“Enough of yar yammering. Open this door now!”

“Or we’ll kick it in.” The other thief added that threat to his partner’s command.

Her skin sweating, Myrtle scrambled into motion, rushing to gather the fire poker.

Horace erupted into an all-out barking fit, his lips drawn in a terrifying sneer as he jumped feet first at the door, pounding against the panel and scratching in an attempt to get to the invaders who’d overtaken her home.

And just like that, the cocksure arrogance of the pair was gone as only their silence reigned.

“I suggest you leave,” she called loudly enough to be sure she was heard between Horace’s frenzied yapping. “Horace does not take kindly to unwanted visitors, and he is quite protective of me.”

“Horace?”

She nodded before recalling they couldn’t see her. “Yes. Horace. He is part wolf, you know, and would like nothing better than to . . . to . . . open up your necks.”

She winced and looked down at the dog. “I know you are not a killer,” she mouthed.

Only, he remained unaware of those assurances; instead, he continued to throw himself against the door.

“Well, open this door, and we’ll put a bullet in that filthy animal.”

“No!” she cried out. And just like that, Myrtle’s heart stuttered as fear clipped away the brief moment of confidence she’d felt. She could not, would not, let anything ever happen to the creature. Val would be lost without the pup.

“Now, quiet that beast, and come out here before we come in there and slit his throat open.”

Myrtle felt the blood drain from her cheeks.

“Horace,” she said quietly, praying her voice would penetrate the bloodlust that had him in a frenzy. “Horace, please,” she begged, and the entreaty in her tones appeared to reach him. “Sit.”

With a little whine and whimper, he scrambled from his standing position, his nails scraping the floor as he went, and then he complied.

“You have to go,” she whispered, giving him a hug.

He barked.

“No, stop. I . . . need you to go.” She needed him to be safe. She needed him to go to Val. “I will be just fine.”

Springing into movement, Myrtle flew across the room, making a dash for the connecting door. Horace followed, his nails clicking upon the hardwood floors.

“You got thirty seconds . . .” That order from her nighttime foes emerged muted and more muffled as she retreated into the connecting parlor.

Not breaking stride, Myrtle raced ahead, slipping from room to room, parlor to parlor, weaving herself a path to a doorway leading out.

And as she reached the kitchens, a sense of triumph filled her, and with an almost giddy relief, she reached for the door handle.

Then she registered the tread of heavy footfalls outside.

All those dizzyingly wonderful sentiments of before proved short-lived.

“Stop there, yar ladyship.”

The click of that hammer on the other side of the door froze her in place.