12. Midnight Feast

She was about halfway home when the hunger drove itself into her chest.

There was smoke from neighbouring shacks swinging up. Late-night dinners. Steaming, cooking food. But in the woods, shrieks and chirps escaped from the small winged creatures circling the treetops. Nice, scrumptious bats.

She licked her lips.

But no, bats lived in deep caverns where all kinds of dirt and muck dripped from the ceilings.

How about some owls?

Her hands rubbed together, prepared to tie up nets, fix them to trees. This late-night meal was unheard of; however — Sylvia was one to try new things.

She followed the path through the hills, staggering along to the shack. Those owls weren't going to fly into her stomach, now were they? In a perfect world, she'd be feasting with nobles and having golden mutton, lambs, boar. But no, she was rushing down a hill, starving, alone. She decided against catching any owls.

The hunger swarmed, dark and powerful.

The full moon appeared.

Jill II sat outside the shack, lounging on the mud, her legs tucked under that great brown slab of chest. She gave Sylvia an exhausted look, her eyes half-closed. Sleeping time for the big cow.

The wind blew soft and fast to create jangling sounds from the breaking branches, creaking open in small sad wheezes. Music. You didn't need Wally with his mandolin. Only nature with its wind and trees. Approaching Jill, Sylvia found herself in a sing-song mood: then she was singing, dancing in front of the big cow.

'Hey there, sitting in front of my house/ If it weren't for your milk, I'd kick you out/ You've got white spots and a big old snout/ You have no idea what I'm singing about…'

She walked to the door then stopped.

Those owl nets were so far away.

Jill II opened her mouth wide, grunting.

On Sylvia's skin, goose bumps prickled. Eat, eat, eat. Her mouth grew, jaws enlarging, bursting out of her face, springing towards the cow.

Jill reared up, her soft brown hide shining, her mouth dripping saliva. Sylvia rushed over, knelt, and gnashed her teeth into the cow's back. Jill blurted an upset noise. Sylvia caught a load of cow fur itch against her tongue and throat. Jill tasted bitter but warm like the fresh milk sweltering in her insides. Sylvia tugged her closer, enthralled. Why did she taste so good?

Sylvia pushed her face into the cow's back, biting deeper. Jill screamed out harshly, swerving on her side. The cow's legs flew up. Sylvia dodged each striking limb, pressing against her so close that rebellion was meaningless. Sylvia latched a hand into Jill's back, drawing the cow's side closer, into her mouth again.

Sylvia's arms felt stronger, heavier, hairier, and sharp things were coming out of her fingers. She dragged them into Jill's shuddering back and kept her steady.

As her face grew heavy, her vision became dark and like a large fur hood had been draped over her eyes.

She wrenched Jill close, taking another bite. Next thing she knew blood flecked her cheeks. Her face smashed into the purple-black viscera. Jill whined out fierce, crying the most agonized noises. Sylvia threw her down. She plunged her head into Jill's side and feasted underneath the moon.

29 DAYS LEFT

She woke up slow and reluctant, the taste of raw cow in her mouth.

Sylvia was lying in a new bed, and she wasn't inside the shack.

Her hands scratched out for some bearing and pulled at fine velvet sheets. A look down made out new clothes: her shirt and trousers had transformed into gentle satin undergarments beyond the wages of a simple peasant girl. Last night rolled into memory. The full moon falling over town. Jill flying over the dirt.

Sunlight glittered in.

She was in a small cabin with shuttered windows, opened to allow smoke through. A fireplace burned at the back. The walls had vibrant splattered patterns like red paint had dried and shredded off. Behind Sylvia was an elaborately carved door. A man with rugged blond hair, a silver-flecked goatee, and heavy black-fur-overalls slouched on a stool in front. Despite the fire, it was cold.

She smelt something.

Besides the bed, a plate was on a stool. On the plate was a roast bird stretched out, its juices wafting up. Sticking from the bird was a long table knife.

She flew up, snatched the knife, and leapt at the man in the chair. He did not move. Instead, the door broke open. Another man rushed in from outside. He had greasy dark hair, moustache, and one long untrimmed beard. The man from the woods.

She hung back, breathing heavy, pointing the knife.

'Look, what am I doing here? Where's my brother Bobby? Who are you? How did you find me and put me in this bed?'

The sitting man lifted from his chair, putting up his hands. He spoke with a Scottish accent.

'Please, there's no need for knives. Trust me when I say it couldn't cut through a straw — and I know. I was once in your position, sleeping in that bed and waking up to someone like me sitting right here.'

He tapped the stool, then smiled.

Sylvia dropped the knife, collapsing onto the bed and crossing her knees. She thought of Bobby waking up alone in their shack, wondering where she was.

The sitting man coughed.

'You've found yourself in a very unique position,' he said; 'ever since a month ago when that big wolf attacked you in that big castle over yonder. It probably hasn't escaped your attention that he wasn't like other wolves. You pushed him into the furnace, that was very impressive of you; however, and from what we understand, our friend the wolfman managed to give you a mighty great bite.'

She rubbed her arm where the scars stung. 'Yes, I know. I killed him.'

The sitting man laughed, a high-pitched squeak.

'Oh small wee girl, that's not half of it. He gave you a special role when he bit you. Now when the big old full moon lifts itself into the sky once a month, you'll transform. Oh Lord helps the poor folks around you. You're a wolf girl now.'

Sylvia's fingers itched where claws had appeared last night, their tips still raw and bruised. Her face darkened, partly from confusion, mostly from terror. A flush flew down her back like a freezing wet hand on her spine.

'William was a cruel master,' the standing man said; 'so we expect you to be cruel. Cruelty comes with being Master Wolf. Every month, you will turn into the wolf and you will feed. You're young and have yet to taste human blood, so we may have to feed you. But don't worry, we know you're going to have plenty of feasts over the years. After all, you are Master Wolf. When the full moon rises, a great shadow will fall. Everything will hide from you, all the animals, all the trees will hide. Even the wind will creep over the hills to hide. But you will feed. Hundreds, thousands will be killed.'

He held his hands up in awe, then brought them down.

'I'm sorry,' he said

Sylvia got up off the bed and ran to the door behind.

She ran out into the daylight. A barefoot run, down the wagon steps, over the hillside. into the woods where the dark trees looked welcoming. A quiet wind rifled through the leaves. Her feet trampled over thistles, snapping twigs, and nightclothes was cold, ill-fitting.

Sylvia stopped, breathing in.

Her hands trembled.

A headache began.