The Cursed Lycan

There is a mute sort of pleasure found lying in one's own filth - defecation and urine leaving bodily imprints on the cold concrete floor. The whip marks are still fresh and open, raw gilded flesh hanging from the body like feathers from a dreamcatcher, slowly weeping blood.

"Mother."

The only constant sound in the swallowing darkness is that of a sentenced prisoner, somewhere in the dungeon's corner.

Like a reminder, it keeps Kairo's fading mind straight while he teeters on the brink of absolute insanity. A steep fall he knew he'd approach soon enough.

His body burns and aches in regions he did not know existed. The length of his back, which was once clothed in royal robes, is now bare and slick with divine blood; his torso is matted with blackening bruises and skin protrusions along the dome of his ribcage, indicating just how many bones had been fractured, the ragged edges now pressing against the barrier of skin.

The rise and fall of his chest is a labored stagger, like a pneumatic struggle to inhale oxygen. Each exhale leaves in a high pitched whistle, wet with a strangling gurgle of blood and mucus that clog his throat. There is a distinct crackle in his left lower lung.

"Mother!"

The darkness is absolute.

So thick, Kairo cannot tell if his eyes are open or shut.

Touch your eyes, he thinks warily, then remembers with a vague sort of agony that he is missing all fingers.

The fingers, the hands that sinned.

Sliced clean before the council members. The pain had been so distinct in that moment, the terror like cold shards of ice pricking through his throat, swelling it shut as no sound but a high pitched cry left him. The vivid crunching of bones, one by one, lived eternally in his ears.

Ten stumps for ten fingers.

The blade had been dipped in boiling silver and laced with wolfsbane, denying his own body permission to heal itself. They wanted to prolong his agony, and so they had.

"Mother!" the prisoner wails and paces.

He had seen the prisoner once; when the guards were dragging his half-conscious body through the cellars hallway. Their lights cast sombre tones of gold forward like an offering to the misshapen forms hidden in the darkness. A transient gift, perhaps.

The prisoner had been calling for his mother in a state of pure delirium. As they passed his cell, Kairo had caught a glimpse of the man - then wished he had not.

It was an adult with the disfigured body of a child. His body resembled a wasted corpse, etiolated skin shifting over flesh so thinly Kairo could name every bone, and when he hunched over himself in the corner, his backbone surfaced clean like a fish's rippling spine.

The man stared at Kairo, eyes sunken in boundless cups of grime.

The Prince had been terrified of being abandoned in the dungeon with the man. Afraid that he would manage to slip between the bars and claw his eyes out, gnaw at his limbs, or simply watch and stare.

He'd begged, he'd pleaded, he'd commanded, but the guards stared unmoved and apathetic - not at a Prince, but a traitor.

"Motherrrr!"

Something scurries over his outstretched leg; its cool curled nails briefly dig into his skin, long, scaled tail brushing the curve of his calf, before darting into the adjacent cell.

"Motherrrr!"

Kairo blinks slowly. His stomach had ceased the demand for nourishment days before, perhaps succumbing to the inevitable conclusion that his death would be through starvation and nothing more.

But a peaceful death was something his father would never permit.

Punishments were meted and placed accordingly.

An eye for an eye.

A life for a life.

"Your mother is not here," the prince whispers, voice hoarse and throbbing.

In the space of three days, the dull anger that had risen beneath his skin to choke him now simmers as a conceding feeling overcomes him.

I deserve it.

"Mother," the hoarse, echoing cry comes. "Mum."

There is a long pause. A burning sensation slowly spreads behind his eyes, joining at the bridge of his nose, slipping down his swelling throat, and his chin trembles just slightly.

"MOOOTHERRR-" The voice comes drifting through the steel bars of the holding cells again, as mournful as a foghorn.

The sound of bolts groaning open echoes somewhere in the corner of Kairo's nebulous mind. Though his sense of sight was deprived, the vibrations on the clammy cement floor on which he lies are enough of an awakening - the harsh military pounding of boots.

"Mother?"

Light floods Kairo's cell, so bright his eyes snap shut as his pupils burn from the sudden invasion.

"Rise," a guttural voice demands, then pauses at the sight of the immobile prince. He grunts disapprovingly, then works the cell door open, allowing two men to step inside.

Kairo sees their large silhouettes poise over him like a dark sun, lambent golden eyes staring down. Their gloved hands pinch at his bare biceps as each of them slip a hand under his armpit and lift him to his feet.

Kairo stumbles weakly and slumps against one guard, whose scowl deepens in distaste but does not move in avoidance, while the other locks heavy shackles across both wrists and ankles.

"Mother?"

"I'll tell you what your mum can do," one guard snorts as they pass the cell. Kairo casts a furtive stare through his blond, overgrown curls at the man.

He still sits curled in the corner, cooing to himself, knees pulled tight to his chest.

But then Kairo's eyes widen.

He stifles a cry of revulsion.

A larger, sleek rat is feasting on the man's toe. Its repulsive pink tail neatly coiled around its gray body. White whiskers flecked with red.

The man's glazed eyes watch him, and then comes his hoarse, hopeful voice; "Mum?"

They lead him out into the light.

Though it hurts to move, breathe and blink, the prince steadily does so. He forces himself to inhale the foreign fresh air, feel the sun's golden rays grace his maimed body with comforting caresses.

The palace hallway is desolate and opulent. Never had it been this silent, yet it is. As they pass rooms, Kairo notices the lack of people, the absence of servants.

Why would they be here? he thinks with bitter amusement, then sobers down as guilt settles like an anchor on his chest. They are mourning.

These were the halls in which he once tread on, adorned in fine princely garments; pride and confidence in each fleeting smile; bright, buoyant eyes focused on his siblings as they walked with arms thrown over each other's shoulders; past the garden beyond glass walls in which he played, he trained, he grew.

It would all end today.

Each memory held over a flame, and he would watch on helplessly as it lights and turns to ash.

The guards guide him down a final long hall. It is one he is sharply familiar with, from the golden embroidered frames on each side with images of Alphas who preceded his father, to Betas who stood loyally and died faithfully, to Lunas who fruitfully bore iron-fisted heirs.

One frame would be missing.

The guards draw to a halt as the doors are ceremoniously opened: a perverted inversion of a coronation, something supposedly glorious but this was anything but.

The Alpha, tall and broad-shouldered, sits on his gold-laced throne. He adorns a military outfit beneath a black mourning coat. Dark pitted circles shadow the silver solemn eyes that watch him, eyes that once regarded him with love and decided devotion now... empty.

His mother rests beside him on her throne wearing all black, her face hidden beneath a thin mourning veil.

All his siblings stand behind the thrones, hands clasped before them, gazes that once swimmed with infinite affection now hollow, endless pits that slide through him.

The hall curves around them like a dome, glass panes allowing rays of white light to filter through.

The room is warm but all Kairo feels is cold.

They lead him towards the centre where a stone table is set, clips for chains set on all corners. In the corner of his eye, Kairo sees the raging burn of flames, two branding sticks set within the sweltering heat.

His chest contracts and his pleading eyes rise to the stone figures before him. "Father," the boy whimpers, the aching stubs of his fingers begging in unison with his voice. "I'm sorry, mother. I'm-"

The Prince is cut off by a shudder upon reaching the table, the cold-cut edges pressing deeply into his waist. The Alpha's eyes flash like teeth in a wolf's mouth, dangerous and deadly.

"Chain him."

"No-" His protest goes unheard, fear rippling along his arms like electricity. "No, please-" The guards waste no time in unfastening the clunking chain that connects his shackles, instead binding his wrists to the clips at each end of the table. His tensed abdomen hovers over the slate, arms stretched, eyes wide and desperately searching for mercy.

Mercy.

He was not deserving.

Kairo's head swivels upon his wounded neck at the sight of both rods being buried deeply within the blazing coals, a loud hiss resonating within the palace halls. But it is when the guards slowly remove the pokers that he recognises the symbol burning like hot, unforgiving magma at each end.

"Please," he whispers, but no one hears.

Cold sweat trickles down the curve of his spine, melted ice maneuvering through each crevice and soft plane of his body, but it is nothing compared to the heat that approaches.

And then reaches.

Kairo screams.

It shreds through his throat, tearing the cords into slithers of fluttering flesh as the silver singes the centre of his back and chest. It is the same place on both sides of his body. The bubbling of flesh attempts to enter the air, but the room is engulfed by his shattering cries.

Cries for his father.

His mother.

His dead, beloved brother.

The shape of a traitor brands his skin - a mark of his crime that he would forever bear in shame, for he was unworthy of forgiveness and his father had ingrained the principle not only in his body but in his yielding, shattered mind. His ears ring, pain clouding his senses as the silver remains embedded for but a few moments more, but it feels like eons in the making.

They pull away.

Tears brutally blind him. His tensed arms do not lax, his body burning with flames of guilt as he sobs, curls matting his glistening forehead. They unclip Kairo from the table and for a brief, blessed moment, he perceives his physical suffering has come to an end. Blinking, he angles his chin just slightly upwards, the agony dulling at the sight of his mother once more.

But then he finds the gaze of his brother's mate.

She stares at him. Shame crushes him like a wave upon a drifting ship, the force weighing his trembling shoulders until he almost shrinks. The pain in those eyes. The hatred.

The Prince is too consumed by her fiery, watering irises to realise that the guards had lain him down on his back, his burning wounds still prickling as they singe the rock beneath him. Warm tears still pour down his flushed cheeks as he registers the restraints locking each ankle and wrist to the table... like an offering.

He does not know who to.

The doors open.

Bewildered, excruciated, Kairo watches, vision blurred by the fresh influx of tears.

It is a woman, he realises.

She is hauntingly beautiful in the way that she carries herself, feet gliding as though some divine creature released from the heavens. Pale skin shells her slender body, veiled merely by a sheer, silken wrap that encases her shoulders and drapes down to her thighs. Her dark hair cascades down her breasts while her hips sensuously sway, hooded eyes connecting with his.

A horrifying cognizance bleeds into him in that moment.

No.

Kairo begins to growl like a mad, feral animal. His body trembles in terror, eyes dilating to black as he jerks against the constraints wildly.

"Mother!" A terrified sob rips through his throat, the sound hoarse and tearing. He falls back, heaving, weeping as glistening rivulets of tears slip down his temples. "Mother, please-"

The Alpha's eyes remain sharp, desolate.

"Silence him."

Kairo does not see the guard move nimbly behind him. A silver chain is looped twice around his throat in one, swift movement and wrenched tight, crushing his trachea. His voice dies in a high pitched wheeze as the chain is tugged down, slamming the back of his head onto the uneven stone, and the room sparks.

Kairo opens his mouth to cry out, but the chain jams against his windpipe and the sound is choked off.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe.

He tries to fight off the chain but his limbs remain pinned to the stone, rendering him weak and vulnerable to the forces around him.

Fear rises past his chest in cold, shaking waves and he trembles violently. The chain tightens and a soundless gasp leaves his mouth as pressure increases tenfold under his eyes, pounding on his temples like an arrhythmic drum.

"He must be awake during the process," a voice whispers, and the chain loosens in the slightest.

It is too late. Each intake of air feels like splintering knives prodding his fractured throat, yet in his weakened state, Kairo feels far more.

The sudden weight of another body maneuvering above his.

The brush of silk on his bare limbs.

Hands.

Soft palms settling on the curve of his hips, pressing, branding hot like an iron. They touch him in ways that reduce him to a vulnerable, weeping child.

Skin.

The contact of her inner thighs settling on his outer thighs, caging him in. Entrapping him. The press of her pelvis on his as she begins to surreptitiously adjust her inner garment aside. The hands stroke him with practiced gestures, reaching each spot, constricting and relaxing. With another dribbling from the small aphrodisiac jar onto her palms, she continues.

Kairo's mind is still scrambled, disbelieving.

He feels his father's gaze on him, steady and unblinking.

The hand is back on his hip for anchorage as she rises on her knees and uses the other to adjust him, poised under her entrance.

Around, he hears the soft intakes of breaths from members all watching.

The dullness to their punishing gazes, void of any empathy.

Empathy for a child.

As she sinks, a pained, empty thought enters him, bare against the grinding stone: I am no longer his son, this is my punishment.

A mortal would have fainted, but he is awake for every moment.

She slides back, and his manhood pushes between her soft, yielding folds into the dark fissure where her thighs meet beneath the round hill of her backside.

She moves like a wave in the surf, gliding down before swelling, rolling and breaking against his banks, then flowing back away.

Her hands remain on his hips.

But Kairo remains numb.

Her lips part in little sighs as each undulation of her hips rock onto him, her serpentine-like hair rippling over bare breasts, flowing down her flat belly soon to swell with his seed.

Hollow.

At last, he feels her tremble as she comes undone above him. His throat is crushed inward like a rotted log. He could not seem to move. A drop of sweat falls from her hair onto his clavicle with a soft tap, and the sound is magnified.

She slides off him as another maiden hurriedly approaches, pressing a cloth between her thighs to trap his leaking seed.

Kairo becomes aware of men speaking around him.

Is it done?

Yes, it seems so.

Should the Alpha send another in case?

The dome above his head resembles a kaleidoscope of varying colors. Beyond, the sky is limitless and blue.

A face looms over his own. His eyes are open.

The guard that had choked him now steps back and spits at the floor. The jellied glob quivers on the stone. A drop of sweat slides onwards, carving its slimy furrow.

Another face hovers above his own, and this time he knows who it is. The Alpha watches him, silver eyes empty, all but reflecting his son prostrate and broken on the stone table.

The man that had loved and protected him touches his cool, wet cheek, swiping at a stray tear and holding the bead of glitter to the light.

"You, Kairo Xanthos, are hereby banished from the wolf realm for the murder of my eldest son. " the words should have felt like a blow; heavy and pounding on his chest, but all Kairo feels is void.

They deflect off his hollow chest like light on obsidian surfaces. "You will roam the mortal realm as a cursed beast, never a moment of peace, never a moment of rest for as long as I live." The thumb with his tear presses on his forehead, baptizing him. "For eternity."

All is silent.

A long, mournful breeze sighs from the dome above and slinks down towards the prostrated prince, pressing gently on his skin.

The Alpha is waiting.

Convulsively, Kairo swallows.

His throat clicks.

He feels a space close in him - Kairo says nothing, for that is what he has become.

The wintry morning wind presses gently on Leya's numb red cheek, soft wisps of dark hair falling over her scrutinizing bright cerulean eyes.

With a petulant huff, she blows the dark curl away only for gravity to place it back in position.

Leya sighs into the autumn air, a small cloud of mist swirling tentatively over her flushed lips. She sniffs once and adjusts the heavy camo jacket she wears, snow crunching noisily beneath her figure as a result.

For once, Leya does not mind the disruptive noise as she had been crouched on her belly in the same position for three gruelling hours.

The Forest had been silent, so much so she checked her hearing aids just to confirm that they indeed still worked.

The previous night's Blizzard had settled into a soft hiss of snowflakes falling sporadically and scarcely over the bare woodlands.

Winter would be arriving and most wild animals, at least the large ones, would have either migrated or holed up in caves hidden from Plainview in hibernation.

Time had spread her thin throughout autumn for game, her main source of income, was deteriorating at an unnerving rate. She needed a big kill, one that would sell for a high price- maybe a thousand or two dollars, sufficient money to keep her electricity, water and heat running for the next two or so months of unbearable winter.

If not that, Leya would have to resort to carpentry; and right now, not many people are interested in dining tables or seats. Including the tedious job of sawing down frozen barks and cleaning them in her shed. It would take weeks to produce a set of furniture and by then winter's darkness would have settled over the town like an elderberry skin.

Dipping into your savings is always an option, Leya thinks in dry humour but knows she would never resort to her contingency funding. The money had been reserved for life or death situations.

Starvation and potential hypothermia were not.

Setting her shotgun back down on the snow - a clean Mossberg 500 Field 12 gauge- Leya rises onto her knees and promptly brushes the partially melted snow from her front before tugging at the pink hairband around her wrist with her teeth.

Carding her cold numb fingers through her scalp, she gathers her long inky hair up into a neat ponytail then ties it.

The weight lifted away from her face allows for sharper concentration, and as she settles back down, Leya spots movement on her left peripheral view.

Her body takes on an automatic reaction; stilling completely and pressing flat on the snow, each loud breath dimming to a measured, noiseless draw of air.

As the large dark figure begins to move into view, Leya feels her heart juddering in response; a cold rush of excitement darts down her stiff spine at the sight of the moose.

A male, she notes after a furtive look below the belly area, and alone.

The moose long legs tread through the snow at a leisurely pace. Its winding broad antlers proudly spread on display, the hairs so thick Leya can distinctly see it from where she lies.

For a moment, the hunter is entranced by the stunning sight of the wild animal. The curve of its hunched neck as it sweeps low to graze of undead patches of grass stomped free beneath thin layers of ice.

A cold breeze brushes her reddened nose tip.

Carefully, Leya reaches for the shotgun and props it up on the makeshift wooden block she had carved out. Peering through the extended periscope, she adjusts the visual and watches the animal strut then pause again, as though sensing her presence.

Exhaling a soft breath, Leya reaches up to her right ear, blindly tracing the familiar path of her hearing aid to the back where two buttons lie. Her fingertip touches the control listening program, adjusting the settings inwards such that all she hears is her heightened breathing, then the volume button.

Leya turns it down, and with a satisfying click, her right ear is soundless.

She repeats the same with her left, then hovers a moment in the deafening silence- like a bubble swollen shut around her.

With all distractions cancelled, Leya grows acutely aware of the figure before her.

The moose had paused over another patch of clean grass, its thick neck bent low.

Shutting one eye, she peers into the periscope and skims the crosshair pointer across its lower body, then lowers it a 1/3 of the distance from the bottom of its chest to the top of its back. She places the vertical crosshair directly behind the near side front leg.

Over the past five years as a hunter, Leya had learned a lot in terms of game anatomy, the perfect game shot, yard distance, bullet velocity and which shots to hit that would kill the animal instantly, and not subject it to a damning agonizing slow death.

The heart-lung shot had to be the top tip all hunters preferred if not most. The heart provided little room for error: too far forward and you've got a non-fatal brisket shot; too low and you've hit muscle or broken a leg.

Anything short of that would either result in the animal escaping maimed and her having to track it for a day or two, the game escaping and its leaking blood attracting other predators such as wolves or it turning and attacking her in a blind frenzied state.

A kill shot had always been her main aim. Quick, clean and accurate or none at all.

Pressing her cheek on the cool hardened plastic of her shotgun, she lifts her fingertip onto the trigger.

The moose raises its head then.

Her finger pressed on the trigger.

The sound can be heard from miles away, but Leya hears nothing. All she feels is the sudden heavy jerk as the gun bumps her front shoulder, the heat radiating from metal, and as she peers into the periscope- the sudden stagger of the moose as it jerks back and catapults to the snow.

Leya lifts her face and peers into the distance at its unmoving body. Her flushed lips curl in a relieved smile, and she rubs her fingertips over her chest, soothing her racing heart.

Leaping onto her feet, she slings the gun over her shoulder and grabs her backpack before making for the felled game. Her thrift store timberlands pound on the snow-laden earth, breaking the ice, crunching twigs.

A snowflake falls on her ear.

Leya's steps begin to falter as the distance between them subsides. She sees the animal with clarity; the twitching of its hind legs as though its instinct of running had not truly been processed by the brain, its large snout huffing into the snow, polished obsidian eye glimmering like glass as it gazes at the clear sky shifting on its axis.

A carpet of dark red blood begins to bloom beneath it, soaking through the field of white.

Leya halts by the animal and slowly kneels.

Her hand, brown and scarred, tentatively reaches out and subtly presses on its fur over the ribcage. Its fur is coarse yet soft beneath her touch, slipping between her fingers like fine sand.

She knows it is wheezing from the erratic pulsing of his chest, and she strokes it almost soothingly until its chest finally stops mid-heave, settling very slowly, like the weight of an automobile settling down on a flat tire.

The beat-up blue truck rattles dangerously and loud as it backs up into the butcher's driveway.

Killing the engine, Leya pushes the door open and leaps off the high seat just as a familiar man steps out of the butcher.

"Hey, kid," Kit, the town's butcher, wipes his bloodied hands on his stained apron which was once bleached white, "it's been a minute."

"I come bearing gifts." Leya cannot contain the grin that eats her face as she rounds the truck and, opening the back, allows the barrier to fall halfway revealing her prized game.

With a dramatic wave of her hands, she mocks a bow while presenting the dead moose stuffed on the truck's bed.

Kit's loud brazen impressed whistle serves the pleasurable warming of her cheeks, bright eyes watching the old man step forward almost in a trance.

"Well I'll be," he removes his Yankees baseball cap and scratches his bald spot, "where the hell did ya get it? I thought they moved up North."

"Apparently not this one," she muses, averting her gaze to the large game. It had been a hustle getting it onto the bed of her truth.

Leya relied on chaining its hind legs then placing a slanted platform with a flat top. With the truck's effort, she dragged the moose atop the platform then backed before exiting and shoving the animal in with her hands and legs.

"Jesus," he smiles revealing teeth that, at best, had a nodding acquaintance with his toothbrush. "The mayor's gonna be over the moon."

Selling wild game was illegal, but people of power oftentimes slipped between the rules like slippery fishes.

Leya rubs her cold hands and blows into them as a harsh wintry chill billow across the town, "How much do you think it weighs?"

"Hm," Kit's beady eyes dance over the creature calculatingly, "it's a bull. Could be around seven hundred and fifty kilograms. I'll probably dress out four-thirty and yield approximately two-twenty."

Noticing the pinch of her expression as she does mental math, Kit chuckles, heartily slamming her small shoulder with his large beefy hand, " 's about two grand, kid."

Jerking his head towards the butchery, he nods her in, "Head on in and warm up while I get my men to take it down. Anna's in the shop, feel free to pick out groceries, on me."

Leya's cerulean eyes widen, gazing up at him in mild shock. "Really?"

He nods. "You've made my week, it's the least I can do is stock your fridge," a pause, "Nothing more than eighty dollars."

Her small head bops up and down like a bird, "Noted," had he not reeked to the high heavens of sour meat, Leya would have hugged him.

Slipping into the warm grocery store with the butcher set in one corner, Leya stomps her snow boots on the carpet, shaking her body back and forth as the perfect warmth settles on her body like a blanket.

Anna, Kit's daughter, reclines behind the register with AirPods on and a manga open. She glances up and their eyes meet across the air.

Anna nods.

Leya smiles.

Picking a basket, she begins to fill it with necessary items, mentally pulling out a checklist of inventory. Vegetables, fish and chicken, jasmine rice, toilet paper, a plastic kitty bowl with a red paw print at the front, soap and woollen socks.

The small bell above the entrance door tinkers as kit steps in, another man in tow; "...tomorrow night is the lockdown, I also suggest barring up your back door as well..."

Leya stiffens at the familiar voice and glances up hastily. Holden, the police officer, stands beside Kit as they converse amiably, brown eyes flickering in amusement despite the severity of his features.

Her face flushes instinctively and she begins to duck behind an aisle a moment too late.

"Leya?" Holden's voice is decadent enough to ripple thrills up her spine. And for a daring moment, Leya flinches excitedly.

She turns, schooling her features to shock. "Holden?"

He smiles, approaching. "How are you? Kit showed me the catch you made out front," was that pleasure in his eyes? "Perfect shot."

"Game shot," she corrects demurely.

"Game shot," he echoes and they hover before each other. Holden's gaze curiously sweeps over her, "chicken tonight?"

Leya blinks dumbly then lowers her gaze to the basket, "Oh! No, maybe... I mean," she internally flinches and clears her throat, "yes if I have time. Do you like chicken?"

His eyes dance mirthfully, wallowing in her stuttering shyness. "I do."

"Well y'know," Leya rubs at a spot on her inner wrist, "you can drop by for a quick friendly dinner," noting the fall of his expression, she quickly amends "if you're free that is."

"I'd have to take a rain check on the dinner. The full moon is tomorrow night." The second part is spoken with a hardness.

Leya mods. It is hard to forget the full moon when posters are printed all over town, aired on the radio and even set as reminders during breaks on television.

Night of the Beast.

She would have to spend most of her daytime boarding up the windows and doors with wooden planks and silver. Wolfsbane poured around the house like a circle of salt to ward of the Lycan.

"There's another storm heading our way tomorrow," Holden draws her attention back to him, "lockdown will begin a bit earlier."

"How early?"

"Four."

Lockdown usually begins at six.

Leya nods slowly, "How many days?"

"Possibly one this time around, the alarm will go off when it's clear." on nights when the full moon would remain suspended above them, the beast would prowl for three or four days, smelling out its next victims.

Sometimes the town would lose ten people at once. Houses broken through with ease, bodies dragged from beds and baby cots.

The streets would be bloody the next morning, ropes of shit filled intestines and severed heads idle.

"I'll pass by at noon to help close up your home," Holden reaches out and flicks her chin playfully, "maybe then we can have dinner."

The axe swings hard, flashing silver through the thin wintry air before making contact with the tree trunk. The impact sends a violent shudder up Leya's arms, rippling like dark wings along her shoulder blades and meeting at the base of her spine.

Her flushed lips part in an exhale of light air, doodles of faint clouds escaping into the afternoon air and she steps back to squint up at the tall tree. Precariously, it leans on one tenuous end before tilting backwards with a final groan of submission.

It creaks whilst falling, the crashing sound thundering through the forest as birds squawk and soar from their nests in fright - but Leya doesn't hear them. In such moments, she would have yelled a theatrical 'Timber!' as most lumberjacks do, but the silence she finds herself in is comforting and her body feels achy like a whipped dog, throat parched from the day's work.

She releases the axe handle and treads towards the felled tree. The heavy chains wrapped around her waist only slow her movements to that of a sluggish walk coupled with the ankle-deep snow.

Her thighs burn from the effort, perspiration beading her dark brows like fine drops of water on gossamer threads.

"Timber," she mumbles while looping the chain through the thick branches and treading back to her parked truck.

Key slotting into the engine, she bites the tip of her glove and slips out one numb, stinging hand, then repeats the process for the other. Leya cranks up the heating, pausing to cup her palms over the small dusty vent before pressing on the gas pedal, guiding the truck through the woods once more.

The uneven, bumpy terrain makes the effort of driving tedious as Leya patiently manoeuvres through thick snow and slate trees with their branches twisted like elongated, arthritic fingers. The journey to her cabin would have taken her ten minutes had it been summer, not a speck of snow in sight and clumped, drying grass all around, but time stretches her thinly and by the time she glimpses the familiar chimney of her cabin, forty minutes have passed.

Her foot slowly releases the gas as the trees part and a sleek black car appears parked at the side of her cabin. She knows who it is without searching for the owner, and the mere thought of him starts a thin, creeping flush from his collar.

Holland rounds her cabin with an armful of planks, his police uniform faintly powdered with sawdust. Mustard, her ginger tabby cat, paces by his boots whilst meowing conversationally, looping around his ankles like a slippery fish, the golden, tinkling bell on her collar reflecting light from the setting sun.

The pair glance up at the coughing sound of her truck and Holland raises a hand in greeting. Despite the distance between them, Leya notes the slight quirk of his mouth as a grin appears on his face like the sun from behind a cloud. She waves at him awkwardly from the driver's seat, then glances at the rearview mirror, keenly scrutinizing her reflection.

Pale, slate blue eyes gaze back at her, along with a small but determined chin and the line that formed between her eyes - one that Holland had often pointed out as cute - indexing her every emotion. Leya wipes at the smudge of dirt on her chin with her sleeve, wishing she had dabbed on perfume of some kind, then inhales a breath of courage.

Snatching her backpack from the passenger seat, she leaps out of the truck and makes her way towards the cabin, snow and ice crunching beneath her boots, cheeks flexing with the urge to smile overly wide.

Holland lowers the planks to the snow and claps dirt from his gloved hands, his lips spreading in a familiar fluidity that has Leya gazing at it in wonder despite hearing him; "I started at the back and sides."

Leya blinks and trails off, "Thanks." She peers down the side of the cabin, admiring his meticulous work, much like everything he does. "You know you didn't have to."

Holland lifts a wooden panel, the defined muscles on his forearms flexing. "You say that but who else is going to help you?" he says, sparing her an exasperated, pointed look. "I don't understand why you make it difficult for yourself, Ley. You wouldn't have to go to such great lengths every full moon if you lived closer to town."

Leya closely watches his mouth movement, the particular dappling pressing at the corner of his lip, then shrugs and starts nailing the panel he holds over her windows. "I like the quiet," she explains, pausing to cast him a sheepish grin, "And it's cheap."

"Not if I asked you to pay me for this. By the looks of it, this is free labour."

Leya's jaw slackens and she waves her hammer slightly. "But I told you that you didn't have to help!"

He registers the hammer, then her, a sly smile growing. "But I'm helping, aren't I?"

"Well... don't expect me to pay your hospital bills if I hit one of your fingers by accident."

Holland arches a politely curious eyebrow. "You mean like last time?"

She watches him, cheeks warming in embarrassment. "It-It was an accident!" Flustered by the open manner in which he regards her, she averts her gaze to the plank and begins hammering whilst muttering to herself, finding more coherence in her thoughts when not looking at him.

"I vividly remember you trying to hammer my finger off," he says plainly and her eyes flash in his direction.

"An accident," she repeats.

Holland's chuckle warms her cheeks and she admires the crinkling corners of his dark eyes, the flash of pearly teeth. "You've always enjoyed being alone."

She snorts, "Is that so wrong?"

"No," he muses and positions another panel against her window pane. They fall silent for a moment, listening to the rhythmic pounding of the hammer on wood. "I've never understood why you prefer being out here alone, hiding like a fugitive."

Her lips tilt upwards in a smile that does not reach her eyes. "Who says I'm not?"

"Who are you hiding from?"

The sober tone of his voice has her hand stilling mid-air, hammer lingering over the half dented nail. Her eyes meet his for a scant moment, the intensity of his gaze prickling her guts like thorns, and her lips part to speak when suddenly his grin reappears and all seriousness dissolves into a mirthful expression.

"I'm joking."

Leya's face brightens, swallowing. "I knew that."

With a flourish of a romantic hand, the setting sun blossoms red and gold, peering from the curving horizon when both individuals step back to admire their work.

"Not bad," Holland comments and she nods. Gaze slanting, the slightest frown pulls at his mouth and he abruptly reaches for her face, teasing a twig from one of her loose braids. Leya does not realize that she had been holding her breath, not until his eyes slip past her shoulders and pierce through the woods for a grave moment. "The storm will be rough tonight."

Glancing at the warmth bleeding through the sky like spilt watercolours, she notes the horde of lumbering clouds rolling in the distance. "It looks like it's already settling in."

His eyes connect with hers. "Remember to lock your doors and don't leave until the signal goes." Leya nods. "Do you have enough food?"

She smiles with a tilt of her head. "It's just one night, Holland."

"Mmh," he replies, though he seems thoroughly lost in thought, seemingly drawn inwards by a monologue only he can hear. His face smooths over a moment later and his grin reappears like the sun from behind a cloud. "I might have to take a raincheck on tonight's dinner, but maybe we can have one later this week?"

Leya pauses, then recovers swiftly and nods, stepping back to watch him make for his car. He stops then turns.

"Make sure to stay inside, Ley. No leaving the house, I mean it."

Her hands clasp behind her back while rocking back and forth on her heels. "Stop worrying already and go!" she grins.

But on the inside, she didn't want him to go.

Shaking his head lightly, he waves and slips into the car, the engine revving to life moments later.

Leya watches Holland's vehicle grow smaller as its distance from her lengthens until only the faint red glow of its tail lights remain - brighter for a moment as he slows to take a far-off curve, then disappears as if swallowed by the surrounding forest.

She feels something soft bump her ankle, momentarily drawing her attention to the ground where Mustard purrs affectionately whilst winding nimbly between her legs, rubbing the crown of his head against her calves.

She stands a moment longer as daylight ebbs away above, staring at the empty roadway and the grey trees ascending towards aphotic clouds of the looming storm. A northerly wind brushes her cheeks, causing her to shiver as the temperature precipitously drops.

Mustard voices his hunger once more, and when that does not garner his owner's attention, the cat proceeds to paw at her calf, demanding it.

"Alright, alright. " Leya's lips twist in a scowl as his claws snag the material of her pants and she detaches his paw, then turns, letting the proud feline guide her into the comfort of their home. "Spoiled brat."

Isolated within the barren woods of late autumn, under a cold, dark, starless sky, Leya's cabin sits. The wind whisks away puffs of smoke from the chimney and howls of an approaching storm.

Inside the house, the girl walks barefoot in an oversized band t-shirt, a yellow towel wrapped loosely around her head in a turban. Tucked under one arm is a laptop she bought from a refurbished tech shop, while in her other hand is a wad of cotton.

Flopping onto the small couch with a sigh of relief and exhaustion, Leya stretches out her legs and wriggles her toes a moment, gazing at the chipped black nail polish. Snow and sleet begin pelting the windows, drumming on the roof incessantly but all she senses are the slightest vibrations.

Just as she begins to reboot her laptop and continue her sign language class, the lights flicker and go dark. Blackness falls upon her like a landslide. A crashing sound echoes from beyond the wooden barriers of her home and she recognises the distant, muffled rumble in her ears to know that a distant power line had been struck.

"Nothing new about that," she says to herself and proceeds to shuffle off the sofa. "Let's light the fireplace." Although no one hears her, and her words fall upon no ears but hers, she somehow finds comfort in the soft narration of her actions, finding company in the muted voice that leaves her lips. Upon lighting the hearth, the flames dance in a radiant yellow and orange brilliance, spilling tall, wavering shadows into the lonely room.

Curling languorously on the sofa, she begins to gently dry her ears of water from the shower with the piece of cotton, enjoying the lack of stiffness from her hearing aids which now sit on the nightstand charging.

Without them, the world is reduced to a hum of sorts--like water rushing in the background, blending words to that of whispers with no distinct edge and noises melting to puddles.

The door had been barricaded from the inside, a circle of wolfsbane poured all around the cabin. Leya sinks into the couch and glances sideways at the clock sitting above the fireplace.

6.30 PM

Taking out a magazine and pen from beneath her couch, she flips to the game section and her stare grows calculative while gazing at the sudoku boxes. She chews thoughtfully on the pen lid and starts to fill in the empty spaces.

Time falls by steadily.

The drumming on the windows and roof grows in strength, pounding hard like mighty fists with the violent downpour beyond the four walls ensnaring her- shielding her; the fierce howling of sleet causes it to swirl sinisterly in the woods as absolute darkness falls and the night begins.

The juddering rumble of her belly is what draws Leya's attention back from the half-completed sudoku to the clock.

8.30 PM

Already, she thinks while rising and stretching her arms to the ceiling, pulling taut muscles back and forth. The kitchen is a small space area with a sink, humming fridge, round table (which she carved from a tree half a mile away) along with two seats. Far too exhausted from the day's activities to prepare a meal from scratch, Leya settles on a can of heated tomato soup and toasted garlic buttered bread.

Despite the boarded kitchen windows, she manages to catch glimpses of the forest beyond: thunderheads had built up in the dark sky, the storm riding on a gauzy caul of rain. Leya could hear the booming thunderclaps, ricocheting through her ear canals in muffled growls, but the forks of lightning stabbing down from the clouds were more telling than ever. They were bright enough to dazzle the eyes with bluish-purple images.

Reaching into the pantry for the pack of kibbles, Leya pours a generous amount into the plastic, mustard yellow bowl and begins to shake it - using the rattling sound as an indication that it was her cat's meal time.

When the feline does not appear, Leya starts to walk into the living room and continues shaking the bowl. She adds vigour to it, rattling the kibbles back and forth when Mustard's absence prolongs. Scowling, she picks up her phone and turns on the flashlight while beelining for the bedroom. She sways the light over the dark silhouetted furniture, searching, shaking the bowl.

Nothing.

Leya stills by the doorway.

She crouches low and flashes the light under her bed.

Empty.

The peace that had pervaded her insides now stiffens, hardening into ice that floods her intestines. A flash of lightning brightens the room for a heartbeat, startling her, and some of the kibbles drop onto the ground.

No, Leya thinks, growing colder by the moment. No, no, no, no, no-

Reaching her nightstand, she clumsily drops the cat bowl and struggles to put on her hearing aids, her trembling hands placing them at odd angles that only cause discomfort but Leya does not feel it.

"Mustard?" she calls, her voice strained with hollow fear while searching the bedroom and bathroom. "Mustard!" The living room is desolate, her kitchen echoing the same.

Beyond the safe harbouring walls of her cabin, Leya hears the deafening blows of the storm threatening to crumble the tiny home. Her face blanches to that of the snow battering her windows as the discovery of her cat's disappearance rushes into her airways, crushing her lungs.

Without a second thought, she grabs her heavy camo jacket and draws on a pair of pants and boots. The sudden surge of adrenaline temporarily numbs all rational thought as she makes for the boarded-up door with a hammer and hunting rifle slung over her shoulder.

Stupid, stupid, stupid- she chants over and over, reaching for the door handle, only to halt.

As though an invisible barrier had suddenly sprung between the door and her, Leya stands, gazing at the protective wood. Slowly, her hand retracts and she steps back, eyes wide and focused.

The Night of the Beast.

The flesh on her arms marbles out into goosebumps.

The Beast would be out by now.

But Mustard-

Leya rubs at her face vigorously, jaw hinging shut as she chews feverishly at the inside of her cheek. She tastes blood. Caught between a crossroads, she knows there are only two glaring options: stay within the safe confines of her home or leave in search of Mustard, her companion of four years.

"Think," she whispers, thrumming all over like a live wire. "Think, think, think-" Her mind is a stinging web of hurt as it leaps from one conclusion to another like an all-hungry spider attending to each victim, yet never resting to properly process the predicament and consequences.

If she was to go out now, she could find Mustard. She knew the terrain like the back of her hand, even in darkness.

But what if you cross the Beast?

Leya blinks and stares at the door long and hard. Each second that passes is a breath borrowed by the feline, should he be alive.

"You're crazy," she whispers while working out the nails boarded on the planks with the end of her hammer. "Out of your mind, Leya." The nails tinkle to the floor. Wood loosens beneath her trembling fingers. "It's just a cat... they're replaceable... you're not." She pries the first plank from its placement, then the next. "Don't do it..." The even mahogany of her door comes to view. "Don't do it." Her fingers work the latches open, the bolt, the key.

Finally, her hand reaches for the doorknob.

Leya shuts her eyes and inhales a long, trembling breath before turning it.

An immediate, savage gust of rain and sleet collides with her front and forces her a step back. Icy rain and snow melt on her face like tears and within seconds, she is drenched and freezing, but the fierce pumping of blood within warms her.

Picking up her torch, Leya steps out into the night.