of the racks is a hidden exit and a tunnel leading to a second, secret, cellar.
Dervish cuts through the maze of wine racks, angling for the exit, but we’re not even halfway when the door above gives and the werewolves roar down the stairs. We won’t make it. And even if we get to the rack ahead of them, the panels won’t close in time. They’ll be able to surge into the tunnel after us. Not much room for fighting in there.
“You go,” I pant, laying aside my axe and turning to face the werewolves.
“Are you mad?” Meera shouts.
“Go!” I yell, grabbing two bottles from a rack. “I’ll follow.”
Meera starts to argue but Dervish grabs her and shoves her ahead of him. He nods at me to wish me luck, then flees.
I face the onrushing werewolves. I have a plan. Sort of. Not a very good one, but if it works, it’ll buy us some time. If it doesn’t, the werewolves will soon be digging into Bec burgers.
The wine racks form narrow corridors. Wide enough for one person, but two’s tight and three’s a squeeze. When the werewolves see me alone, they go wild and rush forward, getting entangled with each other in the inadequate space. When the dominant male bucks off the others, I toss the bottles at him, then turn and run. I make a left at the end of the corridor, leading the werewolves away from Dervish and Meera — and the only way out.
Running through the cellar. I’ve managed to keep ahead of the werewolves. If they were human, with full control of their senses, it would be a simple matter for them to ensnare me. A pair could simply circle around and wait for me at the end of any of the narrow corridors. The third could chase me towards the others in about half a minute. Game over.
But these beasts work by instinct. They can’t think far ahead. When they have the scent of prey, they can only focus on the chase. So they plough along behind me, slipping and sliding in their haste. I grab bottles of wine as I run, lobbing them at the werewolves. They don’t do much damage but every bit helps.
I run into a dead end. I’d been expecting it. Part of the plan. I stop a few feet from the wall, turn and wait. The werewolves gibber with delight when they see I’m trapped. They inch forward, clawed fingers flexing, drool dripping from their fangs.
I’ve been working on the spell since I started running. There’s not much more magic here than upstairs, but hopefully the thin traces will be enough. I wait until the lead werewolf is a yard away, then unleash the spell at the bottles of wine in the racks around me.
“Fly!”
I scream.
The bottles shake in their holders. The werewolves pause warily. The cork of one bottle pops out. Wine sprays from the neck, showering the female. She cringes, then laughs hoarsely, sucks wine from the hairs on her arms, and licks her lips.
A few more corks pop. The werewolves are being showered with first-rate wine. They wipe it from their faces, scowling but unharmed, and nudge forward again. I start to think my plan has failed, then . . .
Dozens of bottles shoot off the racks and slam into the werewolves. The monsters howl with pain and fall to the floor in protective huddles. Glass shatters over and around them, pounding their shoulders, backs and heads. Cuts open and bones break. One bottle smashes most of the fangs in the lesser male’s mouth.
I make my move, not waiting for the shower of glass to cease. I scurry up the wine rack to my left, using it as a makeshift ladder. I crouch on top, set my hands against the ceiling and strain with my feet, trying to topple the rack. If it was full of bottles, I couldn’t budge it. But it’s mostly empty and it rocks nicely beneath me. I sway it backwards and forwards a couple of times, then send it toppling over the werewolves, further confusing, enraging and delaying them.
I leap to the neighboring rack as the first goes over, then hop to the next and the next, like a frog. There’s not much space between the tops of the
Dervish cuts through the maze of wine racks, angling for the exit, but we’re not even halfway when the door above gives and the werewolves roar down the stairs. We won’t make it. And even if we get to the rack ahead of them, the panels won’t close in time. They’ll be able to surge into the tunnel after us. Not much room for fighting in there.
“You go,” I pant, laying aside my axe and turning to face the werewolves.
“Are you mad?” Meera shouts.
“Go!” I yell, grabbing two bottles from a rack. “I’ll follow.”
Meera starts to argue but Dervish grabs her and shoves her ahead of him. He nods at me to wish me luck, then flees.
I face the onrushing werewolves. I have a plan. Sort of. Not a very good one, but if it works, it’ll buy us some time. If it doesn’t, the werewolves will soon be digging into Bec burgers.
The wine racks form narrow corridors. Wide enough for one person, but two’s tight and three’s a squeeze. When the werewolves see me alone, they go wild and rush forward, getting entangled with each other in the inadequate space. When the dominant male bucks off the others, I toss the bottles at him, then turn and run. I make a left at the end of the corridor, leading the werewolves away from Dervish and Meera — and the only way out.
Running through the cellar. I’ve managed to keep ahead of the werewolves. If they were human, with full control of their senses, it would be a simple matter for them to ensnare me. A pair could simply circle around and wait for me at the end of any of the narrow corridors. The third could chase me towards the others in about half a minute. Game over.
But these beasts work by instinct. They can’t think far ahead. When they have the scent of prey, they can only focus on the chase. So they plough along behind me, slipping and sliding in their haste. I grab bottles of wine as I run, lobbing them at the werewolves. They don’t do much damage but every bit helps.
I run into a dead end. I’d been expecting it. Part of the plan. I stop a few feet from the wall, turn and wait. The werewolves gibber with delight when they see I’m trapped. They inch forward, clawed fingers flexing, drool dripping from their fangs.
I’ve been working on the spell since I started running. There’s not much more magic here than upstairs, but hopefully the thin traces will be enough. I wait until the lead werewolf is a yard away, then unleash the spell at the bottles of wine in the racks around me.
“Fly!”
I scream.
The bottles shake in their holders. The werewolves pause warily. The cork of one bottle pops out. Wine sprays from the neck, showering the female. She cringes, then laughs hoarsely, sucks wine from the hairs on her arms, and licks her lips.
A few more corks pop. The werewolves are being showered with first-rate wine. They wipe it from their faces, scowling but unharmed, and nudge forward again. I start to think my plan has failed, then . . .
Dozens of bottles shoot off the racks and slam into the werewolves. The monsters howl with pain and fall to the floor in protective huddles. Glass shatters over and around them, pounding their shoulders, backs and heads. Cuts open and bones break. One bottle smashes most of the fangs in the lesser male’s mouth.
I make my move, not waiting for the shower of glass to cease. I scurry up the wine rack to my left, using it as a makeshift ladder. I crouch on top, set my hands against the ceiling and strain with my feet, trying to topple the rack. If it was full of bottles, I couldn’t budge it. But it’s mostly empty and it rocks nicely beneath me. I sway it backwards and forwards a couple of times, then send it toppling over the werewolves, further confusing, enraging and delaying them.
I leap to the neighboring rack as the first goes over, then hop to the next and the next, like a frog. There’s not much space between the tops of the
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