Grimm Wolf, Julie Steimle [always you kirsty moseley .txt] 📗

saw that the front door was torn open—even off the hinges. They never saw who had done that. If it was a wolf, Rick was in trouble.

And when they stepped inside, a shudder went through both Emory and Rhett. Just a few hours ago, they had gone in for a tour. The place now felt entirely like they were reentering a slasher movie set. The very shadows could be holding savage wolves with knives and teeth to kill them.

“…But the coven killed her when she defied them,” Michael’s voice seemed to come back in an echo—distant as he had never quit explaining his connection to witches. Emory was struggling to walk.

Peter hastily handed his side of the stretcher to the silver guy and grabbed Emory before he could fall. “Hey… It’s ok. Lean on me.”

Easily doing so, as his strength was giving out, they made their way through the dark corridor, all eyes open for wolves. Apparently they all felt that horror vibe.

And, as if on cue, out from doorways came wolves and men, running toward them in the hall.

“Tom!” the silver guy called out.

Tom Brown hastily handed his end of the stretcher to Michael and grabbed the silver guy’s end, heaving it up. Freed from the weight, the man in silver drew in his sword—which looked like it was inlaid with silver also. Bounding ahead of them, he charged after the wolves, sword high in both hands—hacking away at the beasts. If Daniel and James had seemed expert swordsmen, this man had to have been their teacher. He easily dispatched both wolves and efficiently dispensed with their carcasses so they were entirely out of the path to wherever they were carrying Rhett.

Peter whispered in Emory’s ear, “Can you walk now?”

Emory nodded, steeling up his strength even though his legs felt weak. Peter let him go and rushed to Michael’s end of the stretcher. They quickly traded spaces, and Michael drew his sword, taking up the rear while the man in silver remained in the front of their procession. Both were efficient with their weapons. Michael was no LARPer. They went quickly through the passage, like soldiers with fallen warriors. When they passed entirely through to the stairs leading up to the roof, crossing straight through the corridor where Jordan had been killed, Emory’s eyes widened on the vast smear of blood covering most of the floor—with no Jordan.

“Where is he?” Rhett panted, leaning over to see.

“We took him to the helicopter already. Lay back down,” Peter said through thin lips, heaving the stretcher up the stairs with effort.

Emory was unable to take his eyes off all the blood.

Michael quickly grabbed him and pulled him up and away. “Don’t look. You need to keep your head.”

But Emory had already started to hyperventilate. The blood was nearly everywhere. It had been smeared as if a battle had been fought over it. And there was splatter on the wall, and even up the steps. And though Emory had seen his fair share of gory movies, nothing could have prepared him for the stain of the carnage that had been his friend.

“They ate him…” Emory murmured.

Rhett sobbed in the stretcher, arm over his face.

“Not all of him,” Michael said.

Through stinging eyes, Emory looked to him. Michael’s face was hardened. His lips were thin. His eyes steely.

“Not even most,” Tom bit out angrily. “Rick fought them off. I’m sure of it.”

His other friends looked to him. Peter nodded firmly. But Tom was crying silently. And Emory and Rhett had a feeling that Tom did not cry much.

“He was a good guy,” Tom murmured again through his teeth. “He didn’t deserve it.”

The man in silver, whom they called Sir Cooly when more wolves came to attack and they wanted his attention, kept their path clear until they reached the roof. All the shrubs in pots had been pushed over, some smashed against the wall in what looked like a vengeful fury upended by supernatural strength, making a clear space in the middle. And in the middle sat a black hawk helicopter. On the door was the Tristain Enterprises insignia.

They rushed to it, heaving Rhett’s stretcher on alongside another one on the floor. The other one was covered in a bloodstained cloth. Emory ran to it, reaching to peel the cloth off. But Tom stopped him, grabbing his hands.

“That’s Jordan!” Emory, strained against him but unable to pull the sheet off further. Tom was surprisingly strong for a wiry guy.

“You don’t want to see him like that,” Tom said, not budging.

Rhett lifted his head, eyes wide.

“Like what?” Emory felt sick, even more anxious at what might have happened to him.

‘Sir Cooly’ grabbed him next, prying Emory’s fingers from the cloth, helping Tom. “Leave it. You don’t want to see what they’ve done to him. You’ll have nightmares for years, and you’ll never get over it.”

Emory stared at him. “What?”

“I’ve seen this countless times.” Sir Cooly bit out each word, his icy eyes boring into him. “Trust me. Just… just remember him as you know him.”

“It’s that bad?” Rhett asked palely.

Michael quickly climbed into the pilot’s seat, buckling up and starting the rotors again. Peter grabbed and dragged Emory to the copilot seat next to Michael, forcibly buckling him in. Meeting his gaze, Peter’s own eyes were grim. He said, as Emory stared back at the stained sheet over Jordan’s body, “They’re experts on this. Trust them.”

“And you’re not?” Emory asked, watching where Peter was going next, tracking him with his eyes. Peter climbed in next to Rhett, strapping him down so he was secure and then taking a seat next to him while Tom and Sir Cooly outside closed the helicopter doors. Michael was now gearing up so they could lift off and get out of there.

Peter shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t end up going to war like they did. I got stuck as a zombie most of the time. My mental state was more in the fuzz.”

“What?” Rhett stared up at him. “What do you mean?”

Michael chuckled knowingly. “Maybe you should tell the story. They might actually believe it.”

Nodding, Peter said, looking to Rhett and then Emory, “I know this sounds implausible, but uh, Michael, Semour, and I—along with the two other guys you met earlier, Daniel and James—were each snatched into another world. And we weren’t the only ones.”

“Listen good,” Michael called back to them as he finally made the helicopter lift up and off the roof of the German castle. “He’s about to tell you the origin story of this generation’s Holy Seven—who happen to be eight people by the way.”

Emory and Rhett exchanged a look. They were getting out of that nightmare, but somehow they felt like they had just fallen deeper down the metaphorical rabbit hole… and there was no going back.

*

 

Staring up at the helicopter, Tom and ‘Sir Cooly’, whose real name was Semour Dawson, watched until they were sure Michael was safely on his way with their cargo. The plan was simple. Those two would take the wounded and dead back to England where Peter had just been researching for signs of the Holy Seven’s patron elf. There was a hospital they knew that would take them, no questions asked. As for Tom and Semour, their current job was to make sure no werewolves followed. One thing Rick had told them was that pack werewolves did not allow for ‘witnesses’. He and his friends had stepped into the German ‘black hole’ as Rick put it, and nothing was allowed to escape. Werewolves had to protect their secret places from hunters.

“So, where did you fly in from?” Tom asked, hardly glancing at the guy whom people often said looked like his younger brother due to their similar coloring, though they were not at all related. Their personalities were also polar opposites. Sermour was infamously serious.

Watching the helicopter fly off, Semour replied, “Paris. Sir Longshanks’s family has got a branch there where I’ve been commissioned to help in the tech field. I was an intern for the summer. I’ll be going back as soon as we are done with this.”

“Help as in Q work?” Tom raised his eyebrows at Semour, smirking a little.

With a crooked glance back at him, Semour nodded. “Of course.”

In this instance, Semour was the Seven’s Q so-to-speak, like in James Bond—the tech genius who supplied them with useful objects in the Holy Seven’s business of ‘monster hunting’. He either did it using labs in Tristain Enterprises or in Deacon Enterprise facilities. They both funded him.

Already they could hear wolves coming up to the roof to attack.

“Ok.” Tom nodded to himself. “Now we go find Rick and get him out of here.”

Tapping a small phone extracted from his pocket, Semour lifted it to his mouth. “Hey, Swift. Have you found him yet?”

The small handheld device was silent for a moment then hummed to life with Daniel’s voice.

<< No. Not yet. I’m worried. >>

Tom’s eyes widened. He launched into the sky, with a jump, floating upward. His orange eyes raked over the landscape, and he shouted, “Wolf boy! Where are you?”

<< I can hear Tom. >>

“Do you think they killed him?” Semour asked through his teeth.

The other side was silent for a while. He could hear their battle, with wolves growling.

<< I hope not. Rick’s smart, but I don’t know these wolves. >>

Semour wet the inside of his mouth with his tongue, nodding to himself. “Yeah. And I’ve got a feeling he didn’t want to know them either.”

 

Wolf Friend

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

Rick was hiding. He was outnumbered, and Peter Schwitzer was going to kill him—especially after he had found out that Rick had called in ‘monster hunters’ to rescue his friends. He had already taken a beating when he had killed the wolf who had tried to eat Jordan’s face off. That was when he had lost the knife.

Schwitzer was a cold hearted wolf. He had seen the death of his own pack member as a sign that the one wolf had merely been weak—and he tossed away the pack member’s body like trash, especially since he had been slain by Rick in his human form. And when Schwitzer took the battle outside, regarding the last ‘sparring match’ a dirty win to add to Rick’s famous ‘ledger of conquests’, the German wolves left Jordan’s body alone. Or at least Rick hoped they did.

He wanted to lead them away, and so far he was doing it successfully.

It was absolutely heart wrenching seeing his friends flee into a tree out in the forest, fighting with what few weapons he could scavenge for them at the eatery. But they were alive—if only for a little while longer. He only hoped that Rhett and Emory were ingenious enough to figure out what those weapons were for.

And the car was wrecked. Just the very sight of the shredded tires made Rick nearly lose all hope. If they could have just gotten in and driven away, Rick would have considered that a win. Wolves were not as fast as cars. And his friends could have run those beasts over.

But it was when he heard Tom Brown’s loud and carrying voice saying “Will I do?” that he knew all was saved. Tom was an army in and of himself.