The pre-dawn sky had turned orange with flame, casting grotesque shadows across the cobblestones. People ran screaming in every direction, some already wounded, others helping the elderly or carrying children. Ren recognized faces he'd known all his life, transformed by terror into masks of primal fear.

  Old Man Cooper, who always complained about Ren's bread being too crusty, ran past with his grandchildren in his arms. The town's schoolmaster stood in his doorway, swinging a fireplace poker at something moving too fast to see clearly. A horse galloped by, its rider missing above the waist, the reins trailing in the blood-slick street.

  The air filled with that horrible clicking sound—dozens of claws on stone, getting closer.

  "The square," Ren gasped, remembering Emma's words. "They're gathering in the square—"

  Willem's massive hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off his voice. The farmer pulled them both into a narrow alley just as three more creatures loped past, moving with that terrible predatory grace. Their elongated limbs carried them in bounds that ate up the ground, and Ren could see muscle and sinew working beneath their exposed flesh.

  They were heading toward the square.

  Willem's hand tightened on Ren's shoulder, and the boy looked up to see something like regret pass through the farmer's eyes. Then his face settled back into its mask of grim determination, and he pushed them in the opposite direction.

  Away from the square. Away from what was about to happen.

  Something exploded out of the chandler's shop in a shower of wooden splinters. Nine feet of rippling muscle and exposed bone, moving faster than anything that size had a right to. Willem's axe caught it in the chest mid-stride, the blade sinking deep into membrane and tissue. The creature's momentum carried it forward, driving Willem back several steps, but the farmer's boots found purchase on the bloody cobblestones.

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  With a grunt of effort that showed clenched teeth and bulging neck muscles, he ripped the axe free in a spray of black gore. The thing stumbled but didn't fall. Its chest cavity began to knit itself back together, strands of muscle and sinew writhing like worms.

  Willem's response was another swing, this time taking its head clean off. The body took two more steps before collapsing, its claws still twitching as if seeking prey.

  More shapes emerged from the burning buildings, drawn by the sound of combat. Willem met them like an avalanche, his axe never still, his movements a terrible dance of destruction. A deep gash opened in his side, the shirt around it soaking crimson in seconds. Another blow caught him across the back, laying open his flesh from shoulder to hip.

  Willem didn't even grunt. He just kept swinging, kept killing, kept pushing them forward with single-minded purpose. Blood ran freely from his wounds, but his face remained fixed in that same expression of focused rage, as if pain was something that happened to other people.

  Ren's world narrowed to the rhythm of survival. When Willem fought, Ren searched for anything that could help—rocks, debris, tools abandoned in the chaos. His arms ached from throwing makeshift projectiles, his lungs burned from the smoke, but stopping meant death. The clicking sounds never ceased, growing louder and softer as new hunters joined the pursuit and others fell to Willem's axe.

  They passed the smithy, its forge fires adding to the inferno consuming the town. The blacksmith lay dead in the doorway, his hammer still clutched in lifeless fingers. Willem paused just long enough to retrieve something from the man's corpse—a leather bandolier heavy with throwing axes. These he handed to Ren without a word before pressing on.

  The weight of the weapons was reassuring, even though Ren had never thrown an axe in his life. He'd seen the older boys practicing at the summer festivals, showing off for the girls. Now those same boys probably lay dead in the square, along with everyone else who'd sought safety in numbers.

  The thought of all those people—families he'd known since birth, children he'd watched grow up, elders who'd pinched his cheeks and complained about his bread—all of them dead or dying, turned his stomach. But there was no time for grief. Not yet.

  A creature caught Willem's leg with its claws, hampering his movement. The farmer's response was to bring his axe down through its spine, then use the momentum to pull himself forward, never breaking stride. Blood ran freely down his leg, but his face remained a mask of singular focus.

  They reached the market square, and Ren's heart stopped.