The Russian White: A Victorian Thriller

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The bell in the steeple struck two in the morning.

Wolfman sprang out of the shadows and sprinted towards the church. He collapsed against the cemetery wall. His ragged breathing smothered any sounds of pursuit. No time to rest.

He dashed across the fields and mud clung to his boots. Pain burned his legs, and his body staggered as it threatened to topple him over. Then his boot hit hard ground.

A large barn loomed before him with one huge door propped wide open. He stroked the silver wolf charm at his neck, it always brought him luck.

He ran inside. Straw rustled at his feet, and then pricked his face. His hands plunged into its dry sharpness; a mountain of straw, tall enough to cover a man. He dived in, head first, and wriggled. The dust filled his eyes and mouth and he coughed.

Behind him, running footsteps hammered hard against the cobbles. Loud voices, stamping boots, lantern light throwing violent shadows across the barn walls, and then the swish of a sword as it scythed through the straw over his head.

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