The Black Wolf

Chapter Five

Sometimes, the black wolf dreams about the first years of his life. His time as a child, when he was still human. When men were hardly men.

The smell of smoke always comes to him first. Thick with meat dripping fat into the flames. The grease slicks his fingers, too; he's just finished eating. Logs crackle, as lulling as the bone flute being played on the other side of the fire. No lively tune this deep in the night; instead, a song as haunting as the wolves howling far in the distance.

No one is more than a silhouette in the darkness. Only their words define them, quiet murmurs in a language he can never fully remember once he wakes up again. Is there someone holding him close, a mother or father? Or perhaps they sit nearby while the flute falls silent and an old man's voice rises in its place, weaving stories about the brightest stars above. So much is beyond his understanding; he's still too young. He's only sure of feeling safe and loved.

This earliest memory is also the most vivid, and the black wolf often represses a shudder whenever he thinks about it. His existence has changed too much, sharpening into the simple brutality of a beast. Feed, fight or fuck. To seek out the comforts of a man means opening himself up to the vulnerabilities of one as well, and there is nothing he loathes more than feeling like prey... except, maybe, the bitterness of loss.

The fire flickered in the cabin's hearth, stirring up something deep in the black wolf's mind, but he ignored it and focused on Alice while she brought over the leftover apple pie. Already, some of her trained behavior had lessened—instead of quick glances and careful movements, she sat with a smile, pushing the dinner bowls aside so they could eat right out of the pie plate.

There were more glimpses of what hid beneath her shyness. She ate without keeping her gaze on the food, studying their worn surroundings as if deciding what else needed repair. Her careful expression thawed when too much of her hair slipped out of its bun. She pulled it all loose and then twisted it back into a fresh knot. Nothing more than a few flicks of her wrists, but it was the first time he watched her move with confidence. The logs in the fire shifted, brightening the flames and burnishing her face in gold.

Her voice remained quiet as she looked toward the window and said, "This entire property is a disaster."

She was close enough that the scent of her warm, clean skin made his teeth prick his tongue with an urge that food couldn't satisfy. He kept his own words short to hide his fangs, unwilling to let her see them. Unwilling to lose the sweet smell of her interest. "Still a shelter, though."

Her gaze flickered to his face. "Is it hard, slipping between two worlds? Going from man to wolf and back again?"

"It's the same either way. Find food and shelter or you won't make it through."

An honest answer, yet she seemed to grow sad for him. "So, it boils down to basic survival."

"Comfort's nice, though." He said the words without thinking. They came from somewhere deep within, a part of him that he thought had been crushed beneath the weight of an eternal existence.

"Speaking of... your hair keeps falling in your face. And your shoulders twitch like it itches the back of your neck."

"It does." A minor irritation, like his fur getting wet in the rain or having to clean off blood.

She still studied him, the pie forgotten. "I could trim it for you."

Once more, she'd surprised him. In the following silence, mischief sparked in her eyes, the strongest hint yet of what she could be when not suffocated by fear. She knew the offer had shaken his indifference in their conversation.

When he said nothing, she added, "You have mats. That can't feel good."

What did she want from this? Pity wasn't in her scent. Neither was revulsion over his disheveled looks. Was she challenging him in some way? If so, over what?