Page 202 of Evil Hearts

RED IN THE WOOD

By B.L. Brown

ONE

Ihear her voicebefore I catch her scent, which distresses me far more than it should. She has blundered around my woods for weeks, crashing through the undergrowth and announcing her presence to any predator lurking nearby with her perfumed skin, oiled hair, and baskets full of sweet rolls and cured meats. Whatever soap she uses to launder that ridiculous cloak makes the foolish girl smell like a bakery—sugary, floral, and mouthwateringly delicious.

That I hear her first means either I have gotten lazy or she is far cleverer than I assumed.

It will not be the first time I have warned her about the wood. Gods know I have done so enough times. While my presence alone typically scares off the villagers, she has been unbothered, returning time after time regardless of the threat I pose.

Not thatIam a threat.

I could be if I wished. My presence at the edge of the wood is no coincidence. I am a guardian and a warning in one. Taller than most men, muscled and broad-shouldered, my figure is softened by the dense gray fur on my arms and legs. My ragged linen shirt is held in place by laces and a broad leather belt, and my trousers have been modified to suit my tail and haunches. Were it not for my upright posture, shortened muzzle to allow speech, and all-too-human eyes, I could pass for a true wolf and linger on all fours. Instead, the modesty of the village demands I cover my breasts with cloth and don trousers to hide my sex.

Ridiculous.

Still, my appearance and strength suit my role. My task is to protect the vicious creatures within the wood and warn the humans against entering, yet this one girl is determined to ignore my warnings and traipse through as if the trees belong to her.

Perhaps she has grown weary of my growls and skulking and adjusted her course to remain downwind, but my eyes snag on her cloak, a slash of red in the wood, and I think otherwise.

No man or woman wears a cloak like a bloody target on their back unless they wish to be seen.

I prowl closer, darting from shadow to shadow to get ahead of her. She walks without purpose, stopping to smell flowers or twirl in a circle with her arms thrown wide. The move sends her cloak spreading like a crimson wave, and I grimace. I am not the only predator in these woods, not by a long shot, but I might be the closest to human of them all. I can discern prey from predator, and while she is no prey, she falls leagues short of predatory.

Calling on all my skills, I draw near, my stealth rewarded by the surprised parting of lips when her twirling dance has her facing me. She stumbles and stills, her arms tensing but not falling to her sides. It is a subtle accounting, generous in its lack of response. Her eyes drift from my face to my figure, then back again—a swift mathematical deduction of the threat before her.

I take a moment to do the same, struck by the fullness of her lips and bright, gleaming eyes, a hazel that borders on inhuman.

And then she dips her chin, acknowledging me for what I am.

A monster.

“Hello.”

The timbre of her voice, deep and warm, has me leaning forward in a way I do not like. I dig my claws into a tree to keep from stumbling.

“Stay away.” The words saw out of my throat, as raw and barbed as untumbled hay. “The sun is nearly set, and vicious creatures lurk in these woods.”

She clasps her hands behind her back, and her dress bobs as she raises onto her toes and down again. The tightly fitted brown bodice and muslin skirt do little to hide the enticing curve of her waist, and the flowing sleeves make my claws prickle in an undesirable way. Everything about the girl is demure, from her drab dress to the long braid of auburn hair, except for that absurd cloak. “Vicious such as yourself?”

At my silence, she twirls and blows a kiss in my direction, continuing into the wood. Had she removed the cloak, she would have vanished among the trees within a few steps. Instead, the rich color cuts through the trees like a fresh wound, bright as the signal fires I light when the creatures grow restless.

When she appears on the path the following day, in one piece and no worse for the wear, my surprise must show on my face, for she pats my arm. “I see the vicious creatures lurk without the woods today.”

“I am not so certain,” I reply. Something about that makes her laugh, bright eyes twinkling like a dew-covered glade at dawn.

“Then perhaps you should pay better attention to your post.”

I seethe as she flounces away, blind to how her words have incensed me. I have held the line of this wood for a decade, longer than she has traveled its paths. What right does she have to judge my performance? As long as I have held my post, no beasts have attacked the village. Elders have gathered their harvest from the field and hobbled back within the safety of their walls. Babes have toddled the rows gathering turnips and berrieswithout a worry, all due to my role—the post I have held since before this upstart could lace her own bodice.

Tomorrow, or the next day, whenever she dares to broach this forest next, I shall warn her off for good.

TWO

Iwake to whistling.

Morning light barely grays the sky, and the woods beneath my platform crawl with fog. It takes my weary mind a moment to gather that it is far too early for birdsong. Perhaps the coo of a dove or the weary hoot of an owl, but the morning trills are at least an hour off.

---