Where Wolves Run: A Novella of Horror Read Online Free

blackened teeth. “Unless you want to eat my knuckles.” He shook a fist, his other one grabbing a handful of buttocks.
    Konrad turned away. Black Tooth seemed cruel, but he did not strike Konrad as the werewolf type. Not that he had much to go on. He had never seen a werewolf before. Sounds and glimpses were no substitute for experience. He began to doubt the solidity of their plan.
    It must be him then , he thought, staring down the back of the ragged looking tramp slouched over the bar. His hair was long but thin and oily. His breeches, naturally brown, and his shirt, browned by sweat and dirt, reeked of poverty despite a life of hard work. He looked in every way the farmer, old and feeble, not some vicious denizen of the night.
    But Konrad knew the beast’s power came from its curse. As a man, it was vulnerable. And this man seemed to be easy pickings, so long as Konrad had his knife.
    He walked up to the bar. His confidence returned as he stood at the farmer’s side. The man did not so much as turn, seemingly unaware of Konrad’s presence. His hand quivered as he raised a glass to his mouth.
    “This hardly seems a proper place for a boy your age.”
    Konrad’s heart pounded against his ribcage. The voice had come from behind him. Eyes wide, he turned to face its owner. The farmer kept to his drink. The man with the low-tipped hat swaggered up to the bar.
    “Your father must be worried sick,” he said, baring a cocksure grin, one incisor biting into his lower lip. His clothes were clean: a white pressed shirt covered by a close-fitting doublet and tan breeches held up by suspenders. Stubble lined his jaw. His skin was smooth, pox-free, tell-tale signs of an easy life. Tall and lanky, with sandy blond hair, he had an air of royalty. But his clothes suggested a tradesman, or a barber perhaps, the dirt beneath his fingernails the only contradiction.
    The brim of his cap cast a shadow over his eyes. He raised it.
    Konrad gasped. He gazed into orbs that swirled with combative colors. Emerald green, beautiful yet mysterious, was the dominant shade. But with each flicker of the lantern, a pale and sickly yellow spiraled through those eyes like worms curling up to die. Certain virility resided in those eyes, though—something dreadfully alive.
    Konrad gulped. He had found whom he sought.
    His resolve fled through his pores and his armpits dampened. His hands, too, felt clammy. Konrad wiped them on his pants. His fingers twitched. He could feel his lips trembling.
    The man leaned into the bar. Konrad stumbled backward, knocking into the farmer. The beer in his glass swished but did not spill. He grunted, downed the drink, tossed a coin onto the counter, and stumbled toward the door.
    The bartender, a short, stocky fellow with a crooked nose, snagged the coin and stuck it in his apron pocket. He glared at the man with the cap as if he were disgusted by the mere sight of him. Did he know the man’s true nature? Konrad hoped he had found an ally. He needed one.
    “Beer,” the man-beast said. “Make that two.” He turned to Konrad and winked. “Your father need not know. Where is he, by the way? Surely he has not sent you in here alone.”
    “You . . .” Konrad began, his voice failing him. He tried again, but the words refused to form.
    “Joren,” he said, patting Konrad on the back. “At your service.” He laughed heartily, full of mirth. He sounded friendly, but there was a hint of malevolence in his tone, something frightening beneath his smile. And those eyes—
    Konrad sucked in air. He tried to remember the plan, but hate and fear clouded his mind. “You killed my mother,” he managed at last, his voice louder than he had intended. The bartender’s forehead creased when he returned with the drinks. But he skirted away, leaving Konrad and his company to their beers.
    He was alone, a boy against a savage, one of the very fiends who had murdered the only person he had loved.
    Joren exaggerated a frown.