At the Behest of the Dead by Timothy W. Long Page B

ceiling. I was drowning in the stuff. I heard a wall or two go down and wondered how bad it would affect property values. The smell was cloying. Dust and spent brimstone made me want to grind my teeth together and bite off my tongue.
    I dashed through the crack in the wall I had worked my way under just in time to escape the werewolf’s claws. Between the pounding of my heart in my chest and the rush of blood, I also heard my robe tear. I left behind part of the black fabric and fled down another hallway.
    The spirit that helped me earlier stood in the middle of the corridor between the buildings and tried to move out of my way. Too late. I dashed through it and kept going. There was a rending crash behind me and I felt more than heard the beast tear through. The rest of the walls were going to fall.
    When I rounded the last corner , I was panting for breath. The beast was close behind so I slid to a stop, turned to face the beast, and released the glyph I had prepared earlier. One moment it wasn’t there then the shape seared the air as it appeared.
    It turned bright orange as it streaked toward the werewolf. The shape was like a pentagram with ragged edges that expanded as it touched the air.
    The beast dove to the side at the last second and the glyph sailed past to plaster itself all over the wall. Where it touched matter , the razor sharp edges vibrated and tore into it with a rending that sounded like metal squealing against metal.
    The wolf was hit by a trailing edge that ripped away a line of fur. It howled in pain as it lost a huge chunk of skin. The beast whimpered like a dog, spinning in circles on all fours , trying to get a look at its back.
    Then it was on its feet and coming at me again.
    “Phhhinneassss” it growled.
    The fact that it managed a word wasn’t the shocking part. How in the hells did it know my name? I was called in by the good detective with little warning. How could it know I might be here? Something stunk and it wasn’t just the dust and burned out buildings.
    I strode around another corner and it was right there, about to leap. I could swear I felt his breath on my neck, his slobber waiting to drip into my hair.
    I ducked and rolled just as it leapt. It sailed overhead, but I was back on my feet in a split second thanks to a ridiculous amount of adrenaline pounding in my veins. I prepared the shield for a full attack by channeling a little bit of power. It went ice cold against my chest then heat boomed through the piece and surrounded my body in a cloak of energy that would hopefully deflect the beast. The price of this protection was my blood as the edges contracted and dug into my skin. I gritted my teeth and thought of the bright side. Me living longer.
    Sudden booming shook the concrete around m e. The werewolf had been in mid-leap when the detective opened up. The first slug caught the beast in the shoulder and threw it to the side. The next shot missed but the one after that took it through the back and punched through its chest.
    The railing was only about fifteen feet away and, sure enough, there was Andrews in the classic stance, feet spread, arms extended, two-handed grip. She blew a puff of hair out of her fierce eyes and fired again.
    I jumped to my feet and sped off in pu rsuit, black robes a twirl and threatening to wrap around me if I did any more acrobatics tonight.
    The creature let out a howl of pain, but I doubted the bullet had done real damage. The problem was that some changers were enhanced so that they healed quickly. Werewolves were an aberration of nature, a reorganizing of cells and DNA that went back centuries. Someone had created them as the perfect killing machine, and now one knew my name.
    Their ability to heal quickly was not a legend at all. The way they formed had something to do with it. Frank said that if he was hurt in his hawk form, he would come out of it with the same injury. Wolves didn’t have that problem. They could take massive amounts of