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But that was the thing. As a slayer, going out to fight a paranormal threat was what she did. Going alone? All part of the job. Even when she had Rosie, the big hound was her only back-up. To be saddled with a partner was the Society’s way of saying a slayer was weak. A disappointment.
She got enough of that from her uncle.
Slayers didn’t often form partnerships on their own, either. Boone’s insistence that she work alongside Eddie was as much a slap in the face as it was his fondness for her seeping out. Tabby wasn’t a complete idiot. She knew that her uncle was pushing the issue because he was concerned for her. He didn’t like the idea of her hunting alone, especially now that Rosie had been retired.
Of course, that only made her more determined to prove herself to him. Which she did whenever she got the chance.
Like now.
As a slayer, there were a few things that she toted around so that she’d be prepared for any hunt. Venice was her constant, and she usually had a couple of stakes on her just in case. While the thick pieces of wood didn’t do anything to kill a vamp outright, they were good to slow a target down long enough for Tabby to finish them off with her dagger.
For that same reason, she never left home without a collar.
She didn’t specialize in feral shifters, though this wouldn’t be her first rodeo with one. Just like how certain slayer weapons—including Adam’s falchion—were enchanted to change shapes and sizes, the Society outfitted every slayer with a silver charm. Most of the other slayers kept it in their pockets or wore it as a ring. Not Tabby. She looped hers on a simple chain that was easily removed in seconds.
Too bad that Tabby didn’t have even one to spare.
The moment she stepped out onto the porch, the massive wolf wheeled around, slobber dripping from its muzzle as it caught sight of her. It bared its teeth, a rumble coming from the beast that sounded like thunder, and she barely had enough time to regret not already engaging the collar before the shifter charged at her.
In the wild, a pure wolf was a deadly hunter. Reaching speeds of up to thirty-five miles an hour at a sprint, Tabby knew a shifter could top even that by a wide margin. And that wasn’t even counting their powerful legs.
Never tearing its blazing, amber gaze from her, it ate up the ground in an instant, rearing back and leaping right where she stood, seemingly paralyzed on the porch.
She’d never outrun it. No point in even trying. The most she could do was time her dodge perfectly, throwing herself to the ground before rolling a few feet away and popping up like some kind of blonde jack-in-the-box. It scraped the shit out of her upper arm, her forearm, the side of one hand as she tucked and rolled, but that was way better than getting her head bitten off by a feral shifter who didn’t know better.
There was no doubt in her mind that the shifter was trying to tear her to shreds, just like she told Adam. Coming out to the front of the house was the only thing she could do. She might never be able to outrun the beast, but she was small and she was quick and the wolf couldn’t change direction as easily as Tabby.
It crash-landed on the porch, giant paws scrabbling for purchase against the cement as momentum launched it right into the decorative posts surrounding the side of the porch. It knocked one clean over, bending another as if it was plastic instead of metal.
The wolf shook the hit off easily, rising up on its four legs, head swiveling as it searched for her.
A full-throated roar split the early afternoon sky when it did.
Behind her, the street was empty. Praying the neighbors were smart enough to stay inside where it was safe, she moved a few steps away, giving her space to move.
She figured that the crash wouldn’t really faze him. That hadn’t been the point of the whole tuck-and-roll maneuver, either. Inside, without room to fight, they would’ve been wolf chow; might as well lay down on a platter and serve themselves up to it.
On the porch?
Still too cramped.
But on the grassy lawn in front of the house?
Tabby lifted her hand, wagging four fingers at her chest. “Come on, Fido. Bring it.”
She’d be willing to bet that the cursed shifter was too far gone in this shape to understand her words. But the gesture and the sound of her voice should snag its attention.
If she wanted to really communicate with him, though?
Only one thing she could do.
If she had any hope of keeping it alive, she needed to collar it and talk to it before she decided it deserved to meet Venice.
After that, she acted on autopilot. Years and years of training kicked in—just like it did when she took out the Nightwalker a few hours ago.
She knew how to use the wolf’s size against it. While most of her style of training relied on the element of surprise and a reckless tendency to jump headfirst into a fight, she knew when to retreat, when to dodge, when to back off. With a shifter, she needed to avoid getting trampled, bitten, or mauled; that was double when it was a wolf.
Her necklace was made specifically for fights like these. Ripping the chain over her head while never losing sight of the prowling wolf, she pressed the side of the small, circular charm and muttered the activation spell.
