Hunted

I waited. As the sun rose and night fell away. Waited through the scorching sun, beating on my back, turning my fur to matches of fire. Waited until the bugs began to hum and the sun crept towards the mountain peaks, tired from a long day of shining light on all of our secrets. I waited for her to appear like she did every day, wandering through the woods.

My stomach growled from days of waiting. My eyes hungry for sight of her again because this was the time I would have her. This was the day when my belly would be full and my dreams accomplished.

I hid in the thick brush peppering the forest floor, itching from the thorns that pricked my skin. Itching to have a taste of her. The sun was just beginning to fall like it did everyday. Above me, the world turned to dark violet and cadmium orange and watermelon pink. A few more minutes and she would be skipping down that path, straight to the house in the meadow.

Despite my desire for her— and the awful taste in my mouth from days of not eating— I hadn’t dared enter the cottage. Anyone who lived in the forest, or near it for that matter, knew what lay in its smoky depths. There were monsters and beasts that would gobble them up alive. Creatures that longed for the taste of blood, even just a drop, and would do anything to get it. I craved like those beasts. Wanted everything that they wanted, but didn’t dare risk her fleeing. If she fled, I knew I would never see her again.

What would I do if she disappeared? Gone forever without a single taste?
A twig snapped— far in the distance.
She was coming.
I could smell her like sharks smell blood in the water. Like a honey bee smells rain in the sky. An ache pierced my howling stomach. The pain, the hunger of not eating for days. It was agony.

But it would all be worth it for that sweet smell slowly floating towards me. The pain burrowed deeper, and I tried to remind myself that this was a waiting game— that I’d waited this long. I could wait a few more minutes.

But the pain, the instinct was too much.

My feet moved without my mind’s command. I crept forward through the brush, staying along the treeline. The soil was soft and black beneath my paws, finding its way under my outstretched claws. The sky darkened as I moved.

It wasn’t until the sun was nearly gone that I saw her.

I didn’t know her name. Or who she was. Only recognized that blood red cloak wrapped around her shoulders, covering the thick curtain of her dark hair. I’d never seen her without it. Never seen her without the little basket of bread and apples and honey tucked in the crook of her elbow.

She skipped down the dirt path, ducking beneath crooked branches and reaching shadows. Her cloak rippled behind her like the grass in the meadow and her basket swung. Did she even see the danger lurking? Did she know what was coming? That this was the end.

This had to be the end.
I stepped out of the shadows. “What’s a little girl like you doing out in the woods at night?” She whirled, her hood slipping down just far enough for me to see the wisps of her dark hair

framing her face.
“Who’s there?” Her voice was small and innocent. So, so innocent.
“A friend.”
She hesitated, the only indication that she had any common sense.
“I don’t bite,” I purred. That seemed to convince her as the tension went out of her shoulders and

her grip on her basket loosened. “Where are you going?”
“To my grandmother’s house,” she said. “Would you like to walk with me?”
She started down the path, leaving a space to her right for me to walk. Her scent filled my nose:

the sweet fragrance of lavender and honey. Then the scent beneath— of blood and a pounding heartbeat. I tightened my jaw, forcing control and patience that I didn’t have.

“What’s in your basket?” I asked, my voice so tight that I prayed she didn’t notice it.

Her gaze flickered down to the basket in her arms, and she tipped it in my direction to let me see inside. It was filled with exactly what I smelled. Bread and honey and apples and…wine. The same taunting color of her little cloak. Saliva filled my mouth.

She looked up at me shyly. “My grandmother loves red wine. My mother thought I should take her some more.”

Oh, she was so innocent. So oblivious as she looked into my yellow eyes. Hers were a deep brown, the color of the soil beneath our feet. Her cheeks the color of the sky when she began walking down the path. She looked like an angel, soft and frail, in a baby blue gown that hung past her ankles and brushed the dirt, and her little red cloak. All soft curves and pale skin. I couldn’t wait to taste all of her. What a snack she would be! Would she taste like honey or lavender or blood and bones?

I was aching to know. Burning to taste.
“Do you want some, too?” she asked, her voice as soft as the plane of her cheek.
Licking my teeth, I said, “If you wouldn’t mind—”
My jaw snapped open and I lunged for her.
The pain in my stomach sharpened to something excruciating. And instead of the sweet taste of

her blood or lavender or honey, I still tasted the dryness of my own mouth. The metallic tang of my own blood.

I glanced down at myself, and realized what had happened.

The burning was no longer hunger, no longer desire or instinct, but a knife in my gut. Her hand was still wrapped around the blade, stained crimson from my blood.

I choked. Blood coating my teeth, my tongue.

She leaned closer to me, her cloying scent filling my nose like her knife twisting, digging further in. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk to strangers?”