Page 208 of These Tears

The impact catches the beast high in the shoulder and knocks it sideways, but the force rattles the crossbow in his grip.

He half-slips, somehow gets the string drawn back with a sound that seems as if it hurts.

The bolt seats.

And the injured beast cries out, splitting the air.

Another wolf spins back towards Elias, lips peeled away from its teeth as it places itself in front of the others.

The animal is on him before he can shoulder the weapon – a blur of fur and teeth slamming into his side.

The weapon flies from his grip, skidding in an ugly arc and burying itself halfway between us in the snow.

Still loaded.

‘Elias!’ I scream.

They go down with a sound that empties my lungs.

Smokehouse forgotten, I shed my gloves and dart for the weapon without thinking, chest burning with the cold.

A kick from Elias catches one wolf in the ribs and sends it skidding away with a yelp. He rolls to all fours, one arm tucked close to his body, blood already staining the torn sleeve.

But another wolf is almost on him, head lowered with its hunger bleeding through its eyes – and the awful simplicity of teeth, momentum and nowhere left to move.

My fingers close around the cold frame of the crossbow.

It feels wrong in my grip, heavier than I expected. The stock slips against the padded bulk of my snowsuit as I drag it up. I do not aim so much as point every shaking part of myself at the thing between Elias and a very painful death.

There is a small lever near my thumb. I graze it without knowing.

Before its purpose clicks into my head, a wolf darts towards him. He snatches the snow shovel from where I dropped it and—

—the psycho charges straight at them. Roaring.

What the…?

The wolves recoil. Elias keeps coming, swinging the shovel I’d dropped and bellowing into the clearing. The animals jerk backwards before they break for the treeline.

I watch the last two wounded ones limp away.

The world starts turning.

The only sounds are the ragged rasp of our breathing and the distant whine of hurt beasts retreating into the treeline.

Dark smears of blood crystallise behind them, too dark against the white.

I stand there with the crossbow still braced badly against my shoulder, hands shaking so hard the front sight wavers.

Elias straightens with a grunt, heaving from the rush, snow clinging to his hair and beard, blood darkening the torn fabric at his arm.

My heart starts racing all over again.

He scans the trees for movement. Left and right. When there is nothing left but the shadows, his gaze finally slides to me.

He meets my eyes, breath fogging his face.

Whatever he sees there stills him.