The rickety stairs creaked as he stepped down the spiraling staircase. Laughs grew louder, along with the discomfort in his chest.

  An open doorway appeared to his right, and he stepped out onto a platform. A giant musical instrument of winding pipes stood untouched, along with a few empty seats looking down on the church’s interior.

  Dawn shone through tall glass windows, showering the massacre in multicolored light. Blood, broken furniture and desecrated hospital-beds littered every inch of the interior. Under a giant statue of the Saint lay a pile of human bodies so dismembered that they must have failed to turn. The white marble, covered in wicked symbols drawn in gore. The stench was thick and profane, charred flesh and holy incense intermingling.

  Forty slaughter hounds moved below, struggling over broken swords, hollering in unison and dancing around the corpse-mound with interlocked arms. Most still wore scraps of clothing, a ripped sleeve, a shoe, or a torn uniform. Whatever had happened here, it had quickly gone out of hand.

  Wretch’s left eye twitched, and for a split second, the skin on half of his face squirmed.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  He scanned for anyone or anything carrying the white and black dress of Astrid, each corpse and hound.

  “Don’t…”

  “Be…”

  “Here…”

  Nothing and he sighed with relief.

  He turned around and walked back toward the tower.

  He had only a fourth of his flame remaining. That was barely enough to grow the massive arms for a minute. Enough to get to the station if he stuck to jumping along the walls and roofs, but not enough to take a real fight. He would have to use it wisely.

  A low sobbing cut through the chorus of laughs and yelps.

  He froze.

  It came from behind the statue, a lonely door marked by scratches that he'd missed on his examination of the interior. Definitely human, but it could be anyone. But what if it was her? Could he live with not having checked?

  He turned with a grim look, drawing the Blinking Blade from its hilt.

  “Change of plans.”

  Two massive dark arms burst through the skin of his back, twisting into grotesque arms and claws glistening with new-born fluids. One clutched the railing with a thud while the other gripped the massive organ bolted to the wall. His newly-conjured muscles strained against the weight.

  “A trickle of flame,” he said through sharp teeth.

  “To kill a few beasts...”

  Metal creaked and bolts ripped loose. The laughing hounds looked up toward the platform. With a screech, Wretch hurled the metal contraption through the church. The yelps were replaced by the ear-piercing wail of the plummeting instrument.

  The organ slammed against the base of the statue with a deafening crack, turning three hounds into bloodied ribbons.

  He launched himself after it like a stone shot from a sling. The two massive arms from his back spread open as he crashed down like a meteor. One monstrous palm crushed a wide-eyed hound flat. The other caught his landing. The statue groaned and began to tilt.

  The slaughter hounds stood in shock.

  “Come and put me down,” Wretch growled, breaking them out of their stupor.

  They exploded forward in a frenzy of teeth and claws from all around.

  Wretch kept one oversized hand on the ground for support and swung the other in an arc. The teeth lining the forearms flayed fur and snapped bones.

  Claws were closing in on his back. At the last moment, he launched himself upward, grabbing onto the wings of the tilting statue. The cracked rock protested against his weight. He spun around the alabaster, launching himself back toward the group. The statue groaned and collapsed to the floor. The colored glass shattered from the tremor.

  Forty seconds, he thought. That was how long he could keep this expensive form.

  He slammed down with the grotesque hands balled into fists. Bones crunched, and muscles turned into wet smears. Still, the newly born hounds climbed over each other to reach him.

  He grabbed a hound, squeezing it until its eyes burst. But before he could prepare for another strike, it's kin jumped forward. Wretch tried to dodge, but the arms were as destructive as they were immobile.

  Its jaws locked over his shoulder a moment before his blade impaled it through the chest. He lifted himself up over the hounds, using his long pair of extra arms as stilts.

  The dead hound slid off his torso. More jumped toward him.

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  Thirty.

  He pushed off the ground, jumping away from the group toward the broken base of the statue, grabbing onto the twisted remains of the instrumental organ and planting the other claw into the stone for leverage.

  His muscles strained as the metal piece moved. It shot forward like a boulder of twisted metal and broken gears. Iron shredded skin and muscle in a cloud of spraying blood.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Ten hounds remained standing. A dozen lay howling in pain, most in different degrees of dismemberment. The rest were crushed beyond recognition.

  He snatched up the closest one with an oversized claw and slammed it into one of its kin, throwing his blade straight down the throat of another.

  Ten… nine.

  Wretch jumped backward. Claw wounds and bite marks covered his conjured arms, but it did not matter.

  Eight… seven.

  Wretch spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the whole pack. They lunged for him still, fury fueled by frenzy.

  Five.

  Wretch slammed his hands together in a clap. Those caught between the palms exploded into red mist.

  Two.

  The arms withdrew, and the Blinking Blade burned back into his hand. He took a fighting stance, drawing in a ragged breath while blood oozed from his shoulder.

  In a minute, the church had transformed from a desecrated chapel into a field of slaughter. Marble lay shattered. Blood ran along the grooved floor. Some hounds lay dying. Others were ground into splinters and hide.

  Only three hounds remained, crouched backs, exposed teeth, and cautious eyes. One still wore the remains of an officer’s uniform, an arrow protruding from its throat.

  Wretch felt his exhaustion tingle in his limbs. He was spent. Out of flame, and blood oozed from his shoulder down his ribs.

  “Don’t stop now,” he growled between wheezing breaths. “Come take this life!”

  They circled him.

  “I can still kill,” Wretch said. “Afraid of a kid with a razor?”

  The nearest hound crouched, lips peeled back in a snarl. The two from the sides burst toward him. Wretch forced his tired muscles to move, dashing to the left. It swiped toward him, telegraphed, slow, and pathetic. A sound escaped his throat, and a thin sliver of spit launched toward the hound’s snout. It was not much. The gland needed more time to refill.

  From luck or improved aim, it caught the side of its head. It screamed, bringing both claws up toward a melting eye.

  Wretch stepped around it, and the Blinking Blade punched out through its chest.

  It yelped and crawled toward its kin with half its face melting. It slammed its head to the floor in a death quiver. The two left looked at him and growled with sharp teeth, stalking forward.

  “I’d love to practice more, but I don’t have time,” Wretch said, licking his lips, likewise burning with a sliver of acid.

  Wretch feigned a dash to the side. They mirrored him and lined up. He whipped up the crossbow. He did not have flame to spare, but shot it without infusion. The bolt strayed from where he had aimed, whistling through the air at a lower angle than he had preferred.

  The closest hound, wearing officer clothing, dodged to the side. The one behind it did not see the bolt coming. It dug into its lower abdomen with a deft pang, sending the creature screaming to the floor.

  That left one. A towering horror of fur and claws, almost as tall as Elenya, against a child-sized ratling with a blade.

  It stepped forward with care, lowering its head.

  Wretch and the changed officer circled each other in the ruins, stepping over broken bodies and splintered stones.

  The creature’s claws shook, and Wretch raised an eyebrow.

  “Scared?”

  “Some day, I’ll exterminate you. Kill every single one of your kind.”

  The hound charged, faster than the others, experience etched into its muscles. It slashed out with its claws, and Wretch dodged low, ready to strike with the Blinking Blade. A knee slammed into his jaw. The world blurred, the weapon leaving his hand. He rolled backward, struggling to see. But Elenya had hit him like that before, and an attack always followed.

  Dodging to the left, a slash from a claw ripped the scaled skin off his shoulder, missing his throat by an inch.

  He took two steps back and spat out a mouthful of blood as the hound laughed, positioning itself between him and the blade. “Nice one,” he said with a grin. “But you’re too slow.”

  Wretch went on the offensive, slashing with his own claws and zipping between strikes. The hound scratched across his cheek. He answered with a slash over its eye. The creature yelped and clutched its face.

  “We’re out of time, let’s end this.”

  His tail wrapped around its leg and pulled. The creature slipped on the blood-soaked floor, struggling to shield its head. But a strike never came.

  It looked around in confusion. Wretch plucked the Blinking Blade up from the floor, flashing a grin full of bloodied teeth.

  He walked toward the last standing hound. It took a step back and snarled.

  “What’s wrong?” Wretch said.

  The creature gave a short laugh devoid of any joy. It lashed out with a claw. Wretch dodged low, expecting a knee, but instead it turned to run.

  His hand shot out, grabbing the tail. His own tail wrapped around its neck. It screamed, then the Blinking Blade rammed into its chest.

  The hound fell to its knees, and with a final flash of steel, he sent the head flying.

  “The day a beast like you meets a hunter was always going to be your last,” Wretch wheezed, taking stock of the damage to his body. It was wrecked, covered in cuts, bruises, and a deep set of teeth marks on his shoulder, but he would survive. Taking on the bigger forms were no doubt powerful, but undoubtedly his true form could use some hardier improvement.

  A thought for another time.

  He stepped quickly over the dead hounds, ignoring the few still gurgling at the edge of death. Around the broken statue stood a thick door marked by claws and scratches. He knocked.

  “You still human in there?”

  Murmurs erupted behind the door, then the thick voice of a man answered, “What the hell happened out there?”

  “Open and see,” Wretch said. “But be quick, I ain’t staying to fight the rest of the horde.”

  The sound of furniture scraping against the floor echoed, and with a click, the door swung open.

  A stack of chairs and an upturned desk stood just beyond the door. Inside, a group of mixed civilians and soldiers, bandaged and bloodied, clutching sharpened planks and hammers.

  They stared at him. A boy drenched in gore, ripped clothing and swaying tail, blood still dripping from his claws.

  “You are just a kid?” someone whispered.

  “The healer named Astrid,” Wretch demanded with a quickening heartbeat. “Where is she?”

  They looked at each other and shuffled. The group parted.

  Wretch let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. There she stood, dried blood staining her blond hair, left arm in a sling, still wearing her black and white dress with a chest plate on top. Even here, she looked as elegant as the day he had first met her on Saint’s Summit.

  Her lip quivered.

  “Wretchy?” she said with teary eyes.

  He flashed a crude smile. “I came to pick you up.”

  A moment later, she was wrapped around his chest in a tight hug, her healing powers warming him, unlike the painful jolts of his own. He let his clawed and bloody hands hug her back.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.