The thundering footsteps grew louder and the pack bristled on both sides of me, claws finding the earth and hackles raised and ready. Sean's group moved up to our flank and held position, waiting for Phoenix's order. The anticipation was almost physical.
The enemy slowed. They came to a walking pace about a hundred yards out and stopped. Their leader was at the front, the greasy self-satisfied man I had privately named Spitball since my time in the camp. The man who had tried to touch me stood to his right. Cel's growl built low and continuous in my chest. She wanted his throat and was making no attempt to be subtle about it.
"Who are you and what do you want?" Spitball said, his voice carrying that particular brand of arrogance that comes from someone who has not been challenged in a long time.
Growls rippled from both sides. Phoenix stepped forward. Spitball's fingers curled around the gun at his hip.
