I have long fur, my winter coat is already beginning to slowly grow in, but humans do not have the same luxury. My mate may be human, but I will ensure she does not feel the cold this winter.I want nothing more than to hold her close and warm her myself, but the fire will be there in case she is unsure.
I am a monster, something I am reminded of every time I look down and see my claws. Without another pack to carry on the curse, I may never be human again, not any more than I am now. Mostly wolf but standing upright, my body curved like a woman’s but covered in fur, clawed hands and feet dispelling any illusion of what I am. I do not wish for my mate to fear me, but I am prepared if she is.
I will be patient, I remind myself. I have all the time in the world to woo her, to show her that I am a worthy mate. I love her already, the way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating, the way she leaves food out for me even when she doesn’t have enough for herself.
But being with her, here, where I can keep her safe from the little human fools, I will love her any more.
And if I am very lucky, perhaps she will even come to love me too.
CHAPTER 4
Maris
I feeleyes on me always, but never more than when I make a fool of myself.
My knees hit the ground hard, the contents of the basket spilling onto the damp, fall leaves. The pungent scent of the mushrooms I plucked makes my gut roil violently, the smell combining with the ache of hunger in my stomach. The mushrooms will make me sick, I know this, but some tiny part of me whispers that it might be worth it just to ease this hunger of mine. For once.
My fingers shake as I gather the fallen mushrooms and herbs where they had fallen, replacing them in the basket. The hunger in my gut is ever present, and as winter closes in, even the forest has little to offer me; there is no respite even here.
I have spent most of my life with hunger of a sort, as is common with most of the poor folk around here, those of us who are unwelcome in the zealotry of the church. But once folk saw my “strangeness”, life became even harder. Only my mother stood between me and the darkness the church elders insist I court. Once she left this life, there was little left for me.
The hunger grows worse and worse. Someday soon this tenuous alliance will break, and the whispers and stares of the town folk will become something worse. I can only hope I survive whatever horrors they wish to visit upon me.
Focus, Maris.
I shake my head to wash away the dark thoughts, tucking the last of the mushrooms back into the basket so I can push myself back to my feet. Gripping a handful of my skirts, I jerk them from side to side, doing my best to knock off all the fallen leaves and moss that I gathered in my fall. The hem is caked with mud, but thankfully my boots protected me from the worst of it.
Every piece of clothing I have was made by my mother, or by me, once she taught me. I have tried to sell my work, as she did, but to no avail. Folk whisper that I weave magic into the clothing, and they want nothing to do with me.
Old widow Kearney is the only one who dares speak to me, offer me aid, and then only because she says she is too old to care what anyone thinks.
Not to say that she treats me well, by any means, although I dare not complain for fear that she will change her mind entirely. For her, I do the worst jobs, the ones that neither she nor anyone else wish to do. I split the wood stacked behind her home, care for and clean up after her animals, and do any other tasks she asks of me.
Like today, marching myself through the haunted forest to find the mushrooms she wants for… I don’t even know what she wants them for; she didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. All I know is that they smell worse than most anything else I’ve ever encountered and they make my skin burn, although my hunger is such that should winter get any leaner, I might take my chances with eating one or two. Not the best way to find food, but I’m hungry enough to chance it.
Something flashes from the corner of my eye and I stumble, although thankfully this time I don’t fall. I slow to a stop. Leaves crunch under my boots as I turn in a slow circle, doing my best to locate the source of whoever, or whatever, is following me. Unease prickles down my spine.
Once, when Gray was still around, I would not have feared for my safety, because I had faith that she would have come if I needed protection, that she somehow knew that I needed her aid. But I sent her away to protect her, and I haven’t seen her since.
I exhale a sigh and purse my lips.
“Maris. Paranoia is unbecoming and also not productive.”
I heft my basket higher on my arm, settling it in the crook of my elbow before resuming my march back toward the village. The sun is beginning to fall, the branches above casting dark, slashing shadows on the leaves crunching under my boots, gnarled branches tangling in my skirts like grasping brambles. It smells of loam and coming rain, my breath cools in my throat as I inhale deeply.
It’s a long walk back and I pant quietly, my breath rasping in my throat. Another flash of motion from the corner of my vision and I whirl, gripping my basket like a bludgeon. Why haven’t I thought to bring a weapon into the forest?
Fool. That’s what I am. Did I have no regard for my own safety?
“Tell me who you are. I’m not afraid of you,” I announce, and I’m proud that my voice doesn’t tremble. Shadows shift ahead of me, but the voice that prowls toward me comes from in front of me. I tighten my grip on the basket.
“Look. The witch is gathering ingredients for one of her potions,” Enoch mocks, and there’s a titter from the group behind him. A few girls, a few dark haired young men who work at the mill. I know them all, have since we were children, but thatdoes not lessen the fear crawling down my throat like a spider, nausea making my stomach pitch. The fact that I know them is the reason I fear them. I may be fool enough not to bring a weapon to the forest, but I know danger when I see it.
“Enoch,” I say. My voice is cool, although I do my best to keep my expression neutral. Even little rats like Enoch thrive on fear, and I will not give it. I will not offer him the satisfaction.
“What is it you have there? Eye of newt, bat tails?”
The group follows him as he stalks closer. As much as my instincts scream at me to get away from him, away from this pack of hate, I stand my ground. In fact, I extend my arm toward him, lifting the flap of the basket so he can see what’s inside. A few edible herbs for me, some berries, and the mushrooms I gathered, carefully separated with a scrap of cloth from one of my abandoned sewing projects; there’s only so many times you can repurpose a single piece of cloth before it becomes worthy only of rags. None of these things are enough to be a threat to him, but his face still twists in distaste.
