One fell with the first shot, and while Jo managed to get off a second, directly into the face of the next to leap at her (each a shower of black gore and white fur), she knows it was going to stop there. It's too tight quarters and too much scrabbling movement, and she's not going to shoot Geralt (again). It's not going to matter if she tried firing because the wolves aren't about to stand still for target practice. Geralt is leaning over one, and Jo's not going to look close—she doesn't give a fuck currently what he's doing if it keeps that one from getting up again.

Flipping the hold of the gun in her hands takes all too many brief seconds, and for that she ends up colliding with a third wolf's leap. Sharp claws gouging down one leg, even as she starts slamming the gun straight into its head. Not stopping until there is a vicious, sickening (viscerally satisfying), c r u n c h of the skull into more pieces than it was ever supposed to be.

Jo turns, looking for more, but Geralt's on the fifth and last one just as she hears it. The sound is a blade plunged directly into her spine and drug up sharp and fast. There's a jackknife in her chest, not a heart, when she spins to face the inky oblivion dark of the forward path the wolves had come from, as the darkness growls again. Low, menacing, warning, too hot and deep, emanating from that perfect shapeless empty darkness. Her finger was already pulling on the trigger again.

The gun clicked.

And clicked.

And clicked.