Then a sound that isn't a howl or a bark—high and broken and not right—and silence.
I crawl out from under the table. My knees hit something—a jar, knocked off the shelf by the impact, rolling across the floor. I push through the door.
A wolf lies in my clearing.
Massive. Dark gray fur catching the light. One side dark with blood, a long slash across the ribs, and its breathing is wrong—shallow, hitching.
Brown eyes.
I know those eyes. I've looked at them across my kitchen table a hundred times while Kestria stole my bread and made fun of my chickens. Brown and warm and human, staring up at me from a wolf's face.
Kestria.
That's Kestria.
That's my friend who makes fun of my chickens and—
Shit shit shit shit.
My knees hit the ground beside her. Blood everywhere, matting the fur in dark clumps, spreading into the dirt in a growing pool.
Werewolf.
Kestria is a—
The deer has wolf teeth marks—she brought me the deer—she bit the deer—no, stop it, focus—she's bleeding—did I close the coop this morning—
She's bleeding.
"Kestria." I press my hands against the wound. Hot. Wet. Soaking through my fingers immediately. "Kestria, can you—"
The wolf shudders. Changes. Bones reshaping with cracks that make my stomach turn, fur receding, skin surfacing underneath—horrible to watch, can't look away—and then Kestria's lying there naked and human and bleeding.
Red blood.
Human blood.
"Stay with me."
Her eyes open. Slow. One before the other. Brown. Human. The same eyes that were laughing at my pink chickenan hour ago.
"Mel." Her voice is rough, scraped raw. "Sorry. I didn't—"
"Stop talking." I press harder. Blood wells between my fingers. "I need to get you inside."
I get my arm under her shoulders. She's heavy and naked and my hands are slick with her blood, can't get a good grip. Halfway to standing, her legs give out.
"Sorry." She's shaking. "I can't—"
"Stop apologizing and help me drag you."
We stumble to the cottage. I shoulder the door wider—get her inside, lower her to the floor near the hearth. Grab a blanket from the chest—not for modesty, for warmth, because she's shaking hard enough that her teeth are chattering. My back is already screaming. I'm going to feel this tomorrow.
The wound is still bleeding. And the edges are turning gray.
I've seen this before. A dozen times. In the wolves.
In the—
