The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

wolf? Its snout seemed too thick, too blunt, teeth hooking over its lower jaw. And its front paw splayed out like a bear’s instead of a canine’s, ending in large claws. No wonder the driver’s scars had looked like the work of a grizzly. James’s account of the Romanian werewolf, the pricolici, flashed through my mind.

The beast bared its fangs at the bottle, then up at me, as though assigning blame for the poison, before drawing back into the shadows again.

Behind me, James spoke through clenched teeth, “You’re going about this rather roughly.”

I looked to find him and Bertrand still grappling for the bottle. The barks and snarls from the ring of wolves rose in pitch. I hooked an arm around Bertrand’s throat and tried to pull him away.

“Stop fighting, goddammit,” I hissed in his ear. “You’re exciting them.”

“You are the ones … exciting them,” Bertrand grunted, pistoning a sharp elbow into my ribs.

A single ragged cry went up and I felt, more than heard, the circle of wolves collapse. I released Bertrand and turned in time to meet the beast plowing into me. Two hundred pounds of brawn and thick, wet hair drove me onto my back, foul breath breaking against my face. The beast strained against my forearm, which I’d managed to brace against its throat. Lips drew from a double set of fanged teeth as its dense brow collapsed over furious eyes. Eyes that, save for their deep yellow irises, appeared almost human.

I was struggling against its straining neck, and losing, when a tight explosion pierced the tumult.

Something hot sprayed my face. The wolf on top of me crashed to its side and then tore at the ground to right itself. More explosions sounded, and the wolves fled, one dragging a blood-drenched hind leg.

I thrashed to my feet, looking from the disappearing wolves to the source of the explosions. Across the fire, Flor stood holding what looked like a military-grade rifle. She scanned the woods in a three-hundred-sixty-degree arc, smoke drifting from the barrel. When she faced me once more, she said, “You wanted to know what was in the case?”

My shocked gaze fell to the open titanium container at her feet, the black foam bed inside designed to hold the disassembled rifle.

“Wow,” I said, wiping wolf blood from my face. “Good planning.”

I turned to find James climbing from the ground, excitement coloring his pink cheeks. Bertrand, who had fallen to his back nearby, continued to slap the air as though the wolves were still attacking.

“Are either of you injured?” I asked.

James gave his spray bottle a light toss. “Your repellent worked a charm, my friend,” he said, catching it again. “Got two right in the old peepers before Flor here came to the rescue.”

“Bertrand?” I asked, stooping beside him.

He had stopped thrashing and was grasping his ankle in both hands now. Blood glistened between his fingers. “I told you not to excite them,” he hissed through his crooked teeth. “Why didn’t you imbeciles listen? And my food bag! They have taken my food bag!”

I shoved down my annoyance and made him move his hands. The gash was bad, but more worrying was the swelling. One of the wolves had gotten its jaws around him pretty good. I raised my face to James and Flor. “Ankle looks ugly. Could be broken. Should we draw straws to see who takes him back?”

“I cannot,” Flor said, not bothering to elaborate.

James rubbed his neck. “And I’m afraid this is my one crack to graduate.”

I leaned my hands against my thighs and sighed. I could ask James to locate the Book of Souls, transcribe as much as he could, and mail the notes to me back in the States. I would compensate him, of course. But man, to be this close…

“All right,” I said to Bertrand. “Looks like it’s you and me. We’ll head down in the morning.”

He shoved me away. “Nonsense! I will not go back and have these two ruin what may be the most important finding of our lifetimes.” He struggled to his knees, then to one foot. But when he attempted to step with his injured leg, he screamed and fell to the ground again.

“Would you look at yourself?” I said. “You can’t even walk.”

“It is only a sprain. Splint it and you will see. Tomorrow, I will be ready to travel.”

“Your bag’s gone,” I reminded him. “You have no food.”

Grunting, Bertrand crawled on hands and knees to his tent, zipping it closed behind him.

“Just what we need,” I muttered. “Dead weight.”

“Well,” James said cheerily. “Shall we gather some more wood, then get a little shut eye before we’re off again?”

“I will take the remaining shifts,” Flor declared, rifle propped over her shoulder.

Neither James nor I argued.

9

We set out the next morning, Bertrand cursing with every hopping step. We had fashioned a splint for him using cut-up sections of my backpack’s interior frame and some sports tape Flor happened to be carrying.

“You doing all right?” I called back to him.

“Do not worry about me,” he snapped, leaning on his branches-cum-crutches. “I know the way.”

Sure you do, prof.

I imagined the injury had thrown a wrench into whatever he’d been planning. On the flip side, the injury meant one less worry for the rest of us. Far easier to keep tabs on a crippled fraud than an able-bodied one.

Late in the afternoon, James signaled to us. “It should be just over the pass.”

Thank God. The dread of camping in the forest again had been building like a migraine. There was still the return journey to the village, but I’d worry about that in a few days.

Behind me, I could hear Bertrand grunting to catch up, probably hoping to overtake us, but James and Flor were too far ahead. Before long, their voices rose in excitement. When I arrived at the mountain pass, I saw why. Where the trees began to thin, a sizeable stone structure took shape against a cliff face. Exhilaration surged through me.

Dolhasca, the forgotten monastery.

“Wait!”