The Mór-Ríoghain's Curse | Book 0.5 | Entry for the #AfterParty Contest

ONE

ONE

THE DEAD BODY LYING BEFORE AITHNE WAS NOT THE FIRST SHE HAD SEEN, AND MOST CERTAINLY, WOULD NOT BE THE LAST.

      Fortunately, Aithne thought, maw broadening as she tore a chunk from the rabbit's bloodied body, its death was far less bloody, gory, and crueler that the first she had seen. Though she'd pounced on the poor, meek rabbit lost amongst the briar and shrubbery of the woods, she had been kind to her prey and merely broken its neck. The same couldn't have been said for the murders of her older sister, mother, and father.

   Her teeth tore into the night with a snarl in remembrance, and she shoved the memories from her mind.

   A chill painted the night air with whorls of frost and glittering shreds of ice, but Aithne paid no heed to the cold, though her silky fur bristled in its wake. The enrapturing moon cast icy light upon her, spurning the darkness. Maw bloodied with the remnants of her kills, she snarled, again, relishing in the final minutes of donning her wolf's skin.

   There were no words to describe the freedom that came from morphing into The Mór-Ríoghain's beast – a wolf. Bottling such majestic creatures, the goddess's most favored, within a cage of brittle bone, skin, and human features was as much a curse as it was a gift. It was a gift because it allowed them to act upon their duties to The Mór-Ríoghain, but a curse for to temper and tame such a creature was painful.

   Aithne's spine cracked as she willed herself into her mortal body.

   Pain shackled around her limbs as her bones lengthened and her frame narrowed. Blood blossomed in pores as fur receded, and fair skin spanned every inch like ice sprawling upon a frozen lake. Aithne's maw narrowed and her snout morphed into her rather dainty human features. Her jaw ached sharply as canines retracted, receding into elegant teeth.

   Finally, Aithne straightened, shaking a head of pale, ice-blonde waves over her shoulders.

   She swiped a tongue across her teeth, a shudder bending her spine as she tasted the coppery tang of blood. She despised the taste, however, her wolf relished in it.

   She tugged on the pair of sweatpants left beside the tree, and then a thin tank-top. Though it was December, Aithne's blood ran too furiously and too hot to throw on a jacket. She drew the strings tight, watching as, to no avail, they slid to her hips – such was the pain of being a shapeshifter. Donning the skin of a lamb-like Mortal and sheathing that of a wolf resulted in a paper-thin figure of bone and slim muscle, a metabolism of unprecedented speed, and a constant hankering for food.

   The pale column of her throat bobbed as she gulped down water, soothing her parched throat. And then, within the confines of her mind, her sly wolf cocked its head, hearing the quiet pad of footsteps that no Mortal ever could. There was a stealthy snap of briar and bristle, a change in the whistle of the wind as branches were pried apart, and the person made their way towards Aithne.

   Aithne drew away from the water, mirroring her wolf as she sniffed the cold, cold air. A smile slipped over her lips as she caught the scent of her fraternal twin brother, Roarke.

   "Did you have a nice run?" Roarke didn't bother with a greeting.

   "Of course, deartháir." Aithne's frost-pink lips swiveled in a mocking grin.