Snow ✓

Wolf Bites

The sun had set, and the first stars peppered the sky.

Mat toyed with a blade of grass between his teeth, enjoying the warmer weather too much to care about his damp back on the wet ground.

"Dinner," Gran called from the window.

Mat strode inside, greeted by a burst of warm air smelling of egg noodles and cooked cabbage. "Smells good." He took a seat and shoveled a generous portion of the casserole onto his plate.

"Cabbage?" she asked, brow piqued.

"Anything smothered in cheese."

The old woman gave an affirmative grunt and scooped up her own helping.

Mat eyed the third and empty place setting, got up and moved toward the bedroom door.

Gran grumbled: "Leave her alone. She wants to go hungry, that's more for us."

"She's gotta eat something sometime." He knocked as he noticed her boots missing from the mat, her cloak missing from the hook. He mumbled what he saw, trying to remember the last time he'd seen her things.

"What? Speak up, boy."

"Her cloak is gone. Her boots—how long have her things been gone?"

Gran shrugged. "Maybe she snuck out while I was cooking."

"I was outside. She wasn't outside." Panic building, he flung open the front door and moved out onto the porch.

"Mat, I'm sure she's just washing up," Gran shouted out after him.

The bruised sky was blackening, the only light pouring from the cottage into the night. Unease settled in his chest like a stone as he scanned the empty yard, no lantern, not a head of white to be seen--

A hideous scream erupted from the direction of the Burnt Forest, turning his head with breakneck speed. There was nothing, no one but him--another scream. All his blood rushed toward his heart, depriving his brain of coherent thoughts as he bolted toward the wail. Gran shouted his name as he sprinted into the tall grass, slipping and sliding in the mud, the wet stems slapping against his legs. At the tree line, he stumbled to a stop and tilted an ear, trying to listen over the din of his own heart pounding in his head. He wasn't sure what he would cough up first: his lungs, his heart, or the casserole.

It was her, he was certain.

The panic in him building, he both dreaded and desperately awaited another signal.

Another scream, this time much closer, this time cut short.

He shot into the woods. Eyes adjusting to the dark, he ambled around trees, crashed into others and stumbled over monstrous roots, the bark pulling at his clothes like dull blades. Not much for dashing, he gulped at the sooty air; he sounded like a man drowning. He stopped behind a colossal tree to catch his breath and await another signal, but he needn't wait long--rustling and muffled grunts slunk from behind that very tree. His legs couldn't carry him to the other side fast enough, but once they had, his brain grappled with what met his eyes: a frenzied ball of grimy grey hair, red cloak, flying fists and feet and gnashing teeth violently jerked about on the forest floor. He blinked at it dumbly before he recognized it as a wolf attacking the girl, fighting for her life. Her blood (sap) fed on her red cloak, the wolf's snout was smothered in it. With matted fur and loose skin hanging off its lithe frame, the wolf appeared to be starving. Slow on the uptake—it occurred to Mat to intervene, and all he could think to do was divert the beast's attention.