Hunting
Thump. Thump.
Ink splattered across the last words on the page, my careful script ruined.
I shoved away from the desk so quickly my chair knocked over.
Something was on the roof. Even though I knew it was madness, I imagined a humanlike creature, just risen from the grave, the scent of freshly turned earth enveloping my senses, as its fangs shot out, ready to drain my body of blood.
I sucked in a quick breath and darted over to my trunk of postmortem supplies, snatching up the largest bone saw I could find and holding it before me. What in the name of the queen—
Scraaaaaaaaatch. It sounded as if that same something were clawing its way down the red-tiled roof.
Again, an image of a strigoi assaulted my sensibilities.
A humanoid creature with dead, gray flesh and black claws dripping the blood of its last meal, scraping its way to my chambers to gorge once more.
Part of me wanted to dash into the corridor and scream for the guards.
Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart pounded double its normal beat.
It was the sound of heavy treading. Whatever or whoever was on the roof was wearing thick-soled boots.
Images of vampires and werewolves gave way to the more disturbing thoughts of depraved humans.
Ones who had successfully murdered at least five victims.
I backed toward my nightstand, never taking my gaze from the window, and lowered my saw to turn the dial on my oil lamp. Darkness fell, hopefully rendering me invisible to whoever was still slowly crawling down the roof.
I waited, breath caught in terror’s grasp, and watched. At first all I saw were heavier drifts of snow falling past my window. The sounds of scraping and the heavy tread were replaced by a sort of slipping noise.
Then it happened at once.
A shadow blacker than coal eclipsed the snowy world outside. It shook my windowsill with tremendous force, the tiny latch barely staying in place. Fear paralyzed my limbs. Whoever was out there was seconds away from either shattering the glass or the flimsy latch.
I hefted the saw and took a small step forward. Then another. The reverberations of the assault on the windowpane amplified my racing pulse. I came ever closer to the window, hearing the phantom picking and prodding and—cursing.
A gloved hand pounded against the pane. I tossed the saw and moved swiftly, unlatching the window, and grabbed him as if both of our lives depended on it.