Loving the enemy

Chapter 1

Most people are afraid of the woods now.

Actually, they are mostly afraid of me. Terrified I might accidentally lodge one of my arrows into their throat.

They think I am crazy.

I am not crazy.

You see, I am out here for a reason. I have a purpose. I hunt. So what's the big deal, right? Well what I hunt is big game, and I don't mean deer and boar. No. I hunt humans.

Except they aren't exactly humans. "Werewolves" is the most commonly used term to describe them these days. Personally I still like referring to them as vermin. Pest. Another thing to be tracked and exterminated. Just like how they see us.

I slink silently through the forestry, trying to blend in with the bushes. My eyes graze the area, ears listening intently. The hairs on the back of my neck prick.

Something is here.

Even though I can't hear anything in particular I know I am not alone. I lay low to the ground, trying to conceal myself in the vegetation. I hear a stick snap from a bush in front of me.

I slowly take my crossbow from my back, loading it and holding it towards the direction of the noise. I take a deep breath, making sure to hold my fire until I can fully identify my target. Slowly the leaves in the bush across the clearing part, and a deer emerges.

I exhale, only just realising I was holding my breath. I lower my crossbow and gaze at the animal. I have never seen a deer up this close before. The second before I step out of the cover of the bushes, a large black figure leaps at the deer, tackling it to the ground. The deers pleas and cries of pain cut short as its attacker immediately tears out its throat. The deers body almost instantly feels limp. It's soul leaving its eyes.

It had died within seconds.

I slowly raise my crossbow again, careful not to make a sound. I aim down the sights making sure it's impossible for me to miss. I exhale and let the arrow fly, hearing a cry as it lodges in the beasts throat.

I never miss.

I can't afford to miss again.

Last time, it caused me the life of my parents.

I quickly approach the corpse. I stand over it, watching the creature slowly return to its human form. A boy of roughly nineteen, twenty. Not much older than me anyways. He has blonde curly hair and light blue, empty eyes. He is not the one that killed my parents, but I knew that before I let my arrow fly into his neck.

This wolf was black.

I will never forget the one that tore my parents to shreds in front of me. How its silver fur glistened slightly in the lights of my living room. How my family blood was splattered onto his coat.

The image of that wolf still haunts my nightmares.

I pull my arrow out of the boys neck, wiping it against a bloodstained cloth before slinging it into the quiver on my back. I slowly walk away from the murder scene, feeling no attachment towards the boy. He was just another werewolf. Another monster. Just like the one that killed my parents. Like the one that almost got my brother, the one that almost got me.

I look up at the sky, noticing it is steadily getting darker. It's time to get back to Able. He will worry if I am not back before dark. As I walk away from the body I start to hear the mourning cries of wolves in the distance. Crying over their lost brother. Their cries remind me of how I mourned over my parents.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

•••••

I step inside the doorway of the living room, dumping my stolen arrow quiver carelessly onto the ground of our treehouse.