Wolf's Path (Monstrous Hearts: The Short Stories)

Lupercalia: The Hunt

Author's Note: This is the sequel to Lupercalia, told from Colton's POV.

Do you know how they came to be, those black-furred wolves with eyes like fire and teeth so sharp and white? Some people claim they are spawned from Hell itself, the souls of evil men sent back at the Devil's bidding. Slinking under the cover of night like every other ghoul and tormenting what they find.

Don't believe it? Heard someone's granny say something different, something about them not being demons but instead simple, misbegotten creatures? Yes, troubled men transformed in their graves through rituals as ancient as the forests. Cursed to endure like the stars, cursed to the loneliness of slipping between the worlds of wolf and man without belonging to either.

Well. Old women were once young girls, and it's true that the black wolves show a singular tenderness for those and those alone. Even beasts might rest their heads in soft laps and trade the savagery of teeth for the sweetness of tongue. Willing flesh seems to be their great weakness, and it's not far-fetched that these shadow creatures reveal more than their hunger to a precious few, and let them live to tell about it, too.

Perhaps, then, the black wolves are men who went into the grave angry and dug themselves back out of it snarling. Is that any less terrifying? Such creatures would have more in common with blood sacrifices made to the sun, with witches squatting in the primordial hearts of forests and rutting against broomsticks until their frenzy sends them drifting up into open air, gibbering at the moon as if it's their mother. They are appalling in the way of idols carved from bone—frightening in their great age, in their hints of a world once rough and throbbing and savage enough that people shivered in the dark and crept through the day.

Whatever whelped these beasts, one thing holds true: they are horror itself. A wolf that can walk as a man... The thought's enough to send shivers over the skin. Who will find safety from such terrible jaws? Who will laugh while stroking bloodstained fur? Even those willing to bare their flesh for depraved nights of lust soon return to the comfort of their old lives.

In the loneliness of the shadows, who will dare run with one of these wolves on a hunt? Who will dare him to hunt her?

The black wolf loped among the cinnamon-colored trunks of the forest, intent on Alice as she ran ahead, fleet as a deer even in her sturdy hiking boots. Sunlight flashed as the trees opened up into a brief clearing, and she twisted enough to look back at him, grinning through wind-snarled hair. It had been her idea, this chase, this throwback to the rituals he remembered for Lupercalia. He'd teased her curiosity with details about the ancient festival, expecting nothing more from it. It was just one more thing lost to time, one more rite replaced with modern masks.

But then she'd asked to celebrate it, and her sudden vulnerability remained marked on her face even now. Joy still didn't come easy to her. Neither did freedom. She had been shaking while asking if he'd like a run through the forest, and he hadn't answered immediately because his voice would have come out as a snarl of rage. Not toward her, but toward the set of instincts that had been built through years of careful punishments, implanted words, invisible torture. Even free of the cage, it would take time for her to walk as though the bars weren't there. He tried to help as he could.

His devotion wasn't the flash of a diamond or the crimson of rose petals. His tenderness would never reveal itself through sweet words. But he let her cling to him in the dark whenever nightmares bit, realizing how many times she'd had nothing but the ceiling to stare at while her heart pounded and her mind replayed the worst parts. And he let her pepper him with questions—him, the oldest of the black wolves, the one that sent the others scurrying tail between legs at the first hint of curiosity. Some still bitter from his warning bites would grumble now and then, insist that he'd probably didn't remember anything anyway, ancient as he was. In truth, he just hated talking. Always had.