Day Three-Hundred-Ninety: Also known as an Orange Julius

Yeah, so, I slept. So sue me. I woke up when the important stuff happened.

I was told after the fact that Pagan stayed up all night. He's accustomed to long, sleepless watches from his soldiering days, and he can remain awake for three days straight before needing a rest. I doubt that, given that he's an old man, but he obviously kept himself conscious this entire night, patiently waiting for signs of a slumbering werewolf.

Antonia, both bestial and unsoldierly, dropped off to sleep around five in the morning. Pagan waited another hour for Antonia to get comfortable, then quietly edged towards her so he could put his sword cane through her brain. He didn't know we were acquainted at the time, and I doubt it would have made a difference to his attack anyway.

It didn't work. Pagan got two steps away from a good killing distance when Antonia's nose caught wind of him. Her eyes flew open, she snarled, and she rolled out of the way of Pagan's killing stab as his sword cane whistled towards her snout. Pagan whirled, trying to track her, but Antonia's animal instincts and boxing reflexes brought her to his side too quickly -

- and with a horrifying SMACK that woke me up, she slammed Pagan in the face with her massive fist. He flew backward and hit the ground, unconscious.

Dad came next. Lumbering to his feet he roared and charged, head down, aiming for Antonia's chest. He was too concentrated on the battle, however, and his still-twitchy limbs got the best of him, tangling his legs and slowing him down. Antonia had more than enough time to slide up to him and hit him in the side of the head.

And again.

And again.

And again.

My dad, as you well now, has a damned hard skull. It's incredibly difficult to knock him out, even for an ex-boxer-turned-werewolf. They struggled, Antonia pinning him, leaving a clear path to the entrance of the cave.

A normal person, a person with a loving childhood, might have remained behind to help their father. I had no such childhood. Without a speck of remorse I got to my feet and ran for the cave entrance, hoping the speed of my legs might carry me past danger before Antonia could react.

I thought poorly. Without much effort she extended one of her arms to stop me. I hit it, my legs flew forward while my neck pivoted like a wheel on the axle of her forearm, and I went down, coughing and sputtering.

Walloping my dad's bloody forehead one last time, forcing him into unconsciousness, Antonia loomed over me. She growled and sniffed, cocking her head as I struggled to regain my breath, her drool leaving white, foamy stains on my face. I braced myself for the killing blow, knowing that she couldn't possibly restrain herself after such violence, knowing the lycanthropy in her veins must at last force her to acknowledge her horrifying bestial instincts -

- and then, bizarrely, her eyes went orange. Bright, surprised orange.

Antonia reared back, clutching her head with massive, shaggy claws, roaring her frustration. Still bleary, I only vaguely noticed the hunched shape of the spider on my chest, its eyes equally aglow, staring intensely at its mammalian prey. Antonia careened off a wall, roared again, and pinned herself against the massive white mural at the back of the cave, growling and hissing and spitting.

My dad, who was apparently only out for a few seconds, struggled to his feet. Watching Antonia warily he ran to Pagan, lifting the knight to his legs and pulling him out of the cave as best he could with his tiny wooden arms. Eventually, still woozy and supporting a spider on my shoulder, I helped him carry the old man away.

Julius didn't scuttle back into my bag, which I'd wisely grabbed before leaving, until we were out of the cave. The moment he hid, Antonia howled loudly - but she didn't pursue. Nor did we see any further sign of her during our trip, as we kept well away from the cave.

We set up camp in our old spot, sharing what few supplies I had left in my bag. Pagan spent the rest of the day with a vicious headache, which, to his credit, he mostly kept to himself. We kept quiet out of respect for his attempts to get us out of trouble.

My father only had one thing to say to me for most of the long trip back through the foothills, after our decision to return to Pubton:

"Ya woulda run out on us, ya fuckin' coward. Ya woulda left us ta die. Here I was thinkin' a bit better of you; more the fool, me, I guess. Wish you'd died 'n left Robert here t'do me proud."

Another fine day for my family.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Mayor