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“I can’t,” I cried at him. “Please, it hurts, make it stop, make it stop.”
His hands tightened around me, his claws dimpling my skin. He said, “I know it hurts. I know it does. But you are a wolf. And you will shift. But before you can, you have to find a way back.”
My back arched against his as I seized, my hands digging into his thighs. He grunted when my claws burst from the tips of my fingers, slicing into him, drawing blood. My mouth filled with saliva at the smell of it, coppery and sharp. The animal in me wanted to rend and tear until he let me go, but he was stronger than I was.
And just when I thought I could take no more, that I would rather die than let it go on, I heard her voice.
She sang, “Little wolf, little wolf, can’t you see? You are the master of the forest, the guardian of the trees.” She laughed. “Always quiet as a mouse. Let them hear you now.”
Memories can be funny things.
They can come when you least expect them to.
And when you need them most.
That was all she was. A memory.
But I latched on to it.
That first shift was a haze of instinct under the biggest moon. I barely remembered any of it, just the need to chase, chase, chase. The other wolves followed, howling so loudly that the very earth trembled with it.
Later, when I could run no more, they curled around me, my belly full of meat, and I slept.
The first shift was always the hardest.
Now?
Now it was easy.
The tether was there, as it always was.
My muscles began to quiver.
My bones began to shift.
There was pain, yes, but it was a good pain, and it hurt in such a terribly wonderful way.
I fell to my knees and I was
I am
wolf
i am wolf and strong and proud and this forest is mine this forest is home this
is where i am
this is where i am
this is
squirrel fuckin squirrel
i am going to chase you
i am gonna eat you
run run run
