Pain was nothing. A faint buzzing shadow on the edge of my consciousness as I pushed fur and fangs and claws through weak flesh and pink skin.
It was the fastest I’d ever shifted, and I was free, running despite the twinge in my leg, knowing it was bad. Not caring.
Because I could smell Elliot’s blood, even stronger in my wolf’s nose, cut with the tang of fear, the burnt bitterness of anger, and the thick, sickly sourness of my father’s hatred.
My feet slipped on the wooden stairs, claws scrabbling before finding purchase and sending me up onto the bloodstained porch, ignoring the stain of my mother’s blood. I hit the front door at full tilt, slamming my shoulder into it and snarling when it refused to move.
I was dimly aware of an ache in my shoulder, but it was distant and fuzzy, like it was happening to a disconnected part of me.
I threw myself at the door again, hearing something—the door, the frame, I didn’t stop to think about what—starting to splinter. But it didn’t break.
So I did it again.
This time, I felt it give, yielding under the impact of my weight. But it still held.
On the other side, I could hear growling and snarling—Elliot’s low, deep rumble and a second, gravelly rasp that I assumed belonged to my father.
I could smell more blood now—Elliot’s and what had to have been my father’s, since the three of us were the only ones I could smell here.
I hit the door again, and this time the frame splintered, the door bursting open, causing me to tumble through, my paws scrambling to stay under me.
Elliot was huddled on the far side of the room, his body set in a defensive stance, teeth bared, claws—smeared with blood—in front of him.
Between us was a tan-and-grey wolf, his body lean and wiry, fur a little ragged, eyes hollow and too-bright, whether from fever, hunger, or religious fervor, I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t particularly care.
The wolf—my father—backed away from me, moving so that he could keep both Elliot and me in his line of sight.
I wanted to ask him why. Why he’d killed Momma. Why Rachael had died. Why he thought he was any more righteous or holy than anyone else.
Why he hated Noah and me so much.
But I couldn’t. A wolf’s mouth isn’t made to ask questions. It was made to bite and tear. Who was I to argue with nature?
My father wouldn’t expect it, not from me. I’d never once fought back, never resisted anything he’d ever demanded or inflicted on me. I hadn’t been a rebellious kid—rebellion hadn’t felt like an option in my life. Death had seemed like the only way out, and, even then, I’d prayed for years before taking any direct action.
I was done allowing others to enforce their will on me.
Anger roiled through me, and I felt my lips skin back from my teeth, baring fangs that I knew were long and sharp from the chew-marks I’d left on various objects—the corner of one of the railroad-tie raised beds, a spare two-by-four, a pair of boots that Elliot insisted he needed to replace anyway, although I wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t exaggerated to make me feel better.
My father’s ears went back, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as he bared his teeth in response. The expression was ugly and hate-filled.
Mine was no different.
I jumped first.
I had forgotten something very important—that I wasn’t a fighter, but my father most definitely was. Somehow, I hadn’t put together the fact that a man who’d killed before might be skilled in combat. I’d factored in my own weight advantage—we might be built on the same frame, but I had easily fifty to seventy-five pounds on him. But I wasn’t a fighter and never had been, and my righteous anger was no match for his sanctimonious zeal when you added in his familiarity with violence.
He met my attack with an open mouth, legs planted in a wide stance so that a toss of his head could overbalance me and send me sprawling. At least my fur kept my head from bouncing off the floor quite as hard as it would have in human form.
I scrambled back to my feet, trying to reorient myself, to keep my father’s attention on me and away from Elliot. Yeah, I knew Elliot had gotten into his share of fights over the years—or he’d said as much, anyway—and I hadn’t, but he was smaller and had a lot less reach.
And the thought of losing him—again—was something I wasn’t willing to consider.
But Elliot had been the one to move forward while I was down, and he took a swipe at my father’s forelegs, landing gashes—not the first, it looked like, from the blood matting that lower leg and paw—and sending red droplets spattering across the wood floor.
A badger might be able to defend its den in a defensive posture, its rear end stuffed in the ground, but they aren’t fast, and as quick as I knew Elliot’s reflexes were, he was no match for a wolf’s speed and reach.
