Author's note-

I'm so sorry I haven't updated this story before now. To cut a long story short, I started a new job and also started at uni (which is scary enough as an adult!) and I quite simply had no time to sit down and write. I've got this story planned out and I want to write it because I think the ending might blow people away. :)

I really hope everyone enjoys this update and can forgive me for the slight -cough- wait for it to come. If everything goes to plan, I should have a chapter a day up until the story is finished. :)

Thank you for reading, and for those of you who had nudged me to update this. This is for you.

Chapter Nine

The house settled around him like a vast slumbering beast. Everyone else had gone to bed, happy to wait the storm out. Restlessness kept John awake, prowling from room to room. The night felt loaded, waiting for the right spark to bring a storm that had nothing to do with the ice outside. He stood by the window in the living room, a glass of Bourbon in his hand, and watched the storm. It had started as rain, deceptively gentle, and built into something that he'd never seen before.

Ice coated the tree branches, dragging them towards the ground. It had turned the road into a death trap that glittered under the scant illumination from the street lights. He swallowed a mouthful of the booze, wincing at the burn. A branch, already hanging low under the weight of ice, broke free with a snap like a shotgun firing.

It crashed onto the frozen ground, splintering from the impact. The noise made him jump, sloshing booze on the cuff of his shirt. No great loss, he thought, but tossed the rest of it back anyway. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and almost dismissed it as another branch, sagging and swaying. Cold spread through him, replacing the warmth that had been there seconds before.

He couldn't see the Wendigo but he knew it was outside. The cold in his chest was like claws, raking over muscle and sinew and bone. The pain of it took him to his knees, one hand jammed on the floor amid the ruins of the glass. He gritted his teeth and rode it out, clinging to the layers of magical protection he'd spent so long crafting.

Footsteps rattled across the floor towards him. He whirled, bloodied hand coming up, the Sumatrian fire spell trembling on his lips. And froze, as the wendigo prowled across the room towards him. Matted fur the colour of dirty water hung from its body in clumps. The too human face peered at him, mouth opening and closing over large, sharp teeth. It was calling to him, but he couldn't make out a word it said over the sound of his heart thundering away in his chest.

"John!" Kathleen cried, and laid her hand on his arm.

He jerked away, realising almost too late that he had made it to the front door. The lock was open under his hand, the precious line of chalk unbroken by some miracle. He let the lock click shut and eased away from the door. Two steps was all he could manage before his shaking legs gave out and sent him crashing to the floor.

"John?"

"Bloody fucking hell," he said tiredly and swiped a hand over his face, somehow not surprised to find his cheeks wet.

Kathleen sat down next to him, close but not touching. She reached over and took his hand, letting him use the scant contact to ground himself. They both winced when the wendigo started to scream outside. "That's the monster that killed my brother, isn't it? I thought they didn't come into town?"

"They don't usually," John said and stood, tugging Kathleen up with him. "Are all of the windows and doors chalked?" he asked with sudden urgency as something crashed against the brickwork of the house.

"Yes." She nodded. "I do them every night before I go to bed. It's the only way I feel safe to sleep."

Another crash sent him hurrying to the window, crunching broken glass under his feet. The wendigo raked the side of the truck with its claws, shattering the glass and leaving long, gaping rends in the metal. It laughed, a low sinister chuckle, and rocked the truck, flipping it over to land with a crash.

"It's taking away our transport," Kathleen whispered, horror struck.

"We're safe as long as we stay in the house," John said grimly as the wendigo started work on Kathleen's truck. A swipe of those lethally sharp claws shredded the tyres on the driver's side, making the truck list like a sinking ship.

"What's happening, John?" Chas said from somewhere behind him, and John wordlessly made room for him at the widow, gesturing at the chalk line. "Don't break it."

Zed wrapped her borrowed robe more tightly around her. "What happens when it finishes trashing the trucks?"

"It starts on the house," Chas said softly. "Just like it did at the cabin."

"It didn't touch the truck then," Zed pointed out.

"No, but the bloody thing is learning." John said. "It couldn't get into the cabin, and that frustrated it so now it's making sure we can't get away like we did before."

Kathleen was watching the destruction of her truck with a sickened expression on her face. "That's the thing that killed my brother?"

"Yes." John said shortly and reached for his bag, intent on finding the chalk and laying down some more protection. Not that I don't trust Kathleen's work, but I'd rather not stake my life on a protection spell that I didn't lay myself. He raked through his clothes, knowing he'd packed the stick of chalk, then upended the bag, sending the contents flying when he couldn't find it. The stick was wedged into the bottom corner, crumbled and broken in a way that made his heart sink. He grabbed the largest chunk and took it to the window, drawing another line along the windowsill, then crossed to the door into the hall, drawing another there, just in case.

He was so intent on keeping them safe, he didn't realise what Kathleen was doing until she pulled out her gun and opened the front door, stepping into the night with a wordless cry of terror and rage.