Ivan grabbed his ankle just as George snatched the gun.

George fired a shot. Even at almost point-blank range, George’s aim was slightly off, and the bullet tore across the side of the werewolf’s head, ripping a trail of red through his fur.

Ivan released his ankle.

George fired again, hitting him in the forehead. A gout of blood burst from the wound. He emptied the rest of the clip into the werewolf’s chest, wanting to shout something clever but settling for a primal scream.

Ivan, bleeding profusely, fell back against the counter. Aside from a two-inch patch around his right eye, he was now a full wolfman.

His werewolf eye glowed red with fury.

George almost threw the empty gun at him, but didn’t. Ivan was still very much alive, and George might need the weapon later.

Ivan ran his palms down his face and chest in one fluid motion, wiping off some of the blood. He said something that looked like it was meant to be a sadistic, menacing comment, but came out only as a growl.

Not wanting to lose his advantage, George hurried over and threw a punch at the werewolf, hoping to hit him directly in one of the bullet holes. He didn’t quite succeed, but it was a solid blow to the chest. One that had no visible impact.

He punched again. Still nothing, except a bolt of pain in his hand that made him think he might have broken a finger or two.

Ivan drew his hand back, bloody claws glistening. With him in full werewolf mode and pissed off beyond belief, George had no doubt that a full-force swipe could knock his head off, or at least remove most of his face. He ducked underneath Ivan’s arm and sprinted through the dining room.

There had to be another weapon in the house. Perhaps not a fire poker or machete, but maybe a broom that he could snap in half or a fire extinguisher.

He ran through the living room into the hallway. The doors on each side were closed, so he ran into the open doorway at the end.

A bedroom. Obviously Diane’s. A television on the dresser was set to the same channel as the one in the living room, and a folded-out ironing board stood next to the bed. A blouse was draped over it. An iron, the red light on, rested on the board.

So, what, she’d been about to do some ironing, then went into the kitchen for a snack?

It didn’t matter. He grabbed the iron and tugged on the cord to pull it free of the power outlet.

Something moved on the other side of the bed.

A little kid popped his head up, his face stained with tears. He looked about five.

Oh, shit!

Which one was it? Robin? Gabriel? George couldn’t remember which one was younger.

George frantically waved for the kid to duck back down.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll get you a juice box, just promise Mommy you won’t touch the iron, all right?”

George moved out of the bedroom, almost pulling the door shut behind him but realizing that it would look suspicious. Ivan stood at the other end of the hallway, still full werewolf. His bullet wounds seemed to be smaller than before--George couldn’t actually see them shrinking, but there was unquestionably some sort of rapid healing going on.

Instead of waiting for the werewolf to come after him, George charged forward. He’d replace the smell of air freshener with the scent of burnt dog.

The way he’d envisioned the attack, George would press the hot iron firmly against Ivan’s chest, relishing the sizzling sound. But two steps in, he could tell that he wasn’t going to get that opportunity, so he adjusted the angle of the iron, holding it so that the pointed end was in front. He swung the iron as he ran, aiming it in an arc toward Ivan’s ear, hoping to impale the creature.

Ivan blocked the swing, smashing his clenched, clawed fist into George’s forearm. George lost his grip on the iron. It fell, landing with the hot side on George’s leg, but bouncing off before it could do more than startle him.

George took a powerful blow to the chin--not quite a decapitation blow or a face-removing one, but certainly enough to rattle his jaw--and careened back against the bedroom door, which swung all the way open.

Ivan looked past him and snarled.

There wasn’t any sense looking back. It didn’t matter if he’d seen the little boy or not, because either way, George wasn’t going to let the werewolf through the doorway.

He was starting to feel pretty lightheaded, though, and his wrist was soaking through the bandage.

He shook off the dizzy spell. No time for that shit.

George just had to get past the werewolf and lead him away from the bedroom. Ivan was interested in killing him and not a five-year-old boy, right?

Unfortunately, it was a narrow hallway and they both took up a lot of space. Getting past him was going to be almost impossible.

He could rush back into the bedroom and close the door, but he figured the door would only last a few moments of being pummeled by Ivan, if that. More likely it would explode in a shower of splinters and they’d have nowhere to go.

Screw it. He’d try another tackle.

George lowered his head and ran at Ivan, building up as much speed as he could in those few steps. Ivan shoved him aside, slamming George against the wall and dislodging two framed photographs.

Jaws wide open, Ivan lunged at George’s face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ferocious

Lou Flynn sat in the driver’s seat of the van, trying not to fidget in front of Michele. He wasn’t quite sure where their relationship stood at the moment, and he guessed there was a pretty good chance that it might revert back to a “kidnapper and captive” deal, so he wanted to make sure she didn’t notice any signs of weakness. He had an almost uncontrollable desire to chew his fingernails, but withstood the urge and just scratched his left knee, pretending that it itched a lot.

He stared at the front door of the home, waiting for George to emerge, victoriously leading the werewolf in handcuffs, or holding its severed head. Better the handcuffs than the severed head, since despite the current danger of having an actual werewolf trying to slaughter them, exterminating their cargo would most likely lead to a whole mess of problems that they weren’t ready to handle.

He hated when George said things like “If I’m not back in a few minutes, get out of here.” What that really meant was “If I’m not back in a few minutes, sigh with frustration, utter a couple of your favorite expletives, and then embrace your heroic side.” George knew that Lou wasn’t going to simply drive off and leave him, despite the overwhelming temptation to do so.

“Does he do this a lot?” Michele asked.

“Foolishly chase werewolves?”

“You know what I mean.”

Lou shook his head. “Nah. Things usually go pretty smooth.”

That was true. It wasn’t as if their lives were a series of disasters. Even excluding the supernatural element, the path this job had taken was unlike anything they’d ever experienced. They’d exchanged some gunfire with gangsters, just barely dodged the cops a few times, and once, when he’d been carving a scarlet “A” on a cheating husband’s arm, the man had somehow gotten a hold of his switchblade. A quick punch to the nose corrected the situation, but it had been a pretty scary moment.

Overall, most jobs, even the most distasteful ones, went reasonably well.

Lou had decided that he might give this lifestyle another five years, keep building up his nest egg, and then retire. Enjoy life. Travel to places that he wanted to go. Find a girlfriend, and then propose to her. Let his beard grow down to his navel.

If he had to die before that, so be it, but he didn’t want to die chasing a werewolf. Werewolves should be left alone. He and George should’ve told Ricky to suck it and made him find somebody else.