Red Wolf

by Rachel Vincent

  Dimly, as I breathed through the familiar pain of disconnected joints and overstretched muscles, exacerbated this time by my cracked rib, I realized that Romy and Tom had both gone. That I could hear the soft patter of their paws headed away from me in the woods.

  Their change was much faster than mine, even though I’d hunted on four legs many times since my ascension. I’d endured the discomfort of my transformation while Max turned his back to give me privacy, even though he couldn’t see, without the lantern.

  As soon as my pain ebbed, I stood and crawled out of my clothes, surprised to note that the pain in my rib had faded to a dull ache during the transition.

  I took off across the woods, following the sound of soft breaths and racing paws, relieved that the forest looked brand-new and crystal clear.

  WELCOME HOME, the wind whispered as I ran, the gentle breeze rippling through my fur, addressing me like a long-lost friend. Startled, I realized it was the same voice that had greeted me after my trial, the first time I’d taken on a wolf’s shape, and that I had not heard it even once when I was in human form.

  The words seemed to come from inside my own head, and they felt like the voice of the dark wood itself. Like a caress of my mind. A very intimate intrusion.

  I shook off the seductive greeting and raced after the pups.

  It didn’t take me long to catch up with them, and somewhere along the way, as my paws pushed off against the fragrant earth, my claws digging into the dirt for purchase, I realized I could smell the scent they were following—and I recognized it.

  Rabbit.

  Like the lush vegetation growing in the dark wood, the natural wildlife seemed unbothered by the unnatural darkness. Deer, rabbits, and other prey evidently saw as well in the darkness as the pups could. As I could. Maybe even better. But since the villagers couldn’t see to hunt, no one other than my grandmother and the monsters native to the dark wood had access to the wild game populating the forest.

  Armed with longer legs, I pulled ahead of the pups, my nose practically glued to the ground as I sniffed out our prey. My pulse raced, my heart pounding with an excitement like nothing I’d ever felt before.

  I’d killed several kinds of monster over the past month during my forays into the woods with Max and with my mother, yet I’d never truly hunted them. I’d just kind of . . . let them find me. But this was different. Though the rabbit posed no threat to me, this was hunting, and my lupine form longed for this activity. This full-body effort that burned in my lungs and ached in my muscles.

  I was made for this, and the satisfaction of the moment I discovered that hole in the ground—the very second I stuck my muzzle into the burrow and found an entire family of rabbits, just waiting to be devoured—was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

  My satisfaction—my hunger—was so great that it didn’t occur to me to be disgusted by the thought of eating raw meat until I’d already pulled the closest rabbit from its burrow. Until I’d already shaken it vigorously, snapping its neck. Until the pups dove in after me, growling and nipping at each other for the right to go next.

  In fact, I’d already devoured half of the rabbit—hide, small bones, and all—before it even occurred to me that I was eating raw game. And even once I’d realized that, there was no disgust. Because the rabbit was delicious.

  My body—in this form, anyway—didn’t want burnt flesh or bubbling stew. I didn’t want broth or bread. My body wanted meat. Fresh and tender. Juicy. And as soon as I’d finished one rabbit, I dove into the burrow for the next trembling morsel.

  After the pups ate their fill, Tom curled up on the ground, tucked his nose beneath his tail, and closed his eyes.

  I should go home.

  I should have gone back for my clothes, changed into my human form, and headed back to the village, leaving the pups in the woods where they belonged. But I couldn’t.

  I told myself that we were still too close to the village. That if Romy got scared, she’d find her way back, and that Oakvale might not recover from that.

  What if she bit someone?

  What if someone—other than Grainger—saw her become a wolf?

  What if she told someone that I could do the same thing?

  I would have to take them farther into the dark wood, angling away from my grandmother’s cabin. From the path leading from the village to the other side of the forest, toward the west. But there was no reason to change back into human form for that. The pups traveled faster and easier on four legs, and though they didn’t seem to feel the cold in either form, I was certainly much warmer with a layer of fur between my skin and the frigid winter air.

  I yipped and nudged Tom with my nose. No time to sleep, pup.

  He whined at my intrusion, but I insisted, and finally he stood. Romy rubbed her muzzle against him in an affectionate greeting I understood instinctively, though I’d never seen a gesture quite like it. In this form, I just . . . knew things.

  How to track prey, evidently. How to interpret Tom’s whines and yips, and how to communicate with him in return, without words. I knew how to track a rabbit and eat it without hands.

  These new instincts and abilities were exhilarating. Liberating. They opened a whole new world for me—one I’d hardly even glimpsed in the time I’d spent guarding Oakvale on four legs. Because that’s all I’d been doing: guarding. I hadn’t ever taken the time to truly get to know my lupine form, because deep down, I’d feared that the more comfortable I was as a wolf, the less human I would feel. The more monstrous I would become.

  But this didn’t feel monstrous. It felt natural. Free.

  I yipped at the pups one more time and took off deeper into the forest, and to my relief, they followed me.

  It was strange, navigating the dark wood as a wolf. The monsters were still out there, and they were still a threat. But in this form, my ears and eyes functioned so well that I could hear any sign of an approaching beast long before it got to us. In plenty of time for us to get away. And we were so much faster on four paws!

  Despite their exhaustion, running through the forest obviously felt like a game to the pups. Like village children racing each other across the square or through the fields.

  It wasn’t a game to me—I was too busy listening for threats—yet there was something undeniably thrilling about moving at such swift speeds. And the sense of triumph—of power—that came with that sensation was seductive.

  Soon, though, the pups tired out, and I had to admit that I could use a rest. So when they began to lag behind, I stopped and without being entirely sure what I was looking for, I began to search for—

  Shelter.

  —some place to stay. Some place safe to sleep. In the dark wood, in wolf form, that place wouldn’t be a cottage or a cowshed. Not even a lean-to. It would have to be a—

  Den.

  —small, safe little hollow. Something like the rabbits’ burrow, only bigger. Large enough for the three of us to curl up in, yet small enough to be covered by whatever brush I could drag over us.

  I hadn’t realized I’d discovered a suitable place until I found myself digging beneath a clump of thorny underbrush. The earth was fragrant with the scent of dead plant life. Of leaf mold and moss.

  In minutes, I’d created the perfect little den: a hollow space carved out of the earth, just big enough for both pups and me. I yipped to call them over, and I nudged them into the hole. Then I climbed in with them and clamped my teeth around a clump of brush, to drag it over us.

  The plan was to stay with the pups for a little while. To rest up for my trek back to Oakvale. Then to . . . sneak out. To just go home, leaving them in the safest place I could find for them—a place I’d made for them—hidden from any casual observer, be it man or beast.

  It would be more merciful to tell them, of course. To warn them that they’d have to care for themselves from now on. But if I did, fear might send them into hysterics. They might cry and draw predators, or they might try to follow me. A clean break see
med to be the safest bet; if they woke up alone, they’d have no choice but to learn to fend for themselves. To depend upon each other.

  But as I started to dig my way quietly out of the den, I realized I’d overlooked one worrisome possibility. If the pups woke and found me gone, there was every chance in the world that they’d track my scent, the way they’d tracked the rabbits, and it would lead them back to the village. I would have to meander, and I’d need to come up with a way to disguise my scent.

  Unfortunately, while I was pondering that new challenge . . . I fell asleep. And I didn’t wake up until the pups began to stir sometime later, trying to crawl over me to get out of the den.

  I had no idea how long we’d slept. Unable to see either stars or sunshine in the dark wood, I had no idea what time of day it was or how long ago we’d left Oakvale.

  Had dawn arrived? Had Max and my mother awakened to discover Tom and me missing? Had Madame Paget reported Romy’s disappearance? Had anyone found the poultice that had been on her shoulder?

  I needed to go home. To put an end to my mother’s fears and assure her that I was fine. And I would, after just a few more—

  Food, Romy’s whine demanded as she nudged me with her muzzle. Food.

  Growling, I nipped at her ear. Not hard enough to draw blood. Just hard enough to warn her to let me sleep.

  She returned my growl with a cute attempt of her own. Then she huffed into my ear and crawled over me. Tom followed her, his paw digging into my bladder on his way out of the den.

  Play! his yip announced, and for several minutes, I listened to them scamper through the underbrush, my eyes still closed. Indulging in a few more minutes of semi-slumber before I’d have to—

  Danger.

  The thought shot through me like a candle lit in a dark room, changing everything in an instant. Reframing familiar surroundings with a new perspective. My head popped up and I scented the air, trying to draw the threat into focus. Had I smelled something? Heard something? Sensed something?

  The pups were still playing. Wrestling in the dirt. Whatever was wrong, they hadn’t sensed it yet. So I crawled out of our den and stretched, trying not to alert them as my ears pivoted on top of my head, listening for . . . anything. Everything. Cataloguing grunts, howls, and soft slithering sounds that had been the backdrop of our existence since we’d first come into the dark wood.

  A twig cracked in the distance, followed by a soft sob, and suddenly I remembered. That’s what I’d heard. What I’d only half-processed, as I’d snoozed. I’d seen a dozen kinds of monsters since I had begun training in the dark wood. I’d fought at least half that many. But none of them had ever made that sound.

  There was only one kind of beast that sobbed.

  Human.

  Danger.

  My low, soft growl alerted the pups to the threat, and they came toward me, just as I’d showed them the night before. Heads held high. Ears rotated toward the sides to catch sounds from all around. And to assure me that they were listening.

  The sob echoed through the forest again. It was coming from the direction of the western path out of Oakvale. And as I listened, I heard the crack of another twig. Then another. Then two at once.

  No.

  The harder I listened, the more footsteps I heard. This wasn’t a single human headed down the path, alone and scared. This was a procession of humans. This was . . . a pack.

  No. Humans don’t form packs. This was a party. A merchant caravan?

  Couldn’t be. I heard no wagon wheels rattling. No axles groaning. There were only footsteps—lots of them—and soft voices.

  This was a search party.

  Twenty-One

  The pups and I were nearly a mile from the path, and though we could hear footsteps and the occasional whispered word of encouragement or warning, there was no way the humans walking the trail could hear us.

  But if we could hear them, so could everything else wandering around in the dark wood.

  Protect them.

  The voice was my own. My human conscience, calling me back to my duty. Complicating . . . everything.

  I was honor-bound to protect the people tromping through the dark wood—doubly so, considering that it was my fault they were here. But I couldn’t protect the humans from the shadows while I had the pups with me. And I couldn’t abandon the pups. Not yet. Not when they could follow the search party home. Or just expose themselves to their human friends and family, here in the forest.

  And if there was a search party in the dark wood, chances were good that my mother was out here somewhere, watching them. Maybe even my grandmother. If I came any closer, one of them would hear me. Or smell me.

  RUN.

  The dark wood caressed me with the thought, comforting me with the possibility. I didn’t have to go home, just because they’d come for me. I could stay in the forest, with the pups. I could just . . . stay. After all, I was as much wolf as they were.

  No, that was ridiculous. I snorted as I tossed my head, trying to shake off the temptation. I couldn’t live in the dark wood. But I could finish the job I’d come here to do. I could find them a safe place, far from the village.

  I yipped, calling softly to the pups. Telling them to follow me farther into the forest, away from the path. They both turned to obey. But then that sob echoed toward us again and Romy stopped. She turned toward the sound, her head bobbing as she sniffed the air.

  Her posture changed in an instant. Tension and fear melted from her frame. Her ears rotated, focusing on just that one direction to the exclusion of the entire rest of the dark wood—a mistake that could get her killed. And for what?

  I sniffed the air, trying to understand what could make her disregard my command. I forced myself to mentally peel apart the scents. It was like unbraiding a plait of hair, separating it into distinct strands until I could distinguish individual smells, belonging to individual people.

  Though I’d never before noticed any difference in the scent of one of my neighbors, compared to another, in wolf form I was able to recognize each of them. Monsieur Gosse, the potter. Simon Laurent and his father. Monsieur Girard, the carpenter. Monsieur Martel, the blacksmith, who probably believed he would gain my mother’s favor, if he found her daughter alive.

  Romy whined and Tom watched her, seated on his haunches, his tail stirring a clump of fallen leaves in his distress. Which was in reaction to her distress.

  I sniffed the air again, and finally I caught the scents that had upset her.

  Madame and Monsieur Paget. Her parents had come into the forest to find her. And suddenly, before I could figure out how to calm her, Romy took off in the direction of the footsteps and soft voices, following her parents’ scents toward the only home she’d ever known.

  A home that no longer existed for her.

  With a scolding yip, I took off after her, racing through the forest with little Tom on my heels. I expected the pup to tire herself out, but her energy seemed boundless, and when several points of light—bobbing lanterns—caught my eye, revealing a line of people slowly, carefully following the path, I forced another burst of speed from my tired legs and finally overtook her.

  In response to my soft growl, she only whined, staring over my head at the lanterns and the backlit forms holding them. And when I wouldn’t let her go any farther, she sat on her haunches and threw her head back, then she let loose the most agonizing little distressed howl.

  One of the lanterns stopped bobbing. “Romy?” Madame Paget called, and I flinched at her volume. Any beast that hadn’t already heard the human procession would have heard that. As would my mother and grandmother, though I could see no sign of them.

  “That was a wolf, Alice,” Monsieur Paget said. “Don’t let Grainger Colbert’s mad mumblings get to you.”

  His wife didn’t argue, but when I turned, I could see her staring into the woods in our direction, her lantern raised, her eyes narrowed in a futile attempt to see in the darkness. Next to her, caught in the glow of
her lamp, stood . . .

  Max.

  My heart beat too hard within the cage of my ribs. He’d come looking for me. He’d probably also come to help protect the search party, but there was a sadness in his eyes. A determination in his stance that said he’d come out here for me.

  I inhaled deeply, and his scent settled into my lungs with an odd weight, making my pulse race too fast. And suddenly I wanted nothing more than to run through the forest toward him. To apologize for disappearing without a word and tell him about everything I’d learned out here in the dark wood. Living as a wolf, for . . . however long I’d been gone.

  I wanted to go home. To see my mother and my sister and assure them that I hadn’t lost my mind. To hug my grandmother and chat with her in front of her hearth. To sit next to Max and describe monsters for him as he sketched.

  But as I stared at the line of my friends and neighbors, breathing through a wave of homesickness that was strangely at odds with the lupine instinct telling me to run deep into the woods, a devastating realization pierced me like a sword through my heart. Even if I went home—even if I had somewhere safe to leave the pups—things would never be the same for me in Oakvale. If I were found alive and unscathed, people would want to know how that was possible. Why I’d disappeared into the woods on the same night as Tom and Romy, yet had come out without them. There would be more rumors. And I would no longer have Grainger at my side defending me. Balancing out the gossip with his respected status and obvious affection for me.

  I’d injured my standing in Oakvale forever when I’d disappeared into the woods with the pups, yet there Max stood, staring intently into the dark, his gaze unfocused. Because he was listening. He had recognized Romy’s howl as belonging to a whitewulf pup, and he knew that if the children were still out here, so was I.