Page 44 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“No—”

But Cyrus kept stalking her. He held the blade out, and Clara gulped as the cutting edge gleamed.

Des leapt. He wrapped his arms around Cyrus’s knees and slammed them both to the ground in a full-body tackle. As Cyrus sprawled across the floor, Des clambered up his body and grabbed the wrist that gripped the knife. Yet Cyrus held onto the blade. He twisted beneath Des, flipping onto his back as Des straddled him. They rolled on the carpet as they struggled for the knife.

Clara continued to point the pistol at them. Locked together as the two men were, she couldn’t fire, not without fear of hitting Des.

They crashed into furniture, knocking over small tables, sending books tumbling down, and tipping over a reading chair. While one of Des’s hands was locked around Cyrus’s wrist in a battle for the blade, Des balled up his other hand into a fist and plowed it repeatedly into Cyrus’s face. Blood sprayed, but Cyrus didn’t relinquish his grip on the knife. He rammed his elbow into Des’s chest and gut. Des grunted, yet he stayed locked in combat with his leader.

She took aim at Cyrus’s foot, since it was farthest from Des. Yet her finger hovered on the trigger.

The study brightened as light from the full moon poured in through the windows. It cast pale squares upon the floor. The brawling men were suddenly bathed in its silver illumination.

Cyrus abruptly dropped the knife. He and Des broke apart, each man hunching in on himself. They writhed, as if in tremendous pain, and both grimaced and snarled.

Both of them had been stabbed. Yet there was no blood on the knife.

Clara took a tentative step toward Des.

He lifted his head, and she froze.

His face…stretched…lengthened. The area around his mouth elongated into…a muzzle. Whiskers sprouted above his lips. His ears grew pointed.

Silver light glowed from his eyes.

At the same time, his entire body seemed to swell. His limbs grew longer, his torso thicker. His muscles expanded, stretching the fabric of his clothing so much that the seams ripped apart. Coat, waistcoat, shirt, breeches. Even his boots. All of them fell away from his body in scraps.

Dark fur sprouted from his flesh, down to his long hands and feet. Black claws tipped his fingers and toes.

He lurched to his feet, and his head brushed the ceiling. He easily stood seven feet tall, filling the chamber with his size.

Des was no longer Des.

The pistol dropped from Clara’s nerveless hand. It landed with a thud on the floor, yet she barely heard it. All she understood was that something impossible stood before her.

Werewolf.

13

At the sound of the pistol hitting the floor, Des—or the thing that Des had transformed into—turned to her.

“Clara.” It was Des’s voice, but it wasn’t, coming out a mixture of an animal growl and human words. The silver glow of his eyes contained Des’s warmth, but also a wildness she hadn’t seen before.

“D…Des?” She stood, frozen in shock. This…this couldn’t be. He couldn’t have been a man one moment, and in the next, something between man and animal. A creature from one of the folk tales she read incessantly

But this was no tale. Nothing contained within a book she could put back upon the shelf when the story was over.

A werewolf stood in her study.

Not one werewolf. Two.

Cyrus had also shifted into a creature. Like Des, he was massive and powerfully built, all of his clothing gone to reveal muscles covered in golden fur. His long yellow claws gleamed menacingly, and he bared sharp fangs in a snarl. His eyes shone amber, cold and merciless as he glowered at Des.

Cyrus angled himself to block the door.

He lunged for Des. At the same time, Des charged at Cyrus. The two massive creatures slammed into each other. Des threw Cyrus into the wall. Cyrus shook himself, recovering, before launching himself at Des again.

The giant beasts grappled, locked together, hurtling from one end of the too-small study to the other. Wooden bookshelves cracked. The reverberations traveled into the beams, fracturing them.