Nightwitch by Ken Douglas

was lying in a patch of dirt between two tall California redwoods. He stole a quick glance back at the car. He thought he might be able to get it back on the road. If she didn’t kill him first.
    He crawled on his belly, using his elbows and knees for propulsion, toward the tree on his left. When she came for him, he wanted something at his back. He heard a rustling of pine needles coming from the dark on his right. She wasn’t even trying to maintain silence, so sure was she of the kill. Well, he had news for her, he wasn’t going to be so easy. She was so used to others, who turned and ran, that she was getting careless. He would use that to his advantage.
    The wolf howled again, sending terror to the creatures of the night and shivers through his body. He moved toward the tree and scooted up against it. He crouched low, with his knees bent and his buttocks and back pressed firmly into the rough bark. He wished he had his gun, but he’d battled her without a gun before and he’d survived.
    The wolf growled, telegraphing him of the pending attack. So unwolf like, he thought, but she could be arrogant. He heard the quick even patter of paws on pine needles. Her leg was healed. She would guard it better this time.
    He had to make an instant decision. She could see in the dark, so she knew about the tree at his back. She wouldn’t come straight at him, at the last instant she’d veer to the left or right and leap with open jaws from about ten feet away. She’d want to grab his head, clamping down on it as she passed. The sheer force of her moving thrusting weight would break his neck.
    Left or right, he thought, choose wrong and die, choose right and maybe he had a chance. He chose left, and turned holding the knife in front of himself with both hands, arms outstretched and elbows locked. He had only one chance and if he guessed right he’d have a surprise for her, if he guessed wrong she’d snap his neck and feast on his carcass.
    He kept himself low and jumped forward, using his bent legs like pistons. He let out a war cry as he felt the knife sink into the soft underbelly of the wolf that went sailing over his head.
    She howled in pain, a wail shrill and angry. A wail that would keep the dead in their graves and make the living wish they were lying beside them. He laughed as she scooted off into the dark.
    She hadn’t expected a silver blade.

Chapter Seven
     
     
    Arty was three blocks from home, pedaling into the dark with a rack full of papers, when he heard the familiar sound of his father blasting away on the horn. Six in the morning and most of the town still asleep, but his father didn’t care. He stiffened his heart and his right leg and pushed back on the brake, no sense pretending he didn’t hear.
    At first he thought his father had discovered that he snuck out last night, but he shelved that thought as quickly as it came. He wouldn’t be coming after him in the truck if he was pissed. When his dad was pissed he couldn’t sleep till he hit something. He would have been waiting up if he knew Arty hadn’t been at home last night, belt in hand, and Arty would have felt its sting way before he would have folded paper one.
    He put the kickstand down and rubbed his hands together against the cold. The pickup backfired as Bill Gibson downshifted and the tires chirped when his dad popped the clutch. Bill Gibson was never easy on anything or anyone, not clutches, wives—Arty’s mom was his dad’s fourth wife—or his son.
    The pickup drew closer and Arty saw the shotgun in the gunrack behind his father. So he was going shooting today. That explained why he was up so early, but not why he had come chasing after him. It couldn’t be good, nothing his father ever did was good.
    “ Hey, son,” Bill Gibson said.
    “ Yeah, Dad?” Arty tensed. His father never called him son. It was almost friendly.
    “ Can you give me some money? I’m a little flat and I need some shells.” Arty recognized the lie