Heart of Thorns - Nicolette Andrews

Chapter Eleven

The night was alive with scent. It had been too long since he had been released, free to taste the night and howl at the moon. He hungered. He smelled the warm bodies, the furry creatures that scurried in the bushes he wanted to hunt, to tear, to kill. He loped down the road; the moon and stars were his only light. He could smell the humans asleep in their beds. He could hear the night sounds of crickets and owls as they snatched their prey with lightning-quick talons.

He reached the edge of the forest. He smelled them, a pair of rabbits that had come to the lawn to nibble upon the sweet grass out in the open. They were brown with white tails flashing against the dark of the night as they hopped about. One paused and sniffed the air; its long ears swiveled about in agitation. They sensed the threat too late. He launched into the air, pouncing upon the nearer of the two. He pressed it against the ground with his paw, and the rabbit squirmed and screamed. The fear was intoxicating. He bit into its neck, snapping it with one quick jerk of his jaws. The second rabbit had fled, but he paid it no mind as he indulged in his meal. The meat was warm with blood that dribbled down his jowls as he crunched tiny bones between sharp teeth. He groaned with pleasure.

Stop eating, a voice said inside his head.

He raised his muzzle and sniffed the air. He could smell only the scent of pines and the copper tang of blood from his kill. There were humans snoring in the large house behind him. There were fifty of them at least in the massive building. Orange light flickered in a few of the windows on the second floor. He tilted his head, regarding it. His own thoughts were primitive, focused upon animalistic need; the silent voice pricked at his instincts. This was not right.

You must find him, the one who filled the girl's head with lies.

Yes. He remembered his mission now. The hunt would have to wait. He took a final bite of the rabbit and left the remains for the carrion eaters to pick over. He loped over the grassy lawns and slipped past the house without anyone noticing. He ran down the road and stopped near an inn. He had to go slow here. The people here were awake but intoxicated. He could smell the spirits, a sharp scent that muddled the clean scent of flesh and blood.

A pair of drunkards stumbled out of the bar. He rolled his shoulders, preparing to attack if need be. The pair was sharing in a lively debate, their inebriated voices echoing across the silent night. They wobbled down the opposite direction he was heading. He watched them go, longing to chase and hunt. He turned grudgingly, intent once more on his task. He kept to the shadows but came across nothing more than a few night creatures, which gave him a wide berth. At last he reached his destination. A country house covered in the dark of night. The lights were all out but for one window on the second floor. He scented the air. His prey was awake and waiting for him. He ran to gain speed and then lunged into the air with powerful hind legs. He landed on the roof just beneath the second-floor window. He pressed his muzzle against the glass and saw the man in a chair, a book open in front of him.

He took a few steps back and then broke through the window. The breaking glass bit into his skin, and the pain was blinding. He roared. The man had jumped up and was running for a gun mounted above the fireplace. The beast shook off the bits of glass, which rained down on the carpet, and howled. It was a cry of exhalation, and desire.

The man was struggling to pull down the gun and turned his back to the creature for a moment too long. The beast charged the man and latched onto his shoulder. The man fell down and brought the musket with him. He was too close to aim it, and instead he beat the beast with it.

The blows were more nuisance than painful. He bit down on the musket and ripped it from the man's fumbling hands. The musket went flying across the room and landed behind a desk beneath the window. His mouth salivated; the man's fear was a tantalizing perfume, much more satisfying than the hare's. The beating of a human heart filled his ears; it was music to him. The song of his heartbeat and hot blood pumping in and out was driving him mad. His hunt had been interrupted, but now he would feast.

He howled again. The man thrashed about, kicking and hitting the beast. The beast suffered his blows to enjoy the struggle a few more moments before he administered the final kill.

The man collapsed backwards, sprawled on the ground, defenseless and heaving. "I've always been careful; why me? Why now! I want nothing to do with your blasted woods," Col. Hawthorn pleaded.

The beast opened his jaws in a mockery of a smile. The colonel seemed resigned as he closed his eyes. He would have preferred it if he had fought a little more, but meat was meat. He went for the throat and ended the colonel's life in a spray of blood across the fireplace, which filled the room with smoke.