Page 27 of Red

“Why can’t I be a normal color like you and Mom? I don’t get why other people can’t know. It’s just a color.”

He handed me a book—The Reds: A Legend—and left me to read.

The legend comes from centuries ago, maybe thousands of years, with various story retellings. A red wolf appeared with unique gifts beyond the ordinary. But when the other wolves in the pack found out that it could heal, the red wolf was hunted and used as a sacrifice to the spirits. That legend is now used to teach young wolves about the power of jealousy and how it can make you do unfathomable things.

I shuffle over to my own room to find the various books of legends on the shelves. One red wolf could change their own size on command, going from a domestic dog to the size of a large truck in a blink. Some of the stories are even more dark than the first, like having their abilities abused, leading to a slow, agonizing death. A good reminder for why I need to be careful.

It’s time to do what I came here for.

Under the tiny bathroom sink is human hair dye. It’s distasteful to werewolves to hide your natural color, but the red grew more and more vibrant, no longer just noticeable in the sun. Hats weren’t cutting it. Even as a kid, people would ask my mom about the color of my hair, and she’d make jokes about the lighting. She never admitted anything, hoping it wasn’t true, until that day on the porch then she came up with the idea to dye it. It’s been my routine ever since.

I slide on a pair of latex gloves and mix the brown coloring in a small bowl until it becomes smooth. I begin parting my hair, the red stretching out further from my head, then slick the dye on with a small paintbrush until it covers all my roots.

“Goodbye again,” I say quietly.

My arms feel rubbery from the angle, and a slimy sound forms as I rub it in, the chemical smell filling the bathroom. I wrap my head in a plastic cover and wait thirty minutes before shoving my head under the bathtub tap. Brown dye dots slick the walls as I scrub out the thickened paste.

Dark roots stare back at me. I wish I could see my true color once again in this lifetime. I bend over and shake my damp hair out, taking a black towel to squeeze the excess water. When I flip up, it’s scrunched into curls that will fall out as it dries. I wipe down the tub and anywhere else of evidence of hair dye and throw the extra dye I have into a bag in the kitchen.

The corner kitchen is small, with over-filled cabinets. Next to it is a small round table for eating, and the rest of the space is used for the living room. The entire room would fit in my bedroom at Stark’s. Distaste fills my gut as I notice Mom’s crocheted blanket draping over the couch. I pick it up and wrap myself in it. Between its smell and being back in Pratt’s sweater, it’s like they’re in the room with me.

I stare at the door, waiting, wishing it was all a joke, testing to see if I could keep a secret or not. How am I the one left? More tears drip onto my neck. Pratt’s voice the morning he left had been so ordinary. I didn’t know he wouldn’t come back that day. Not until the searing pain started to spread in different spots—one under the ribs, another in the thigh. The last two up by my collarbone.

Now he’s gone. My hands vibrate, then the rest of me begins to shake. I pull the blanket tighter around me and close my eyes, hoping to visit Pratt in a dream.

The entire house is dark when I wake. I refuse to turn on any lights to draw attention, and starting a fire in the stove would be worse. I make sure I locked the door and flood heat through my limbs, just enough for comfort. The small solar panels behind the house are enough to power things so pipes don’t freeze, and that’s about it.

Stark’s going to think I’m dead the second he smells those guys at the house. I can live here, with all the memories of my family. The fact that Stark thinks he can control whether I enter and leave a house is crazy. Pratt wasn’t even that strict, and he knew why I needed to be hidden. Here, I can go for a run and turn whenever I want, be free and alone. If I’m here, I won’t be risking giving things away by healing the intense, black, muscled werewolf man.

It’s better this way. The Elders won’t complain if I’m dead.

Chapter 11

Sliding another drawer open, I pull out a pair of crimson-red shorts, along with a loose black T-shirt. Tucking it in on the side, I do a little spin. Having access to all my clothes is incredible. I’m going to spend the entire day exploring, maybe test something new out.

I open the novel The Myths in Time. In this chapter, a red wolf’s speed reaches near-invisible levels to the human naked eye, like a blur. Ever since Pratt couldn’t outrun a bullet, I’ve been thinking of trying out my max speed. It’s not like I expect to beat a bullet, but I love a challenge. Pratt held back on a lot of my experimenting as he believed using ancient magic has consequences. Utter burnout can happen and has put me in a near-coma a few times while healing myself.

I read the passage again before putting it away. There must be some way to do it. I’ve only mastered healing. All other red wolf traits, besides the ability to talk into select minds, I have failed. Like trying to grow—nothing happens. There’s no one to tell me how it works, and the books are vague and contradicting. I have yet to read many useful novels at Stark’s, but I’m sure there will be something.

My gut tightens. No. There’s no going back. I’m dead, and it’s staying that way.

I skip out the door, locking it behind me. The air is warmer today, giving us a false sense of spring nearing. Birds chirp and swoop over the clearing. Like it’s any other day, I round the house and head into the woods, picking up a small run. Everything is familiar, from the knot in a tree to another fallen. A smile eases onto my face as I jog just far enough to be comfortable.

In seconds, a thrill runs through me when I leap onto all fours. No one’s chasing me, but I bolt through the thick brush, following the long line to the cliffs. My fur, thick and ruby-colored, stretches over my entire body. I’m not as massive as Stark, but not far off. I run to the ridge where the forest falls away. You can see the town from here, a faint break in the forest off to the left. Beyond that, the brown forest stretches out, filled with patches of green from the needles that hold on through winter. I let out a howl straight from my gut; it echoes from here, making it tough for anyone to find its origin.

I continue my adventure in another section of the forest, where a few small fields are. The snow is deeper out of the forest, and half of the field is shaded with the rough edges of trees. A few small saplings stick up from the white, folded over from the weight of snow on their branches. I back myself up to the edge, scanning for any movement beyond the regular forest animals. My ears rotate and find nothing. A small rabbit at the far end of the field hops in the snow.

Attempt one.

My paws spread out into the forest floor, as I let my legs burn up. Surging forward, my vision blurs and I put the brakes on hard, looking for grip on the snow before nearly sliding into a tree. Well, not a failure, but not a success.

I turn back at the field and pull at the heat source, filling my lungs until flames brace against my ribs. Taking off back across the field at the edge of the shadow line, magic explodes in me, and I slide into the base of a tree, cracking the bark. I groan. I might need more room for this. I huff a deep breath.

One more attempt.

Heat burning, lungs full, my claws dig into the snow as I take off. Heat fires through my chest, similar to the healing fire. It’s consuming and I don’t fight it. Running faster, the trees at the end of the field end up right in my vision and I bypass one before running straight into another.

Spirits damn it. My vision doesn’t keep up.