With that in mind, I forced my wolf to stop, drop to his belly, and wait.
We didn’t know what an infernabist smelled like as it was something we’d never experienced before. But if it had tusks, like a wild hog, that was a clue. Something we could pick up on the breeze because we’d scented it before.
The wait was driving my wolf insane, as the centaur’s sounds behind us became louder, distracting. I had a harder time than usual getting him to wait patiently. More effects of the damaged link between us? It seemed likely, but I was grateful my shift had still been seamless.
There was the distinctive rasp of wood over stone now, repetitive and uncomfortable to the ear, but right when I thought my wolf would howl his protest, we caught it.
Earthy, rank, with the shifting of the wind-hog. But different. Sulfur?
Go. Carefully.
The second I let him off the leash, my wolf arrowed toward the new, discomfiting scent. He dodged underbrush with the ease of a lifetime’s practice, making good time through the deepening dark of the thick forest. The tree trunks in this area were gnarled, and I could see why they called it the ghost forest. It was exactly the kind of place children would be scared of in bedtime stories. From the knotted, ugly trees to the deep shadows cast by the thick canopy overhead, the terrible picture was complete with the dangerous beasts living under the boughs.
The thick scent of sulfur and musk grew to crowd out all others in my wolf’s nose, and he slowed, dropping to a stalking crouch as we peered around the next bush.
To my disappointment, there was nothing but an empty cave, reeking with the ripe stench of many, many sulfur pigs.
A thought struck me. What if this wasn’t the infernabist? I hadn’t been shown a photo or provided a scent. Only told they lived in this forest and were highly dangerous. Although… the description was clear enough.
I would wait and see if any returned to the burrow. If whatever came didn’t have tusks or didn’t fit the description, I’d resume hunting.
Judging by the fresh scat in the small clearing ahead of the cave, they hadn’t been away from the burrow for long.
My wolf lay down to wait, content with my reasoning this time, even as he kept his ears pricked and senses on high alert for movement around us. We were utterly alone, save for a single, surly crow that kept hopping around on the upper branches of the tree we lay next to, cawing periodically. His eyes held keen intelligence, and there was a whiff of magic about him. Not enough to be a shifter, just enough to be other.
For a long time, there was no other sign of life. What remained of the sun’s warmth leached away, leaving my wolf’s belly cold against the damp earth and my patience growing thin. Even the rasping noises stopped, and I wasn’t close enough to hear hoofbeats as Flantian continued his hunt.
Right when I was on the verge of losing my nerve and changing plans, a thunderous pounding shook the ground. Hoofbeats. Coming in fast, from my left. My wolf leapt to his feet, spinning toward the oncoming centaur.
But as I listened, I realized there were many more than just four feet.
Flantian had found the infernabists, and they were running straight toward me.
The rotten, sulfur smell was stronger in the wind, confirming I’d found the right species, at least. But when the herd of infernabists broke through the underbrush, I nearly lost my breath as disgust made my wolf shake.
The creatures were huge and hideous, indeed looking loosely like pigs-if they were pigs out of a nightmare. They were four times the size of a prize hog, their skin tomato red with scattered patches that looked charred, as if it had been burned by something terrible. They reeked strongly enough to make my eyes water, and their four tusks, razor sharp and as long as a woman’s forearm, protruded over blackened snouts in a crisscross shape. They’d have no trouble gutting an unlucky wolf in battle. And that was before I noticed the spikes protruding down their forelegs.
No wonder their name meant hellish beast. They looked like they’d started running at the gates of hell and never stopped.
And they were heading straight toward my hiding spot.
I briefly considered trying to take one by surprise, but if I leapt out and grabbed one by the throat, I’d be stopping in front of a charging centaur, who had a crudely shaped, thick wooden spear hefted in his left hand. He was as likely to trample or spear me as I was to take down a beast that big on the first try.
No, I’d let them pass, then join the hunt. I could pick off a straggler, so long as it was large enough to feed the crowd.
Though the idea of eating one of these rotten-smelling things was utterly abhorrent. The herd of roughly fifteen infernabists zipped past with bone-jarring impact, the ground shaking like an earthquake under their split hooves. As soon as Flantian’s tail streamed past my nose, I leapt out of my spot, pounding after them.
I racked my brain for a way to bring down an animal that size, with that much inherent weaponry, without getting gored or gutted.
Flantian’s superior height and rough weaponry were a definite advantage over my size and fangs. So I’d just have to get creative.
I didn’t have to wait long for an opening. He threw the spear, the rough-cut tip glancing uselessly off one of the beast’s shoulders. But the insulted infernabist squealed with outrage, the sound as ear-piercing as a harpy, and sent the herd scattering in every direction.
Flantian cut hard left, and I cut hard right, each of us singling out our own beast to hunt. I saw in his right hand a small carved spear, this one only about eighteen inches in length, the perfect size for close-up fighting.
I didn’t envy him trying to face off against one of these sulfur pigs without the benefit of fangs. But I couldn’t worry about him as my target zigzagged through the forest. I kept hot on its tail, hoping to wear it down a little with the run before I made my move. But as time dragged on, I realized it showed no signs of flagging, but every sign of making a run for its burrow. The underbrush was too tight in this part of the forest for me to have a clean shot to tussle with it, but I’d have seconds between it breaking into the clearing and disappearing into the cave.
That meant there was one shot, or I’d lose the beast and have to start from scratch.
It meant I would lose if I missed. That wasn’t an option.
I dug deep for an extra burst of speed as I scented the now-familiar cave the infernabist herd called home. Three more strides, and the clearing came into sight. I bunched my muscles to leap, ready to land on the ugly beast’s back and hopefully grab it around the neck and bring it down safely out of reach of its tusks and leg spines.
A masculine scream of pain rent the air as I leapt. My claws scrabbled for purchase as I landed on the beast’s back, my jaws clamped around the back of the neck, the foul taste of its rotten-corpse-scented flesh even worse in my mouth than I’d imagined.
There was no fucking way these centaurs wanted to eat one of these disgusting creatures. But despite the fetid taste, I clamped down harder, relishing my successful attack as its pace faltered, and it sent us both careening to one side.
As it fell, I jumped free, not wanting to get pinned under its tremendous bulk. As I flew through the air, I spotted Flantian also in the clearing, battling with his own infernabist. Horror struck before my paws even kissed the earth.
Where I was triumphant, holding the upper hand, Flantian was down, a foreleg twisted in a clear break, a deep, gushing gore wound across his human abdomen. And the infernabist he’d been hunting was turning, ready to make another run at his hunter.
Fuck.
My pig was down, stunned from the sharp snap to the back of the neck-but that was seconds. It would recover and bolt into that cave, where I’d be on the back foot.
But could I really win and let my centaur challenger die?
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