By Ruth A. Acheson

Twilight falls, and shadows hang heavily over me.

I snuggle deeper into my red cloak, tighten my grip on my basket of treats, and continue down the tangled path.

Darkness deepens with each step.

What I thought was a tree’s shadow moves to block my way.

I yelp.

“Hush, Scarlet.” The voice is deep, edged with gravel.

“Conan,” I huff. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

He growls a laugh. “It’s not every day that a werewolf gets a chance for fun.”

“Fun is scaring me?” Yet I let a smile escape.

“Off to Grandmother’s?” Conan’s gaze flits to the basket. His green eyes are safe and familiar, unlike the mindless, dull red when he’s fully lycanthrope.

“Yes. Will you walk with me?” In case any of your friends are around?

Conan grins. He nudges back his cowl, revealing his hairy face and pointed snout. “I’ll come, since you’re scared of the dark. You’ll owe me, Scarlet Cofano.”

I stride past him, nearly tripping on my long crimson cloak in my effort to be dignified. “Fine. Come on, wolf boy.”

We continue down the path together. Conan paces noiselessly beside me, ears alert for any sound, and I eye the dark trees around us.

When my best friend fell under the werewolves’ spell, I feared I lost him forever. He prowled the forest during the full moon, red-eyed and slavering. But, inexplicably, his humanity always returns, and the red retreats from his eyes. My friend is back—albeit slightly furrier, with a hatred of anything silver, and an annoyingly keen sense of smell.

One more bend in the road separates us from Grandmother’s house.

I’m about to ask Conan if he’ll wait and walk me home when a scream rips through the air, followed by an inhuman roar.

Grandmother? My breath catches, and I run as fast as I can towards the tumbledown house.

Conan drops to all fours and bounds past me.

Another scream drags my breathless body forward, and I skid into the clearing just behind Conan. He crouches, mouth open, sharp teeth glinting in the twilight.

Grandmother’s eyeglasses are crooked and the lace on her nightgown has torn away, trailing in the wind like a surrender flag. She stands on a bench, jabbing her cane at an emaciated, flannel-clad man wielding a silver axe.

The Huntsman.

Conan tenses, muscles bunching under his fur.

“Wait, no.” I fumble in my basket. “Don’t attack him, Conan.”

He snarls, “That man is attacking your grandmother. Why shouldn’t I attack him?”

“It’s the Huntsman. He always ends up at Grandmother’s when he’s drunk. He either goes for her with his axe or asks her to marry him, depending on the day.” I yank a jar of raspberry preserves from my basket. “He’s harmless.”

Conan squints at me. “He has an axe, Scarlet—a silver axe, I might add.”

“Don’t worry. The sight of blood always sobers him.” I rip off the jar lid and drizzle the preserves onto my arms.

Conan chuckles. “Your grandmother got him with her cane.”

“When I nod, you howl for all you’re worth.” I return the jam to my basket. “You just bit me, and I’m trying to get to my grandma’s so I can bandage my wound and escape you.”

“Are you trying to get me axed?” Conan levels his green glare at me.

I jab a jam-covered finger at him. “He won’t touch you. He’ll be too busy trying to stop me from bleeding out. Besides, most people are afraid of angry werewolves.”

He snorts. “You’re crazy.”

I nod in reluctant assent.

My werewolf friend springs at me without warning. He catches at my cloak’s hem with his teeth, growling as if he really is a wolf.

He is a wolf. As Conan’s long, lethal claws swipe at my arm, true fear races through me. He could kill me if he wanted to.

The Huntsman turns on us, and Grandmother smacks him with her cane again.

The drunken woodsman stumbles forward, dropping his axe. “Oy,” he slurs. “She’s bleedin’.”

Grandmother screams. “A wolf!”

Conan’s howl sends shivers skittering across my scalp like spiders.

“Grandmother!” I make a dash for the house, but Conan’s teeth are still clenched in my cloak. I stumble and fall.

He snarls and releases the fabric.

Our gazes lock for one moment.

He winks.

The Huntsman barrels towards us, bloodshot eyes locked on my jam-smeared arm.

Conan turns and lopes awkwardly across the grassy sward, finally vanishing into the trees.

“You all right, miss?” The Huntsman lurches to his knees beside me. “Did ‘e hurt you?”

I clutch my arm. “Just a scratch.” Conan’s growls were an act, but my voice still trembles.

“Scarlet, are you well?” Grandmother totters up to us.

“Yes, Grandmother. But I don’t know if your raspberry jam is.” I brush away the Huntsman’s hands as he tries to examine my “scratch.”

Grandmother raises her eyebrows. “Argento, I think it’s time you go home. When you’re sober, come ‘round for a cup of tea.”

“Yes, miss.” The Huntsman hauls himself to his feet. “An’ you’re sure you’re all right?”

I clamber to my feet as well and pick up my basket. “I’m fine! Grandmother, can we talk inside?”

“I’ll be goin’ then. Afternoon, ladies.” The Huntsman picks up his axe and lumbers towards the forest.

“I have a fresh pot of tea ready.” Grandmother glances from the forest to the raspberry jam staining my blouse. “Will you invite your friend?”

I stare at her. “Friend?”

“I haven’t seen a werewolf with green eyes before.” Grandmother’s wrinkles deepen as she grins. “I’ll even use my ordinary spoons if he comes for tea.”

“Thank you.” I pull at the jam-soaked fabric sticking to my skin. “I’ll ask him.”

She chuckles. “A drunken huntsman and a green-eyed werewolf in one day—and here they said retirement would be dull and colorless.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruth A. Acheson is an author, farmer’s daughter, and dreamer from the PNW. She enjoys classic literature, long walks, and creating stories which glorify her Savior and amuse her readers. Although she doesn’t spend her days with Laurie Lawrence, she—like Jo March—clutters her room with apple cores, poetry, and pencils. When she’s not investigating wardrobe worlds, playing the piano, or studying, you can find her website.Author Website