth. She threw her head back and gasped before a tortured screech emitted from her lips. He had to stop this…

He made the mistake of reaching toward her in an attempt to calm her. She snapped at him, lunging toward his hand he barely managed to snatch away before she could bite him. For a moment, the pain in his side was forgotten as the tree groaned when she pulled against it, threatening to dislodge it. Panic set in as he realized the vodryx chain wasn’t wholly draining her of her strength. She fought hard against the tree. And she was winning.

“Leave!” she gasped, her eyes flashing green before becoming red once more. The tree groaned again, wood splintering and threatening to fall at any moment. “Leave!”

He clambered backward, fear consuming him through his fuzzy mind at his new predicament. His mind felt hazy, but he forced his fingers deeper into his wound and cried loudly at the horrendous pain, the agony keeping him lucid enough to stumble into the front door of the cabin. His forehead accumulated sweat and he nearly collapsed onto the floor. However, through the open window, he heard the faint sound of thrashing—and it wasn’t from Willow.

Zachariah screeched ravenously from the cellar, the sound muffled by the trap door standing between him and the hungry vampire.

Just his luck. He was bleeding badly, and he found himself in between two vampires. Two hungry vampires. Either the blood loss would kill him or…the blood loss would kill him. He had to find a way to staunch the bleeding. Otherwise one of two vampires could finish the job. Or both. With his luck lately, it didn’t seem too far-fetched of a possibility. Not to mention the threat looming over his head that if he didn’t stop the lycanthropy from happening, he would become a werewolf. He could think of nothing worse. Well, except for becoming a vampire.

His fingers scrambled through his herb cabinet, and he didn’t have time to light a candle to illuminate his surroundings. He felt the painful pulsing in his side becoming stronger and stronger. It was all he could do to keep from crying out. After all, his blood already attracted two vampires. He didn’t want to push his luck.

Through his haste, he accidentally knocked a glass jar off the table, hearing it shatter at his feet, but he couldn’t stop, not even to clean the mess. Another painful pulse shot through his side and he couldn’t help himself as he bellowed into the crook of his elbow to muffle the sound. Unfortunately, his efforts were all for naught. Vampire ears could pick out such a sound, and the thrashing coming from the cellar became wilder.

He was confident in himself. He was strong. He was capable. But at that moment, he felt uncertain and scared out of his wits. He didn’t want to become a monster. He didn’t want his blood sucked dry from his body. But both seemed plausible as the seconds ticked by of him scrambling to find what he was looking for through a hazy mind.

Finally, he pulled open a drawer and sighed in relief as he found it full of the herb he needed—wolfsbane.

A crippling pain seized his side, spreading like wildfire. He nearly dropped to the ground, but his sheer determination kept him grounded. He was almost there. Almost there. Almost…

Working with gritted teeth, he used a pestle, grinding the thick leaf-like petals against the table until the fluid inside escaped. He crushed all of it, every last leaf. Now was not the time to be stingy.

He screamed into his elbow as fire erupted in his side once more, spreading further through him until it affected his leg, his arm, and traveled upward toward his neck. His eyes watered profusely. Sweat caked his skin, coated his hair, dripped down his neck. If this was what getting burned alive felt like, he suddenly gained a conscience for all the creatures he had burned at the stake. Witches and vampires alike. How they must have suffered…

I’m going to be too late. I’m going to be too late. I’m going to be too late.

He barely made it through the next round of fire coursing through his body as he ground the leaves into a blue-green mush, the fluid escaping and glazing the tabletop with its color. It would have to do. He had no choice.

With no care left for conservation, Adam scooped the mush and stuck it to his wound. Immediately, the burning intensified, and he had no more energy in him to scream. The pain became too much to endure, and black spots danced at the edge of his vision. The ground came at him faster than he ever thought possible. And the darkness consumed him.