Marcel nodded the moment his father saidokay. “Yes, Papa, I will. I promise.”
“Follow me, Marcel, but stay close.”
“Yes, sir.”
Émilien led the boy up the stairs, but just before he entered the room, he spelled Marcel, using a common elven spell used by parents when they didn’t want their children to experience things before they were ready. He couldn’t allow the youth to see or smell the room filled with death. Instead, the young wolf’s gaze never wavered. Every time Émilien glanced back as they walked through the room, which was nothing more than a crypt, Marcel’s happy gaze held his.
Stepping into the supply room, he reached for another folded bag and had just unfolded it when the outside door flew open, striking the stone wall with such force, the nearby stacked cans tumbled to the floor. Behind him, Marcel squeaked. German soldiers filed into the room, but it was the snarling beasts breaking through their thin lines that worried him the most.
“Marcel, run,” he hissed. “Tell your father we’re compromised. He’ll know what to do.” Without waiting to see if the boy kept his promise and did what he was told, Émilien rose up to his full height and, filling his lungs with air, he let out an ear-piercing bellow.
The Germans fell back, their bodies slamming into the shelves. Not even the werewolves were unfazed as they covered their ears, his guardian’s cry stunning them and stopping their advance. It didn’t last, though, as more beasts pushed their way inside.
Émilien moved back, his large frame filling the doorway. A strong sensation of justice filled his mind, and a small, clawed paw touched the small of his back. The last thing he wanted was for the men he had just rescued to fight these monsters. It would be a bloodbath.
“We’re here to help, guardian. We heard your cry as Marcel delivered your message,” Laurent said behind him. “In the last couple of experiments, someone with powerful magic bespelled the prisoners, forcing them to commit atrocious crimes against their free will. I know some of them. They would never kill indiscriminately. They are good men who love their family and country, so don’t kill them unless you must.”
“Is there a way to tell them apart from the evil ones?” Émilien asked as he lunged forward, swiping the legs out from underneath the first werewolf. Another took his place, his long claws slicing four lines down Émilien’s forearm.
Biting back a hiss of pain, he backhanded the snarling wolf, sending him flying across the room. No sooner than he’d landed than the creature was scrambling for a foothold as he tried to regain his footing.
Two more wolves went down before his building rage slowed enough for him to hear Laurent’s voice. “The men I know all wear the same symbol—two diamonds with a vertical line down the center and an off-centered horizontal line—carved with leftover slag from Himmler’s experiment table.”
Émilien grunted as a werewolf almost as tall as he lunged, hitting him in the abdomen with his very hard head. “Remind me to ask what it means. Right now, bring down who you can!”
The fight exploded from the side of the castle, several large granite blocks flying outward. The beasts and soldiers already there simply sidestepped the carnage and rejoined the battle taking place outside.
A quick glance showed a group of werewolves on the far edge of the clearing, near where he had left Fer-Diorich. This small unit fought werewolves and German soldiers alike, but they were losing ground. The larger, more aggressive werewolves were too anger-filled to be slowed down, let alone stopped.
Where was that dratted Fae? They could really use some magical help about now.
The thought of help made him think about the draugr’s offer and whistle. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the silver stick. “Here’s to hoping this can pull them through time,” he said.
Placing the mouthpiece against his lips, he blew, the high-pitched sound not quite painful to his sensitive hearing, but almost. A quick glance at the wolves’ pained grimaces told him he wasn’t the only one affected.
The acrid odor of gunpowder filled the air surrounding them as the soldiers panicked, firing at anything that moved as the fight escalated. Growls and screams drowned out the gunfire.
A werewolf appeared before him, his eyes red and bloodshot, but it was his open mouth that shocked him. Double rows of razor-sharp teeth line the top and bottom jaws, reminding him of a shark. The only difference were the long canine teeth, at least three inches and too long for him to close his mouth.
A fiery pain drove through his abdomen, and he glanced down, his eyes widening before glancing aback up at the beast. “You stabbed me? What in the hell kind of werewolf are you? We use our claws like real wolves.”
“Not anymore,” the beast growled, his voice dry and raspy. “We’re the new version, making you obsolete. Your time is done.” He ripped out the sword and moved on to find his next victim.
Émilien stared at the wound, his paws covering the jagged edges, trying to stop the never-ending river of blood, but it was futile. He dropped to his knees in disbelief, his mind turning to Hel and Shalendra. His fading sight rose, and like avenging angels, both draugar and werewolves advanced from the darkening forest, their strides purposeful as they joined the fight.
“Émilien!”
He turned his head to see Laurent and another massive werewolf running toward him. Grabbing him by the arms, they hauled him upright and headed for the cover of the trees. Just as they reached the forest, everything around him turned hazy, the world swirling dizzily as he felt himself sliding downward. Hitting the ground with a hardthud, the last thing he heard was the most beautiful voice in the world screaming his name.
20
Hel stood with her hand over her mouth, frozen next to Morrigan and her two sisters. She couldn’t pull her gaze from the spot Émilien had collapsed, his blood staining the ground in a wide puddle. She didn’t know what to do. All she could think about was going after him. Saving him, but how?
From the corner of her vision, she noticed Morrigan lean over and whisper something to Nemain, who hurried away. Hel tried to keep an eye on her to follow where she went, but she was quickly swallowed up in the chaos of the battle. “Where are they taking Émilien, and who are all these people? Why are they here?”
Morrigan laid a steady hand on Hel’s arm and gave it a small squeeze before pulling away and laying her hand over the other, resting on the hilt of a golden sword in front of her, the tip embedded in the ground between the goddess’s booted feet. “Nemain will make sure Émilien survives. Now, we must stop the slaughter and save as many men as we can.”
Without warning, Morrigan grabbed Hel’s elbow and yanked her toward her, barely missing the outstretched claws as one of the creatures lashed out, trying to injure a smaller werewolf. While the attacker looked more than healthy, the victim looked as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.