When the door didn’t open, I turned to face my attackers. There must’ve been—what? Eight of them? They were molted and skeleton skinny, but that made them even more dangerous, for they were hungry. Teeth bared, they crept forward. They must’ve been accustomed to humans with swords and were waiting for me to unsheathe mine, but my father’s old paintbrush wouldn’t do. There was a large wooden barrel next to the church door. I tried to squeeze behind it, but it was too heavy to slide. One wolf leapt forward. I swung an arm and yelled. The wolf stepped back, but the growls deepened. I put all my weight against the barrel, pushing and pushing, until the barrel fell over and hit with a thud. Liquid sloshed inside. The wolves yelped and jerked back. I thought they might scatter, but the smallest one—must’ve been the hungriest—let out a low howl and lunged. I hopped behind the barrel. They tried to struggle over—slipping off the curving wood—until one noticed that my right side was exposed. I turned the barrel, only to expose my left. One wolf snapped at my elbow; he got fabric, not skin. Another bit at my foot; I’m lucky I didn’t lose a toe. “Santa Veronica, assist me in my final agony,” I called. That’s when one wolf tackled me and stood on my chest, his drool dripping off yellow teeth, hot breath panting down. He reared back to strike and . . .

Calm down, I obviously survived, and look, I even have all my fingers.

That’s when a long, low howl called out over the pouring rain. The wolves perked. Out in the piazza was a huge creature—billowing and dark—rushing toward us. The wolves barked and turned to defend as it surged up the stairs like an angry Cyclops wielding a . . . what was that? An axe. I’ve never been so relieved to see an axe. The wolf on top of me leapt at the attacker. I scrambled up and backed against the door, flat as I could, as my protector swung, but there were too many wolves—climbing, clawing, biting—and I thought we would both go down, until my defender raised his axe high overhead and brought it down—hard—on top of the wooden barrel. Two strikes, three, four, and the barrel exploded, splinters of wood and holy wine flying. The wolves yelped and scattered as if running from cannon fire. All except the small, hungry one, who crouched and barked. My defender grabbed one round end of the barrel, and, using it as a shield, lunged at the wolf. The wolf bore two swings before snarling off into the night.

I exhaled.

Axe and wooden shield in one arm, my protector turned and lowered his hood.