zg_shadows | London's Burning

Flames licked the sky. Most of the row was on fire, the residents staring in dull terror as their homes were destroyed. Some had cases by their feet, a hammering on the door and a gabbled explanation from one of their neighbours having come just in enough time to let them grab something and then run from the attack.

The ratkin had vanished now, going on to new targets, and the people had cautiously crept back from the bushes in the heath where they’d hidden; their saviour standing at the entrance shotgun in hand. She’d vanished now, and the huddled group were too busy wondering what the future held to wonder where she’d gone.

In the back garden of one of the houses a great silver wolf stared at the flames, reflecting orange in its eyes. It howled once, a long ululating mournful sound that echoed in the darkness and then, turning its back decisively, padded off alone into the night.