There was a flash of fire up his arm as Harbinger tore his head back and forth, severing muscles and tendons, trying to bite clean through Franks’ wrist. They hit the stove and bounced across the counter. Franks let go of Harbinger’s neck and started hitting him with that hand. Each time he hit the werewolf, it lifted him off the ground, left a dent in his torso, broke ribs, and flattened lungs, but that damned stubborn werewolf kept chewing on his arm.

There was a butcher’s block. It fell over and knives spilled free with a clatter. The first one Franks got his hand on was a long, serrated bread knife. Not ideal, but it would do. He stuck it under Harbinger’s ear and dragged it across the werewolf’s neck, splitting it wide open.

That got him to let go.

He lost the bread knife, but immediately replaced it with a butcher knife. He slammed the blade deep into Harbinger’s armpit, levering it back and forth, spreading the rip, looking for the heart. The werewolf backhanded him, but it wasn’t as hard as before. The stab wound had taken some fight out of him. Slippery with blood, Franks lost the kitchen knife, which was why he always preferred textured handles for serious work. He didn’t mind leaving the blade in there though, since lycanthropes had a hard time regenerating around a foreign body.

Air was whistling through the hole in Harbinger’s neck and bubbling through the hole in his chest. Franks kicked Harbinger in the stomach, sending him flailing back into the cabinets, knocking half of them off the wall. Franks followed up by taking hold of Harbinger’s mane of hair and slamming him headfirst into the sink. That entire cabinet imploded. Pipes broke and water sprayed.

There was a frying pan there, and Franks thought briefly about beating Harbinger with it, but then he saw the much larger, heavy-duty KitchenAid mixer, picked it up, and slammed it down over the werewolf’s head. It made a very satisfying crunch before it broke. Then he spied a meat cleaver on the floor, so Franks snatched it up. Systematically chopping the werewolf into pieces would do the trick.

Only Harbinger was far smarter in his transformed state than Franks had expected. Werewolves were supposed to be too savage to pick up an aerosol can of oven cleaner, turn, and crush it open directly in front of their opponent’s eyes. Or maybe Harbinger had just gotten lucky . . . Either way, the caustic acid went off like a grenade right in Franks’ face.

That stung.

Even with that, Franks remained analytical. One eye had been instantly blinded. The other was swelling shut. Harbinger had used the opportunity to get up and free the butcher knife from his lung, and his body had already begun healing. The werewolf leapt back, just ahead of Franks’ wild meat cleaver swing.