Forty-Six
Brice threw himself to one side, away from the fangs at his throat. Claws grazed his shoulders. He hit the ground hard.
Nyle hissed and turned, slowly, like this was a game. He still bared his fangs, but to Brice it looked like he was trying to smile.
The two holes where his nose should be twitched with a snuffling sound.
Brice grimaced as he pushed with his legs, sliding his back up the wall. Blood from the wound stuck his trousers to his flesh. His arm throbbed.
Nyle crouched, hissing, arms out and claws aimed at Brice. They caught the light, glinting despite the gore that covered them.
This voice was different. It was still guttural and harsh, but it had a rounded edge. It sounded almost familiar. And there was a taste in the air, one Brice had sensed earlier.
Nyle spu
