Changeling
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I chased after it, following the traces of its warm footprints, its scent, now laced with fear, that it left in its wake. My breath came rapidly, my lean sides pumping oxygen efficiently through my blood, my incredibly strong heart pushing fresh blood through my veins.
I was glad my prey was putting up a chase—it shouldn't be too easy. I felt the other wolf behind me, and I sensed that he was enjoying it as much as I was. I detected a familiarity in his movements: he had done this before. Hunted before. Killed before.
A streak of crackly blue light flew through the trees and almost hit my head. I ducked instinctively, and it exploded on a pine next to me. The scent of charred bark and sticky-sweet sap hit my nostrils. Another ball of blue light came at me, and once again I dodged, almost feeling annoyance. I hunkered down, kept my head low and concentrated on following my prey.
A strong scent of deer crossed my path, and it would have made me swerve if I had been after any other animal. The air seemed full of delicious scents: deer, rabbit, turkey—but I ignored them, as I ignored the false, confusing trials that told me my prey had taken another path. I was unstoppable, undistractable. I had one purpose. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything in my whole life.
The other wolf moved away from me, splitting off from my path and heading farther on. I realized he was going to come at our quarry from the left side, while I would chase it from the right. Together we would corner it, and then I alone will take it down; I alone would get the spoils of victory.
Within a minute we had succeeded: there was a sharp rock outcropping there, and my prey was trapped against it. It flattened itself against the wall, as if that would help. The other wolf moved in, but I growled at him to stay back. This life belonged to me. I could hear it panting, gasping to get air into its puny lungs. The smell of fear covered it and made me wrinkle my nose. Its heart was hammering in its weak chest, and the thought of the blood pumping through that heart made me step closer, baring my teeth.
This was what I wanted more than anything. I had to bring it down, had to kill it, had to taste it. It was created solely to be my victim. The fur on my back stood up in a bristly line with excitement. Hunkering down, a low growl coming from my throat, I began to creep toward it. My eyes never left it, my muscles were poised to leap away at any second if it would try to run. Its pale green eyes were wide with fear, and I wanted to grin. Should I leap on it and drag it down, face first? Should I launch myself toward it from the side? How much could I play with it before it died? No, better make it a clean, quick kill. It was the wolf's way. Ever so slowly I advanced, feeling a delicious thrill flooding my being. Nothing was better than this sensation, this victory over weakness. Nothing could compare.
I glanced up and found that my prey was staring at me, right at my eyes. I frowned. That wasn't what prey did. Prey cowered, prey hid, prey made it fun. Prey didn't stare at its hunter. I took another step closer, and its gaze caught mine, unwavering. It was infuriating. I pulled my lips back to show it my deadly fangs; I growled deeply from within my chest, knowing that the vibrations of the rumble would strike terror into it. Closer and closer want, becoming more enraged by the second by its boldness.
The my prey whispered, "Morgan?"
I froze, one paw in mid air. I blinked. That sound was very familiar. Behind me the other wolf stiffened, then moved closer, barely rustling the leaves on the ground. I turned my head a fraction and growled a warning to him: Stay back. This is my kill.
"Morgan?" My victim was still panting hard, sweating, pressed against the rocks. It looked deeply into my eyes, and with surprise I found it almost painful. I desperately wanted it to turn away, to quit staring at me. As soon as it dropped its gaze, I would leap on it, tearing out its throat, feeling its lifeblood soak away. Play your role, as I play mine.
It wouldn't look away. "Oh, Morgan," it said. With its next breath it straightened up, away from the rock, and my muscles tensed. Unbelievingly I felt it relaxing, calming its fear. It raised its paw and unwrapped some covering from around its neck. My eyes opened wider—it had bared its throat for me! I could see pale, smooth skin where before there had only been some thick, wrinkly thing. "Your choice, Morgan," it said, and waited.
Again I blinked, trying to process this situation in my wolf brain. This wasn't making sense. This prey was talking to me, it was saying my name. My name? My name? I thought—I felt only like Me. But like a trickle of water slowly eating through rock, a realization shot through me. My name was Morgan. My name was Morgan?
Oh, Goddess, my name was Morgan! I was a girl, not a wolf, not a wolf! Only a girl. And my prey was Hunter, and I loved him, and right now I wanted to kill him and taste his blood more than anything in the world.
What was happening?
"Your choice, Morgan," Hunter said again.
My choice. What kind of choice? I had hunted him down; the right of the kill was mine. Could I choose not to kill him? Abruptly I sat down, my haunches folding neatly under me, brushy tale swishing out of the way.
My choice. I would choose what? To kill or not to kill? Oh, Goddess, was the choice between good and evil? Between power or guilt? Light or darkness? Oh, God, did this mean I couldn't kill this prey? I wanted it, I wanted it, I need it, I had to have it.
Behind me the other wolf growled: Do something. Kill it or I will.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, Goddess, help me. Oh, God, I choose good, I thought, almost weeping with regret at the blood I wouldn't spill, the life I couldn't take. I threw back my head and howled, a strangled, smothered howl of pain and longing and a desire to kill.
And as soon as I thought, I choose good, my exhilarating wolfness began to slip away from me, like a tide away from a shore. This too I regretted: I wanted to be a wolf forever. How diminishing to go back to being a mere girl, a pathetic human; how pitiful, how humiliating! I lowered myself onto my front paws, wanting to weep but unable to: wolves can't cry.
The other wolf—Ciaran, it came to me—trotted forward suddenly with an irate snarl. Hunter tensed against the rock, and I leaped to my feet, thinking, No! No! I saw Ciaran's powerful muscles gather and knew he would be on Hunter in an instant. Quickly in my mind I thought his true name, the name that was his very essence, the name that was a sound, a shape, a thought, a song, a sigil, a color all at once.