Finish it.
I don't need to be told twice.
I launch myself forward. I am a black streak of violence cutting through the smoke. I hit the base of the levee and scramble up the incline, my claws tearing deep gouges in the earth.
Gregor sees me coming.
He drops his rifle. It’s useless against me now; I’ve already taken three silver rounds to the chest and spit them out as the mating magic knit my flesh back together.
He reaches behind him. He grabs the nozzle of a heavy tank strapped to his back.
A flamethrower.
"Burn, you mutt!" he screams.
He pulls the trigger.
A jet of liquid fire arcs toward me, bright orange and smelling of napalm.
I don't stop. I don't weave. The Wolf is done playing with its food.
I hit the dirt, sliding under the stream of fire. The heat singes the fur on my back, a sharp, stinging kiss, but my momentum carries me forward.
I slam into his legs.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and metal. Gregor hits the mud hard, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. I’m on top of him instantly, my paws pinning his chest, my jaws snapping inches from his face.
He smells like sour sweat and lighter fluid.
He fumbles for the nozzle again, trying to aim it at point-blank range.
I stomp his hand.Crunch.The bones in his wrist shatter. He screams, dropping the weapon.
I grab the straps of the fuel tank with my teeth. I plant my front paws on his shoulders, digging in until I feel the collarbone give, and Ipull.
Metal shrieks. Nylon tears.
With a violent jerk of my neck, I rip the entire tank assembly off his back. The straps snap, whipping him in the face. I toss the metal canister aside. It hits a rock and ruptures, spilling fuel into the mud, useless.
Gregor is defenseless. He stares up at me, his eyes wide, reflecting the monster he tried to hunt.
I lean down. I let a line of drool hit his cheek. I want him to know how close he is to the end. I want him to feel the breath of the swamp he tried to burn.
"Jax!"
Miranda’s voice cuts through the red haze.
I look up.
She’s standing at the bottom of the levee. She isn't telling me to stop. She’s pointing toward the canal.
I look.
The retreating Hunters have hit the water. They are wading chest-deep, trying to reach the boats on the other side of the net.
Then the water starts to boil.
A scream pierces the night—high, wet, and abrupt.
