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The hunt had been exhausting; three days of tracing, luring, hiding in the bushes, running, killing and cutting limbs off. She was so tired that she couldn’t even stand, her body complained unbearably, asked for food, shower and rest. She almost regretted turning her uncle down – at least he had a car. But he had set her up there, in the forest. If she hadn’t been smart enough, she would have been torn to pieces. No one would have mourned her, no one would have arranged a funeral; the villagers would have been pleased to bury her behind the cemetery fence.
Unfortunately for them, here she was, safe and – more or less – sound, and determined to settle the problem in the morning. With a knife, or a gun, or a good old-fashioned fistfight. Uncle John had always appreciated a nice fistfight. That’s why she learned how to punch properly in the jaw since she was thirteen.
She lit a cigarette and stopped for a moment to catch her breath – it was wonderful here, outside of town, in the night. There were endless wheat fields, shimmering in the setting sun, and luscious scents of summer – heated tarmac, sand and dust. Every sound drowned in complete silence, thick, consuming, mesmerizing. She could hear her heartbeat and rustle of her footsteps as she was walking along the road.
She exhaled deeply, putting out her cigarette in a forgotten bottle of beer.
She wouldn’t tell what made her look through thin golden stems, but she did, and it was there. Just a boy, much younger than her, not even a teenager – wide eyes, black, animal-like, empty with fear and anger; and fangs, and claws, and a twisted sharp spine. There was a bloodied trail behind it – the thing had been crawling. She saw it then – its broken legs turned inside out, white fragments of bones protruding its back. It was amazing how it was still moving – quiet, half-transformed, without a gasp, without a groan.
It was kind of impressive.
None of her people could do that; they wouldn’t have the guts to perform an execution like that. No, that was their punishment.
“Well, well, well,” she hummed. The creature boy was watching her warily, ready to face the enemy. She was prepared, too. If he lashed out, she would pierce his heart, just like that. But he was surprisingly calm, a grim gargoyle stuck between the two guises: not a person, not a beast. She didn’t have any idea how painful it must have been for him. Being banished from the pack was a capital sentence; she witnessed it once, an older wolf ripping another one’s throat out. “You’re fantastically unlucky,” she chuckled. “No one’s gonna save you.”
He did not answer. “Come to think about it, we will all die,” she continued. “I bet I’ll be next. I’ve always dreamed of dying in a bear’s hug. Like, literally, a bear’s hug.”
And then he snarled, “We could arrange that.”
Isn’t that charming?
“You’re standing well for a guy who is about to fall,” she laughed, “I love that, so count me as your Fortune. My mother, gods rest her soul, taught me stuff.” She lit another cigarette, “My house is a mile away from here. If you get there, consider yourself alive.”
She brushed the dirt from her knees and kept on walking, without turning around. The creature boy growled, and squirmed beneath the glittering surface of the wheat, slithering onward, following her by the stench of hunt ingrained in her hair and clothes.
“Lord,” she smiled, “uncle John’s gonna be pissed.”