Unnatural Instinct: Transform

31.

A gunshot. It was a gunshot!

You've never really heard one in real life before, only on T.V, but it's so distinct and sharp and terrible in the quietness of the night that it can't be anything else.

Are they shooting at him? Have they hurt him?

Is he dead?

You flee from the room before the winged man can stop you. 'Stop!' he calls after you. 'It isn't safe!'

But you throw yourself through the doors. They boom shut behind you but you hardly hear it against the loud slapping of your feet and the hectic pounding of your heart.

That coldness inside you has turned so icy it's a wonder you're not breathing out a cold mist. And you know ... you know it's because of him.

Danger. Loss. Despair.

Please, no.

You turn a corner, push yourself through another door. Left. Right. Stairs that lead down. You take them two at a time before leaping over the rest, landing painlessly on your feet. Your ankles are as strong as branches. You speed ahead. You don't need to know where to go—his scent leads the way. That earthy, wonderful, incredible scent. It's become as strong as it was in the vial. It's almost as though the three winged men have bathed you in it again.

I can smell you like no other being on this planet.

He wasn't exaggerating. The smell of him is everywhere, old scents, new scents, some days old, others hours old. It's easy to pick the right one, the newest one, the latest trail he left behind as he exited the castle.

Why did he leave the safety of the castle?

Finally, you throw yourself through the front doors. You should be more careful. The humans might be waiting for you. The thought startles you—the humans. Are you really calling them that now?

Thankfully, you're alone.

The air is burning in your lungs as you push yourself harder. You race down the front steps and leap onto the soft grass. The forest is just ahead. You can smell them now—the humans. They're not far away. They have a strange smell, unlike anything else in nature, corrupted by their pollution and fragrances and poor diets. They're so different, so alien, to anything else. They don't smell like the soil. They don't smell like the trees. Anything that once connected them to nature has long gone.

But that's not the worst thing.

Blood. You can smell blood, and it's nothing like the buck's blood. This doesn't make you hungry. Far from it—it terrifies you.

Rush!

You race through the trees, ducking beneath branches, leaping over roots and rocks and debris. At least here, at the edge of the forest, the trees are spaced apart, giving you a free run. You glance up at a strange beating sound. It seems to vibrate through your feet. It takes you a few moments before you realise it's the sound of flapping wings.

It's the winged man. He's somewhere above you but it's hard to see where through the canopy. Your heart lifts—you're not alone in all this. You have help.

Rush is not alone.

The smell of blood is so thick you can taste it in your mouth. The air catches in your throat at the sound of a scream, followed by a roar. You hear shouting, the flapping of wings. You duck and almost trip at the sound of another enormous crack! It's so close now it makes your ears ring. The air sucks out of your chest at the sound of snapping branches, as of something heavy falling from above.

'Rush!' you scream.

After a few seconds, he responds, roaring your name.

You dart to your left towards his voice. And finally—you see him. Your heart soars in your chest, then plummets. His face, neck and chest are covered in blood and he's holding his left arm awkwardly against his torso. Under the blood, his face is pale.

But he's alive.

'Run!' he roars.

But it's too late. Just behind him two men crash through the trees, one wielding an axe, the other a club. You freeze, staring in horror as the man with the axe lifts it high above his head as he charges straight at you. His eyes are bright with ferocity; his mouth is twisted into a snarl. Blood soaks the collar and neck of his shoulder and the ends of his hair drip with it. His face is bright red.

You've never seen a person look like that before. So wild. So feral.

Utterly out of control.

The seconds pass slowly and still you don't know what to do, your feet rooted to the earth, your arms limp at your sides. You should run but your feet seem to weigh a tonne.

There comes the sound of another roar. Vaguely, you realise it's Rush. No longer ashen-faced, he's as red as the sun as he rushes your attackers, horns lowered, hands curled into claws, canines gleaming white in the darkness. He meets the man head on—literally—dodging the man's deadly strike and goring his horns directly into his chest. The man's eyes widen in horror as Rush lifts him bodily off the ground.

With a roar, Rush slams the man into a big tree just ahead, crushing him between them. The man gurgles in his throat, then coughs out bloodied spit, his eyes so wide his eyelids have vanished.

But it's not over yet. There's still the man with the club and Rush is now stuck, his horns throughly locked into the man's flesh. He thrashes his head from side to side in desperation to no avail, his victim flopping about like a rag doll.

Seeing his chance and completely ignoring you, the second man rushes over with a scream, his club upraised, ready to cave in Rush's head.

Not on your watch.

With a snarl, you spring towards him, your head lowered just as Rush's had been. But you don't gore him. Instead, you collide into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, using the full weight of your big body to throw him to the ground. Before he has a chance to react, before he has a chance to fight, you bite deep into his neck and with a hard wrench of your head, tear out his throat.

He stares up at you blankly as he scrabbles futilely with his slippery hands at the gaping hole just below his jaw. Bright red blood jets out, filling your lungs with its delicious scent. His blood feels hot as it drips down your chin and onto your breasts. Before you realise what you're doing, you're swallowing his flesh.

You stare at him, gasping, watching as he quickly dies. You've never realised until now how much blood is in a human body. It pools under his head in a puddle, soaking the grass beneath as he jerks and coughs. No longer scrabbling at his neck, his hands claw at the air spasmodically.

His eyes turns misty. His eyelids lower.

You've barely absorbed the significance of what you've done when you turn at the sound of shouting.