Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

against one another. I cut into another one, encouraging their panic. Two wolves sniffed the air, perhaps smelling the flow of animal blood.

I rose, my cloak billowing up from my shoulders as I brandished the crossbow. The wolves gaped along with Favreau and his daughter as I rushed between the pigs to the gate. I kicked up at the top bar to flip it open, flinging rainwater.

The pigs spilled out of the pen, slipping and stumbling as they darted back and forth across the clearing.

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The wolves continued to stare as I marched out of the pen and fired at the nearest brown beast, piercing its chest. It fell to the ground hard.

The others snarled and charged, struggling for traction.

“Get inside,” I ordered Favreau.

“Who are you?”

“Get inside!” I stepped sideways, angling to face the next wolf as it approached. The others closed in, eyeing me warily. I pulled back twice on the crossbow’s lever, firing one bolt into the first animal’s gut, the other into its paw. My racing pulse had thrown off my aim, but I had wounded it. Enough that it stayed down.

I moved in a curving path between the pigs as they skidded across the muddy grass. The remaining wolves circled around me, craning to peer over the herd for a path to get at me. Between the wild flurry of pigs and the misty haze, I couldn’t tell whether there were two or three wolves closing in. They ignored Favreau and his daughter as he scuttled her into the house and shut the door. That was all that mattered.

The wolves bared their teeth, dripping with saliva. I registered three of them surrounding me, a gray one to my left, brown to my right, and black behind me. The rain had played tricks on my eyes.

What seemed like a perfect hit on the second wolf must have only grazed him.

Two of them charged, one from each side.

The gray one leaped at me as I whirled to launch a bolt into its stomach. It spun and rolled aside, howling, while I dropped backward to the ground, 201

planting my elbows in the mud. I kicked at a pig as it scurried in front of me, thrusting it at the attacking brown wolf.

The startled pig knocked it several feet away, stopping it for a second. Long enough for me to roll to one side and fire a bolt into his companion behind me. Then to fire two more into the brown wolf as it bore down on me, dropping it to the puddle-soaked field. I scrambled to my feet.

Three bolts left.

The gray wolf rose to its feet, staggering a moment before it turned to lunge. I fired once, keeping my final bolts in reserve. It spun to the ground as the black wolf struggled to all fours and sprang at me. Another bolt finished it as the gray wolf reared back to lunge again. I tugged on the lever, sinking my last bolt into its heart.

It fell in a heap and lay still.

I stood in the quiet. Chest heaving in the drizzling rain. Waiting for my pulse and heartbeat to slow while the remaining pigs squealed and ran in circles through the clearing. My hands shook. I took deep breaths, ordering my arms and shoulders to relax. I reached into my pouch for another round of bolts and started loading them into the top slot, one by one, in case there were more of them.

… More of them …

I turned back to the clearing, where the first gray wolf had fallen. The grass there was matted down a little, where the animal had lain. But the wolf was now gone.

The rain wasn’t playing tricks on my eyes.

Four wolves had come from the forest, but after I 202

struck down the first one, four wolves remained.

Only one of the wolves was gray. The first wolf, the one Favreau shot with his musket. It had risen to join the others and attack me again.

The wolf nearest to me – the one I shot four times – groaned and rolled to its side. Then it rose and shook its head to recover. I watched, crossbow ready, as it studied its wounded paw, from which a bolt still protruded. Two similar bolts remained embedded in its stomach. It lifted the paw to