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Thrall acolytes wait for us at the top of the hill, and Nathan sets me on my feet at the perimeter of the circle. He hooks a massive claw under the shoulder of my torn robe and peels it down, then removes the other, severed half of the garment. He takes my hand and leads me to the monolith depicting Lycaon.
It’s been half a decade, but I know every word of this ritual, which I once dreaded. The Hierophant steps forward. He’s tall and thin, with dark skin and eyes, and his head bears a regal crown. He’s the same man I looked in the eye on that night five years ago, to whom I cited the Right of Accord.
He doesn’t begin the ritual right away; maybe to give me a second chance to back out, this time forever.
I drop to my knees before him and bow my head.
“And so it was that Lycaon roasted the flesh of his own child, Nyctimus, and served it unto Zeus, in a test of the God’s omniscience.” The Hierophant turns to an acolyte, who hands him a bowl. The scent of the blood inside makes my mouth water and the moonlight makes my skin feel impossibly tight. The creature inside me, the thing I’m meant to be, grows desperate to escape.
“For his trickery, Zeus cursed Lycaon to become as an animal, and in revenge on Nyctimus’ behalf, slew the wolf pups of Lycaon’s issue thereafter. All except one.” The Hierophant dips his fingers into the bowl and brings them up dripping with human blood. He paints a stripe down the center of my face. “Beast and man in one, Lycaon the Younger roamed the Earth, visiting each coast, every kingdom, leaving behind new werewolves, new myths. Gifting generations with the powers of beast and man. Do you accept his gift?”
“With my whole heart.” I’ve heard these words in my head for years now, wondering what about my life would be different if I’d just said them.
Another acolyte steps forward with a bowl bearing a heart. It’s all I can do not to jump at him and consume the entire organ before the ritual is finished.
“Do you reject the punishment of Zeus, who cast his favor upon humankind and destroyed the children of Lycaon?” the Hierophant intones.
“With all the wrath my soul can bear.” I’m trembling, not from the cold of the night, which is chased off by the heat of the ceremonial fire, but the way the moonlight has become a solid thing that coats my skin and writhes into my body.
“Then consume the flesh of man and take your place beside Lycaon in the Pantheon of Arcadia.” The Hierophant reaches for the heart, but Nathan growls low in his chest and steps forward to take it.
It’s Nathan who raises the heart to my lips. It’s Nathan who looks me in the eyes as I bite into the tough meat and tear away a chunk of it, blood dripping down my chin. And Nathan is the last thing I see before my vision flashes with the lightning that struck down Lycaon’s progeny.
I’ve wondered before if it hurts; anyone who has been through the transformation has assured me that it doesn’t, but I’ve never believed them. And I find that it is unbelievable, yet true. My body doesn’t fight against the transformation; it welcomes it. When my arms elongate, when my face changes shape, it’s none of the agony I’ve seen portrayed in human films. It’s soul deep elation.
When my vision clears, the sights dazzle me. All color has been stripped from the world, which is repainted in shades of blue from the near black of the night sky to the cool, silvery white snow that glitters on the ground like millions of tiny flashbulbs. It might as well be full daylight; I can see every needle on the spruces, every branch on every tree, all of it shivering and whispering with its own voice, urging me to run. A motion near the tree line, too far for human eyes to see in the dark, captures my attention and there, highlighted in swirling gold, is a small rabbit. The yellow aura around it drifts sparkles this way and that, enticing me to run after it.
Nathan’s claws grip my arm before I can run, and when I look at him, he doesn’t look any different than the monster he was before I transformed. But he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I try to speak, but what comes out is a silly little yip; Nathan’s mouth draws back in a lupine smile, and he tosses his head, pointing with his muzzle toward the rabbit. Then he releases me and swats me on my behind.
I run, hard and fast, covering so much ground but giving up hardly any energy. When I feel I should tire, a surge of the moon’s light reinvigorates me. I chase the bunny into the forest, following its blazing aura deeper and deeper through the ancient trees. Nathan is on my heels, and knowing he’s running with me makes me wish I could laugh. The equivalent in my werewolf body seems to be a series of high, chattering barks, and I let them free as I lunge over fallen tree trunks and bank off stones on the increasingly rocky ground.
