Excerpt: I Killed the King

Doran stopped in the middle of an empty street. The sun was beginning to set on the dark neighbourhood. Large street lamps glowed flickering lights onto the cracked concrete. Stains marred once clean sidewalks, and grubby rats scurried frantically around the alleys. Maybe he should give the coat back, sell some books to a street vendor and buy one from someone. It would be the right thing but… Thurg would probably lunge at him the moment he set foot back in that alley. Maybe he could leave it next to the alley and… not get his sweater back.

“Hey, that’s Doran Frye!”

A group of teenagers turning the corner pointed at him, obviously not fooled by a simple trench coat and a pair of hobo mitts.

“Ya, it is! Let’s get him!”

Shit. Doran turned quickly on his heel and made a break for a side street. He could hear the teenagers pursuing, loud shouts and trampling feet echoing around the neighbourhood. If no one heard that, Doran would be amazed beyond belief.

Why would they want to catch him anyway? Was he that greatly detested? Did they just hate wolves that much?

The boy’s head was pounding as he rounded the street corner. Each step caused pain to shoot through his already splitting head. A wave of dizziness caused his to trip, stumble, and latch his trembling arm onto a nearby box. Inside was a single, crusty newspaper.

Doran Frye on the Run! Price for Bringing Him In:

Doran’s eyes snapped to the paper. He quickly yanked the story out of its protective casing and scanned over the eye-catching article.

At 4:30 this afternoon, our current Prince, and future King declared a fifty thousand dollar reward for anyone who is able to capture and return to the palace the fugitive, Doran Frye (shown above).

Doran Frye, who escaped from the palace infirmary earlier today, has been sentenced to death for the assassination of our beloved King Andrew III. The assassin’s most recognisable attribute is most likely the swollen scar covering his right eye…

Doran growled angrily but had no time to further ponder the despicable atrocity that had been committed against him. He took off down the street, article still in hand as he fled from his loud pursuers. He intended to finish reading it later, but at the moment he was more concerned with staying alive.

Still dizzy and unsure whether he was capable of outrunning a gang of testosterone filled teenagers, Doran skidded into another empty alley, not taking time to search for any more ‘Thurgs’ whom he might find hiding behind the dumpster. He stopped, facing a large brick wall, shrouded in shadow and obscured by shear overwhelming height. With no way to scale it and only a simple metal door with no handle found anywhere in the alley, Doran backed again towards the entrance.

The teenagers were coming closer, he realised, and they had grown in numbers. From the approaching voices, Doran estimated a close fifteen pairs of running feet and jeering yells. Even in the shrouded darkness of the alley, there was no way he could hide from that many people.

He made up his mind to make another dash out into the streetlights, maybe run until his legs gave way and he had no choice but to punch out anyone who stumbled into his path.

Doran Frye was not going out without a fight.

But even with a set mind and a pair of able feet, Doran didn’t get a chance to enact his mad plan. Two thin, course hands grabbed his face, covering his mouth and muffling any cries of surprise the young wolf’s vocal cords could utter. He was dragged backwards, struggling madly but quickly loosing his will and strength. He was going to die.

No, he might as well be dead already. There was nothing to loose.

In one last ditch effort to escape, Doran forced his jaw open in an offending display of slightly yellowed teeth. They flashed briefly in the slippery light before he used every facial muscle available to drive them clean and deep into the tenderest flesh available in front of him. They hit, sinking in with a sickeningly red squelch. The fingers recoiled and Doran made to run.

“Son of a-”

As his feet surged forwards he was grabbed around the arms, pulled backwards and punched full force in the eye.

He didn’t remember much beyond that.