Chapter Text
The Forest was familiar with Human and Fey kind alike. It had seen hundreds of each species wander in and out, some filled with wonderment, but most with horror. As time went on, it gained a name and a warning. The Were-creatures promised each other fun at the Bizarre Forest’s edge. The Humans clutched their children close and whispered stories of ruin and sorrow. So used to cries of hopelessness had the Forest grown that it scarce noticed when someone new stepped across its border.
A sweet voice, the faintest trill of a song, drew its attention back. This one was not gripped by terror. Her eyes were bright and her footsteps sure as she walked the nonexistent path. The Forest was sure more than one Were-creature sensed her presence and it watched intently as the story unfolded.
* * * * *
One moment, I am walking a pine-strewn path as familiar as the lines on my own palm. The next, birdsong ceases and I am hyper-aware of every minute detail around me. At first glance, the world is no different. I swear I can identify some of the trees that surround me, and surely I haven’t stepped off the path. The awareness that I’m in a new part of the woods creeps up on me slowly. I recognize that the air is still, almost stale, that it is painted in cooler shades and no sunlight seeps through the branches. The sound of my footsteps on the earth is almost deafening in its noise without the background harmony of deer and squirrels and sparrows to cushion it. A fairytale-esque fog prevents me from seeing past anymore than a dozen trees ahead of me.
More obvious than each of these is the dread that floods me. It is like a chasm has opened up in the cavity of my chest. I can see the ground in front of me, but the feeling is akin to standing at the edge of a cliff with the worry a too-strong wind will push you off.
My steps continue haltingly, the back of my neck prickling. I turn ever-so-slowly. There is nothing there, but that’s what truly worries me.
My father and I live closer to the edge of the Forest than most townsfolk are comfortable with. Even as a young girl, I had never understood why they avoided it so avidly. The Forest and the Bizarre Forest are two separate places, albeit right next to each other. As long as you don’t veer off the path, you’ll be safe. That is what I’ve always known. That is what I’ve always trusted. And it has always been true, up until this day.
It has only been my father and I for so many years. He’s a quiet man, but it’s the quiet who tend to be the most knowledgeable. He’s the one who taught me to listen to what nature will tell you. He taught me as long as I hear the wind kissing flower heads and as long as birds are singing, I will be safe. He taught me to know the ground like my body and the rivers like my veins and the trees like my friends. He’s the one who taught me that should these things cease, I should gather my wits and my bravery and I should run.
Now, I’m afraid that if I do, whatever is watching me will give chase. The only other thing I can think to do is sing. My father has left me with wisdom, but my mother left me with art. Music makes me falsely brave, and if the birds will not sing, then I will.
I walk as I hum a gentle melody, coaxing my feet into an easy gait, forcing my shoulders to relax and pretend along with me. I refuse to let my voice shake. The second I let myself feel that fear, I’ll panic, and if I do that, I’ll never be able to pull myself together.
And, suddenly, my attempts are futile, for standing in front of me amidst a patch of fog and as dark as the treeline itself, is the eeriest creature I’ve ever seen in my life.
My blood runs cold.
It can’t quite be called a wolf. Its claws are too long, almost finger-like; the bend of its knees suggest it could stand on its hind feet; its ears perk up far too tall and thin. And the way it looks at me is intelligent, not just the curious stare of a dog or the hungry stare of a predator, but cold eyes that glow in the darkness and look right through my skin.
I know I’m going to die.
I can’t run or fight it, that much is clear. A silver string of saliva drips from knife-sharp teeth and whatever I thought about it not being just a hungry predator leaves my head immediately. I take one imperceptibly tiny step backward. At the flick of its ears, the creature tells me that it noticed. I step back again, anyway. I will not accept my fate so quickly. One more step–
The grave-like silence that has wrapped this Forest in a blanket breaks as a scream splits the air. Not a Human scream; the shrill shriek of a falcon or blackbird. I whirl, momentarily forgetting the wolf-creature, my heart caught in my throat as a stream of blackbirds shoots up from the ground. There are so many of them it’s like looking at a wall of shiny black tar and feathers. The crunch beneath my boot tells me why they’ve erupted into a frenzy. I stepped on a nest and two crow eggs. Instead of having my throat ripped out and my bones feasted on, I’m going to have my eyes pecked out and my flesh torn apart bit-by-bit.
I finally listen to my father and run.
They dive after me, beating their wings in my face and cawing so loudly that I can’t hear myself think. A spurt of blood flies across my vision. I hesitate just long enough for them to circle around me until I’m caught in a tunnel of blackbirds. I drop to my knees, tucking my head beneath my arms and squeezing my eyes shut, too petrified to scream or cry. The wind from their wings tangles my hair and their claws and beaks pierce my skin. The sound of crunching and snapping joins the noise as I prepare myself for the end. It takes several moments for me to realize that the cacophony is dying down. I lift my head slowly, jerking back immediately.
A man stands over me–no, towers over me. His hair is black, clothes black, and shadows conceal most of his face, save for a pair of glowing silver eyes. He holds half of a crow, blood dripping down his fingers. As he steps nearer to me, I see that the blood extends up his neck and across his jaw and mouth. It takes all of five seconds for me to connect the dots. The wolf-creature that was going to kill me looked off because it was a Werewolf, and now the Human version of it stands in front of me, having slaughtered half a murder of crows in a couple minutes. As he reaches toward me, I brace myself, every inch of my body quivering. Instead, a huge, sturdy hand envelops mine and hauls me to my feet.
I gape up at him, trembling with the loss of adrenaline and new dose of fear.
He cocks his head and twitches his nose, sniffing me. “Are you Human?”
“No.” The lie is out of my mouth before I can swallow it.
He observes me a moment longer, his gaze sliding over my body as tangibly as a cool caress. I’m suddenly aware of the softness of my limbs in comparison to his, of the nervous hitch in my breath, of my undoubtedly disheveled appearance.
But his nose wrinkles in disgust as he says, “Good.”
I’ve always been told that Fey Folk cannot lie. I don’t know if this extends to to the Were, but if it does, maybe they’re so unused to being lied to that they wouldn’t recognize one. Either way, I’m glad I did lie. This one seems to hate us.
“What are you?”
Maybe Were-creatures fight amongst themselves, divided by species. I don’t know enough about the region or what lives here. I am vastly unprepared and completely petrified.
“I-I’m a Werewolf,” I whisper.
He glances behind me, then at the carnage littering the ground. “Where is your pack?”
“I lost them.”
Something in his cold grey eyes cracks. His mouth hardens and he nods curtly. “I lost my pack, too.” His voice is less demanding as he speaks this time. “Are you hungry?”
As if determined to embarrass me, my stomach growls in response. I must have wandered the Bizarre Forest for far longer than I thought. He makes a noise that might be a laugh, though it sounds more like chuffing.
“Come.” The demanding voice is back. “We’ll hunt.”
Something about saying no to him seems like a death sentence. That, and I’m sure I can muster up the ability to be grateful; he did just save my life.
“How often do you hunt?”
Yes, of course I should have picked a Were-creature that knows how to kill things. “Ah… not often.”
He halts, eyes cutting to me. “I expect your honesty.” His words are so soft but have such a clearly underlying threat, he may as well say, I f you lie to me again, I’ll rip you apart.
“Not at all.” I hate how meek my voice is.
“How do you get by?”
“Scavenging. Stealing food from villages.” At least this is somewhat true. My father and I aren’t completely impoverished, but when winter falls over us, I’m not beneath swiping some warm bread or fresh meat.
“I admire resourcefulness. I’ll teach you.”
I trail behind him, my footsteps clumsy and loud in comparison to his predatory gait. I speak only once to ask him his name. He tells me to just call him Mr. Wolf. We both fall silent. He doesn’t ask my name. After ten minute of traipsing through the woods, he sighs, then grabs my shoulders and pushes me against a tree.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and then he is gone.
I cannot tell if I feel more nervous with him leading me through the Forest or without him. There’s no logical reason as to why he would have saved me, so there’s no logical reason as to why I should feel safe with him. Most likely he means to fatten me up and eat me after I’ve let my guard down. I should escape now.
Of course, that’s an idea I don’t act upon. I’m not quite stupid enough to believe I could outrun him. I’ll just have to keep outsmarting him until I come up with a better idea.
“Here.”
I jump. He stands next to me, two hares in hand. I glance down at them, suddenly sickened at the idea that he may want me to eat them raw. He looks at me sideways, somewhat amused.
“I don’t usually eat raw in this form.”
I try not to breathe an audible sigh of relief.
“We’ll cook them at my home.”
His home. I already feel trapped and we’re not even there yet. I weigh my options, which are potential death with this Werewolf, or immediate death in the Bizarre Forest.
I choose a death I can avoid for awhile.
Mr. Wolf’s home looks abandoned. The so-called garden lining the perimeter of the place is filled with dead brambles and bushes of thorns. As we walk closer, I see hairline fractures tracing the windows, some chipped and decorated with broken glass. The whole building is wrapped in a tangle of vines, seemingly the only green thing here, and a layer of grime covers each brick. The door is admittedly beautiful, reminding me of a cathedral in my town. Walking through the threshold still feels like a death sentence.
Mr. Wolf holds the door open for me, which might be chivalrous if I didn’t think he was going to eat me. The stench that strikes me is overwhelming, a mixture of cigar smoke, damp earth, and something metallic.
Probably blood.
As he leads me into through his living area into the kitchen, I’m once again struck by how beautiful the place could be and how much potential lies beneath the dirtiness of it all. The couches are a rich velvet that might be green or blue or black with a set of once-gold pillows. The couches and a little round table sit atop a large, intricately embroidered rug. The fireplace sits cold and the oil lamps empty. I suppose if he is half-wolf, or however Were-creatures work, he doesn’t need much light to see.
Mr. Wolf sets the hares on the counter, drawing a large knife out of a drawer. “You may go upstairs while I prepare these. Go to the door at the end of the hallway on the left. There’s a cabinet with something in it for you.”
I stare at him blankly. Everything in me wants to argue, to ask him who he thinks he is and tell him that this is not how one is supposed to behave around strangers. And then I look to the hares and the sharpness of his nails and the huge blade of the butcher knife and decide against it.
The banister is such a dark wood it is nearly black. The carpet lining the stairway is thick beneath my feet, masking any sound as I traipse upstairs. Each of the four doors in the hallway have bronze doorknobs and are painted a glossy black, though some of the paint has peeled away to reveal cherry wood. As I step into the room that he spoke of, I nearly choke on the overwhelmingly forlorn atmosphere.
Something terrible happened here , I think instantly. I can’t imagine what, but the walls seep with such sorrow and loneliness that I want to leave.
I hurry to the tall black dresser, the only piece of furniture in the room, and open the top drawer. It’s empty, save for a film of dust. The middle drawer is the same. White, silky fabric fills the space of the bottom drawer, spilling out as soon as I pull it open. I take it out, gawking at the gown that now hangs from my hands. Is this what Mr. Wolf was referring to?
Carefully folding the dress over my arm, I descend the stairs.
Firelight and blood stain the counters, casting the kitchen in an eerie warmth. Mr. Wolf glances up from his work, nodding when he sees the dress in my arms.
“You can put it on.”
“Pardon?”
“Put it on.”
There is an expensive-looking vase next to me. I could hurl it at him.
“Your own clothing could hardly be called so.”
I look down at my dress. The bottom is muddied and tattered, the arms and bodice shredded from the talons of the blackbirds. I hug the white dress to my chest, suddenly self-conscious.
“Where should I change, then?” I mumble.
“I won’t look.”
I glare daggers into his back. “I said, ‘where should I change?’ ”
There is a low growl in his throat, and I consider apologizing, when he says, “Go back to the room.”
I turn on my heel, wishing that my stomping up the stairs was effectively heard. Stupid carpet. As I leave, I think I hear him muttering something about me being prudish.
I understand why Were-creatures and Fey are free with their bodies. Many of the illustrations I’ve seen in storybooks depict them in gauzy clothing or nothing at all. So many of them have skin the brilliant hues of a paint set or fur or markings that cover them head-to-toe. Others spend more time in animal form than humanoid. That, and they’re each flawless. Maybe I wouldn’t cover my body so much if my stomach was perfectly flat or my skin was free of scars and blemishes.
I’m still burning with annoyance when I close the door behind me and slip out of my dress. I considered asking for a rag to clean myself with, but that would undoubtedly alert him to my Human scent.
The way the gown fits me is uncannily perfect. The neckline cuts straight across my chest, the bodice clinging tightly to my waist and hips before rippling past my feet in pools of silky fabric. The way it moves around my legs when I walk makes me feel like I’m wading through a pool. Covering my arms–besides my shoulders–is somewhere between a sleeve and a glove, made of lace so thin that I barely feel the material. I wish that there was a mirror in this room so I could look at the dress in detail. Somehow, amidst the wildness of today, this simple change makes me feel calmer.
By the time I go back downstairs, some of the stench has been masked by roast hare. Mr. Wolf says nothing as he sets two plates on the table and looks at me, but that animalistic hunger has returned to his face.
“It’s nearly done,” he says gruffly. “You can follow me.”
I have apparently given up on arguing with him, because I follow him past the living room and into what must be the only clean room in the house. A chandelier lit with dripping candles hangs from the ceiling, illuminating book shelves, a table littered with glasses and bottles, a stained-glass window, and a mirror that stretches from floor to ceiling.
I gape at my reflection, taking in the full grandeur of the dress. My irritation with Mr. Wolf dissolves as I stare at it, stepping closer to study every detail.
“Why would you have me wear such a thing?” I spin around to face him.
“Why would I not? You’re a guest in my house.”
“But it’s so…exquisite.”
“As are you. It’s fitting.”
In the warm light of this room, I see Mr. Wolf clearly for the first time. He leans against the wall with one shoulder, hands in his pockets as he observes me. I’m disturbed by how achingly beautiful he is. Of course, I know that Fey are perfect. But I’ve never experienced that sort of beauty up close and personal.
His hair isn’t quite black as I originally thought, but tinged with little streaks of silver. His skin might be bronze, but it appears that he lives perpetually by moonlight rather than the sun. Those bright silvery eyes are ringed by dark grey and shot with flashes of gold and hazel and black, lined with dark lashes and furrowed brows. A deep scar slices diagonally across his left eyebrow, continuing through the eye and down his cheek. Every line of his face and jaw and neck is hard, as though set in stone.
I realize I’m staring a moment too late as a hint of amusement crosses his face. At least he doesn’t further embarrass me, instead beckoning me back to the kitchen.
He heaps an ample helping onto my plate, sitting across from me. The hare could do with a little more seasoning, but it’s tender and I’m hungry enough that I don’t really mind.
“Would you like a drink?” Mr. Wolf pours an amber liquid into his own cup, setting one in front of me.
“Oh, I’ll–”
He narrows his eyes at my hesitation.
“Yes, I’ll take one,” I say instead. It’s surprisingly smooth and makes the meat taste richer. I can at least say it’s better than the sour brandy or warm beer my father has let me try before.
“Why…” I settle my arm on the table, trying to phrase my question in a way that he won’t perceive as rude. “Why are you helping me?”
His gaze drifts up from his meal. “Because I like you.”
I want to laugh out of surprise. “Why? I mean, you don’t know anything about me.”
His eyes flicker over me, from each detail on my face to my hands to my body. He takes another bite, chewing slowly, and I think at first he’s not going to answer.
“Within thirty seconds of seeing you, you had showcased bravery, intelligence, and a fighter spirit.”
“I turned hightail and ran,” I say softly. “I can’t see how that–”
“You know how to survive. You knew I was there, watching you, before you even saw me. Many lost in the very depths of the Bizarre Forest would have been driven to tears by then. And running was a wiser decision than fighting in that moment.”
I feel suddenly shy, which is ridiculous, because I shouldn’t be influenced of this stranger’s opinion of me. “ You fought instead of running.”
Mr. Wolf’s permanently stoic face finally changes, one side of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “That’s because I’m more powerful than you are.” As if to punctuate his words, he takes a bite of meat, the dark juice looking like blood as it drips down his chin.
“Thank you,” I say with a smile of my own. “For all of this, I mean. I was afraid at first, and maybe it’s the drink talking, but I’m glad that you found me.”
“They’ll be glad, too.”
I furrow my brow. “What?”
He doesn’t answer, instead looking past me where a steady knock knock knock shakes the door.