Since they’d parted with the cab early that morning, the creature had been closely following. Melchior had first noticed it at the beginning of their trek, lurking in the fog between the trees. Just as it had noticed them.

He’d heard the steady pulse of its heart, as distinctly as ice cracking beneath his feet. The air itself had begun to thicken, churning with the gut-wrenching sense of discontent. The water beneath the trembling ice had a current, one that would drag Melchior down into the depths. Maybe it was that fear of drowning that turned Melchior’s tongue thick behind his teeth. He’d lied--why had he lied? Why did it seem easier than admitting that he could always feel the teeth pressed flush against the pulse of his throat. Even before Ira had spoken, Melchior knew that he had noticed its presence.

It was impossible not to. The Beast tipped the weight of the clouds, dragging them down to crush the forest in a thick coating of apprehension. Birds had stopped singing--Melchior doubted that they hung around at all. Nothing would willingly place itself in the path of the creature. No one but Melchior, who felt powerless to walk away.

For a moment, staring over Ira’s sun-yellow head, they’d met eyes. That closely beating pulsed had hummed into a crescendo, an engine gaining momentum to hurl into a crash. Melchior couldn’t tell what emotion had triggered the reaction. Fear at another predator entering the forest. Or, excitement of anticipating the hunt.

Even as he’d turned away, Melchior could feel the sting of its eyes trace his back. He’d dragged Ira up and down several ledges, trying to leave the creature behind. He’d taken wrong turns into circles. He’d pushed them through creeks and muddy banks, ruining the sleek black fabric of Ira’s pants.

And still, it persisted. Melchior tucked his thumbnail between his teeth and chewed nervously. It was gaining ground despite his greatest efforts, and he was running out of excuses. He’d been pushing them forward without rest, and the exhaustion was beginning to take root. Not in Melchior, who had been raised for recklessly traipsing through the forest, but for Ira. Someone much better suited for life in the city.

“Mel--wait.” Ira panted. Melchior paused. He knew that the cut of his name, trimming it into something that fostered a sense of knowing between them, had just been from a lack of air. He wretched the excitement from his weak heart and shattered it over his knee.

Melchior had been gently teasing Ira with a new codename since noon, and Ira had never once cracked or given into familiarity. Instead, flushing red-hot with anger each time. Somehow, that only encouraged Melchior to bother him further. He would gladly hold Ira’s ire if it came with even just a little of his attention.

Ira placed his hands on his knees, bent over to ease gulps of air into his rapidly rising chest. His wide blue eyes drank in the forest ahead of them, full of something dangerously close to defeat. “I can’t anymore. Can we take a break?”

Melchior was punched by shame. He’d driven Ira to a point he didn’t know he had: meekness. How exhausted must he have been to ask instead of just doing?

Ira was nearly swaying on his feet. Beneath his flat palms, he held trembling knees. Melchior’s eyes fluttered to the space over his shoulder, where only fifty feet away, the glowing eyes peered from beneath the brush.

It was waiting, watching, in apprehension of their next move. A weakened animal was the best prey, and Ira’s strength had been driven away by Melchior’s relentless pushing. He’d been driving them towards the edge of a cliff in a mad dash of desperation. Melchior recalled a painting he’d seen not too long ago. One of horrid pigs tossing themselves into a churning wharf. The memory rose slowly in his mind, as if eroded by a great passing of time. Melchior half-mindedly concluded that it must have been two other boys standing there many years ago.

“We still have a few hours until sundown, and we’ve only covered three of the disposal sights.” Melchior pointed. The words were bitter over his tongue. Three disposal sights, containing only more half-charred lumps of picked clean flesh. They all had the same gray and wrinkled appearance as if belonging to the same Beast. Or, if Melchior wanted to entertain the worst possibility, the same type of Beast.

Ira’s shoulders slumped. “I really can’t.” He huffed, and Melchior believed him. Sweat dripped down the lengths of his sun-yellow hair, curling the tips against the pink flush of his throat. Beneath the soft skin, his pulse thudded. The sound of his fluttering heart reminded Melchior of a rabbit he’d found once, injured and hiding in a clump of gnarled root.

He nodded, pushing fingers into his own messy hair to ease the tension wrapping up his muscles. “Okay.” Melchior sighed. Ira’s eyebrows rose in surprise, as if he’d fully anticipated Melchior running them all the way to Canada. “I’ll take you back to the trailhead. We can call you a cab from there. I saw a phone booth.”

“A phone booth?” Ira muttered. A muscle in his lip twitched with the effort it took to raise an eyebrow in confusion.

“Yeah, like a public phone.” Melchior explained warily.

Ira laughed. It was weak from his gasping lungs. “I know what it is. It’s just not a phone booth.”

“You’re really trying to correct me?” Melchior almost laughed, but he couldn’t bring himself to find the humor when they were still pinned beneathing, glowing yellow eyes. If Ira knew the peril they stood in, maybe he wouldn’t have felt so inclined to nitpick. Melchior shook his head. No, he was still Ira. So maybe he’d always save room for it.

“Trying?” Ira pushed off his knees to straighten his back. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “I am correcting you.”

“Why does it even matter?” Melchior asked.

“Well, it didn’t, until you implied I was wrong.” Ira scowled. It lacked the usual venom he reserved for Melchior. It, too, must have been drained from him by their journey.

“It’s the same thing.” Melchior insisted. He kept the cur in his sights, gesturing with a hand to keep Ira moving. Ira sighed heavily and began to move slowly forward, his clear blue eyes on Melchior’s face.

“Well, was it in a booth?” He asked. His boots dragged through the mud. Melchior resisted the urge to lift him and carry him the rest of the way. He restrained himself, only because he’d find it hard to explain why it was so urgent that they keep moving.

“No, it was on a pole by the parking toll.” Melchior explained.

“Then how could it possibly be a phone booth?” Ira pointed with his trembling finger as if he’d just made a great discovery. “It has to be in the booth, not next to some distantly related other stall.”

“Okay, fine.” Melchior relented. “Then let’s go call a cab on the phone-pole.”

Ira laughed. It was dry and weak, sucking up a great amount of effort. “Payphone, Mel.” He cleared his throat and glanced off into the fir trees clouding their way. “Melchior.”

A thorn settled beneath Melchior’s skin, but he just shrugged and nodded his head. “Sure, let’s go.”

They’d buried themselves miles into the pine, and now they’d have to turn back. A hopeless feeling settled into his gut, it tasted as bitter as defeat. How much ground had they covered? Not enough. And it seemed that it would never be enough. Only a day had passed, so why had they lost more time than he could hold onto? Melchior had the sickening sense that they were aging in dog years, and that every single moment was something they’d never be able to reclaim.

“Hey, don’t go running off on me.” Ira broke the silence Melchior had fallen into. He bristled, shaken by the lack of attention he’d been paying to the world outside of his heavy thoughts.

Melchior’s eyes darted to the south side of the trail. It was still there. Maintaining the same pace and distance. Ira gained Melchior’s attention again with a light brush of fingertips against his forearm. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

Melchior couldn’t bring himself to release the predator from his sight, so he didn’t look at Ira’s pink cheeks or worn frown. He might have, deep in the recesses of his mind, imagined how charming it might have looked on him, though. “When we get to the trailhead, I’m going to stay behind.”

Ira’s heart flinched behind his ribs.

His boots stuttered in the dirt. “What? It’ll be dark soon. Forget the monsters. There will be wild animals.”

Melchior’s eyes traced the furry hide of the four-legged creature as it resumed it’s slow shamble behind them. “Yeah, I know.” He agreed. There would always be monsters. They’d chase Melchior until he couldn’t run anymore--and then they would tear him apart. It was his nature since he’d been infected with the living and breathing curse inside of him. All he could hope for now was to keep them from ripping into Ira, too.

“Yeah, you know,” Ira scowled, “angels, why are you so. . . calm? It irritates me.”

Melchior pushed sharp teeth into his soft tongue, resisting the urge to say that he knew that, too. “Keeping my cool burns you up, I don’t know how to fix that. It’s just the way I am.” Melchior knew they’d had this argument before. What could he do? He’d buried every unpleasant thought deep beneath his iron shell. He wasn’t afforded the luxury of losing it. It had been about survival, more so than it used to be.

Melchior had gotten upset once. The kind of anger that had boiled him from the inside out. It had seemed the end of the world at the time, though now he couldn’t even recall what had set him off. He’d let his tempers swell into a raging tide--and they’d come. The trees had shaken as they poured from the forest, chasing the scent of his hot blood.

The monsters weren’t what scared him most when he thought of that night. It was what had happened inside; he’d lost control. He’d hurt people--he hurt Ishmael. Just as he’d accidentally hurt Ailbe in the days before they’d parted.

There was a sickness inside of him. One that leaked to the surface to become something that could only achieve harm. It was his monster, and it terrified him worse than anything lurking in the brush or crawling from the torn Trammel.

His fingers twitched before dipping into his pocket to find the bottle he kept there. He held it as tightly as a child might cling to their baby blanket. He needed it for the same reason: comfort. And also for a much different reason, one that was still hard to wrap his mind around six years later. The pills rattled just beneath the skin of his fingertips. His stomach rolled in protest, the skin along the back of his neck prickled in a cold sweat.

“Why would you stay?” Ira crossed his arms over his chest. The tired muscle beneath skin and silk twitched from the effort. “It’s not safe.”

Melchior rolled the question over in his mind. There was nothing he could say without spilling truths out onto the lawn before them. If he began now, he might not stop. He’d tell Ira that the monster had been following them since morning, that Melchior had never warned him, and that it would always happen for as long as Melchior existed. He was a beacon, drawing in misfortune, and somewhere along the line they’d been tied together, long before the Cardinal had put them together in that courtroom.

Melchior looked at him then. Did he know? Had someone slipped up, lulled by his crystal blue eyes? Had someone told him why it had to be Melchior and why it had to be Ira? Did anyone remember the forgotten prophecy? Was Melchior the only one left? The questions wouldn’t stop, Melchior thought he might drown in them.

He wanted to ask, and he wished he could be honest in return; but he wasn’t capable. What if the words that haunted Melchior didn’t haunt Ira. It was a weight that Melchior would hold alone.

He still remembered the night when it had clicked in his young mind. One moment, those silly lines had been nothing but a worthless old prayer. They’d been something he’d chew on in moments of aching boredom and nothing more. It might have been no more important than something from a children’s book, just a little note he had once been attached to.

He had been mulling it over one night to himself, in the dark and lonely cellar beneath the cabin. Just as he had always done to pass the time--and then it had struck him. A bolt of lightning, forcing his tendons into bone-breaking tightness. That line that had always echoed in his mind, the one meant for the cursed boy.

It was a trade, an offering from the angels. A way to grasp what they couldn’t before and their end of the deal was to be paid with his life. Those words, how they’d always struck him. Those words; spill his cursed blood and see upon his sacrifice, the weapon strong enough to kill a Prince.

It had not immediately scared Melchior as a young child. It had never seemed possible to reclaim a lost Vestige, and many had given up on a future fully eradicated from Demons. Until they’d been given a reason. Until now. If the Third Prince was really tearing holes in the magical seal between their worlds, he needed to be stopped. And only a Vestige could do it.

Melchior was going to die. Ira Rule was going to kill him. It seemed as inevitable as breathing to him. His blue eyes sought him out, leaving Melchior numb and hollowed. He licked his teeth, shuddering as the sharp of his fangs pressed into his tongue. He wanted to ask if Ira knew those silly little lines, too. Melchior didn’t want to be alone with them, feeling the edges of it cut into his mind. It was suffocating. It was all consuming. It was his fate. He was, beneath the calm of his skin, terrified. Melchior clutched his pills and swallowed, flexing his dry throat. He would endure it alone because he’d promised he wouldn’t lie to Ira.

“There’s stuff I have to do. I promise, it’ll be okay. I’m tougher than I look.” Melchior said, finally breaking the silence that had collected as snow over his troubled thoughts. He couldn’t leave the creature here, waiting for their return. He couldn’t bring the exhaustion-beaten Ira into a fight, and he couldn’t risk taking action that would see his lies dragged into the light. Because he’d promised not to lie, they shouldn’t exist. Yet, it was in his very nature to deceive. If Ira could see what he truly was--he would have never fought to buy them even just three months of time.

“No way.” Ira shook his head firmly.

“C’mon, you could get some sleep. You can have the bed, too. You’ve been tired all day. Sleeping on the couch must have been uncomfortable.” Melchior pressed. Ira leveled him with cold blue daggers, so Melchior persisted. “And I’m sure Peter misses you. It’d about dinner time in cat-world, isn’t it?”

Ira’s shoulders slumped. He dragged his palms over his face, groaning. “Fine, but it has nothing to do with any of that.” He dropped his hands and crossed them over his chest. “I’ll go because I promised to trust you, Melchior.”

Melchior’s heart twisted in his chest. Delight and shame flooded him. He knew it must not have been easy for Ira to trust him, especially when his lies seemed so clearly sewn into his skin. “Thanks.” He said, his tongue barely fumbling over the world to ease it from his tightening throat.

“Walk me to the door, will you?” Ira teased. He turned on his heels and marched them forward through the trees. Melchior glanced over his shoulder, where the cur waited. He narrowed his eyes in challenge. The air around them began to thicken as the wolf received his threat.

𓆙

Ira flopped down next to the ticket booth. He bent his head to rest on his knees and sucked in deep, aggravated breaths of the cooling mountain air. He had replaced his weapon for a water bottle in his hand, not wanting to alert the cab driver of the strange occurrences in the preserve. Even Melchior, who planned to stay, had hidden his bow in a bush a few paces back. “Angels, I thought I’d die of exhaustion three miles back. I can’t believe we made it.” He leveled a cold glare at Melchior, that seemed to say,and I can’t believe you’re crazy enough to go back.

“Right, well, you’re done now, so just rest.” Melchior comforted weakly. He leaned his back against the worn wooden sides of the parking pass shelter and crossed his arms. “We should start at the other side of the preserve tomorrow.”

“Ugh, we have to do it all again tomorrow?” Ira nearly whimpered. “This is harder than I thought it would be. Especially in these formal clothes. Angel-forsaken traditions.”

Melchior nodded in agreement. He hadn’t had many expectations for hiking perilously through all of upper New York, but it had exceeded expectations--it was horrible. He didn’t like being hot. He didn’t like feeling trapped in black silk beneath a summer sun.

“I’ll be wearing a T-shirt tomorrow, even if Father Pine only sent Deacon attire.” Ira rambled, seemingly more to himself than anything. Melchior closed his eyes, giving into this small comfort. It was peaceful. Listening to Ira Rule speak to him so casually. “Do you have any T-shirts?”

Melchior startled. He blinked, nearly as quickly as his spiked pulse. He couldn’t keep himself from leaping to conclusions. Was Ira going to ask him if he could borrow a shirt? The thought flushed him with enough heat to shame the summer sun into an early sunset. His cheeks might have mimicked enough pink to sell that impression, too. Melchior shook his head. There was nothing wrong with two roommates sharing the occasional article of clothing--it meant nothing. Besides, “No, I don’t have any.” Melchior had none to share anyway. He’d only been given sleeves long enough to cover the branding on his wrist.

“Okay, I’ll just have to buy some. And I’ll grab a few for you, too.” Ira shrugged. “I’ll do it tonight, so we’re both still contributing.”

Melchior’s gut twisted, and his fingers twitched to his left wrist before he could stop himself. “N-no, I--no.”

Ira’s careful blue eyes followed his jittering, tracing the silk of his cuff. Melchior tucked his arm behind his back, feeling much too exposed. Ira turned his head away, seeming lost in thought. He drummed on his knees with his fingers until finally he spoke. “I’m sure I can’t ask, but I know. I saw a little of it, back at the cathedral close.”

Melchior’s heart leapt in his throat. He thought he might be sick. “Did you. . . read it?” It was only one word. In Progeny’s chosen mother tongue. One Ira must have been familiar with.

“I couldn’t.” Ira shrugged, “and now I wouldn’t. I want you to tell me yourself someday.” He shook his head so that his hay-yellow hair tumbled into his eyes, covering the freckles that Melchior liked to admire over the skin of his cheeks. “I’m pretty curious about it. I’m sure you know that tattoos aren’t allowed.”

Neither was something as impure as Melchior, but he didn’t say that part. “It’s a reminder, is all.” Melchior shrugged, pretending that it was easy, that this one word could not shatter him to his core.

“What could you forget to such a degree you’d need it in your wrist?” Ira ran his fingers over his eyelids as they fluttered shut over his tired eyes. “Never mind, forget I asked. I’ve been told I’m kinda. . .rude sometimes.”

“Kinda?” Melchior teased, when Ira fixed him with his ice-hot blue eyes, he added, “sometimes?”

Ira dropped his jaw dramatically. “Then I take it back! I’m perfectly well mannered at all times, and you should get used to it.”

Melchior laughed, tipping his head back to drink in the peach-tone summer sunset over the Catskills mountain range. It would be dark soon, and Melchior knew that Ira worried, but he wouldn’t be long. He only had to stay long enough to kill one Ze’ev. Easy enough. Although, he’d never exactly done it before. He’d tried--twice with Ishmael and would have died twice if not for Ishmael.

Distantly, Melchior could hear the crunch of tires on gravel. Ira still had his head bent over his lap, unaware of the approaching vehicle or of Melchior’s crazy ideas. He could ask him to stay. He could tell him he’d changed his mind, that he’d like to go to bed now, too. He did nothing. Instead, he only spoke to announce the cab’s arrival in the vacant parking lot.

Ira stood on shaking legs. He stretched his back, raising his arms high over his head. His pink lips peeled back over pearl-white teeth in an all-consuming yawn. He reminded Melchior of Peter. He hoped she’d been alright in the apartment by herself. Ira had assured him that she would be.

“You boys called for a cab?” The driver called through his rolled down window.

“Ah, just him.” Melchior corrected, pointing at his nearly sleeping companion.

The driver raised one bushy black eyebrow, skepticism, and criticism heavy in his dark brown eyes. “You’re staying out here alone, kid? I don’t see any cars. Do you have a ride coming?”

“Yes, sir.” Melchior lied swiftly. “It’s all sorted.”

“Well, alright. Be careful. Lots of animals after dark.” He grunted, leaning back into his seat.

“I know,” Melchior agreed. He turned to Ira, facing his concerned blue eyes with something he hoped and lacked uncertainty. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right after you.”

Ira moved forward before Melchior could register his viper-quick movement. His fingers found the chain resting just beneath the collar of Melchior’s button-up. He tugged on it lightly, moving his fingertips down the smooth necklace. He tapped the apartment key, his eyes lingering on the skin-warmed silver. “Don’t forget you have a copy, too. I’ll be waiting up for you.”

Melchior swallowed his blush and cleared his throat. “You should try to sleep.”

“I won’t be able to until I know you’re back.” Ira shrugged. He chewed on the inside of his lip. Ira wore his nervous jitters as well as he wore everything else. “Uh, so, see you later, partner.”

Melchior was heated to the very pit of his chest. Ira began to turn away, uncaring of the rollercoaster he’d sent hurling from the tracks inside of Melchior’s mind.

He was going to leave. Melchior didn’t want him to go. He struck back, capturing Ira’s wrist before he could make his getaway. His goal was a simple one. A tale as old as time. He only wanted revenge. Melchior pulled Ira gently back, causing him to stumble on worn legs. He lowered his lips to the shell of Ira’s ear. He knew what would roll him up best. He’d been doing it all day. “See you at home, Kitten.”

Their faces so close in the cooling air, Melchior could feel the heat from Ira’s anger flood his skin. He whipped his head back, nearly causing a collision of their skulls. He scowled with pitifully beautiful eyes. How could Melchior take him seriously when his irritated blush darkened his freckles into a constellation across his cheeks?

Ira shook his head and huffed a hot breath from his nose. “Alright, I take it back. I won’t wait up for you--don’t come crying to me if you trip on a stick in the dark.”

Melchior released him, stepping away to make clear that it was time now to diverge paths. “I see pretty well at night. Don’t worry. Goodnight, Kit-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ira dismissed, waving his hands in the air to disperse Melchior’s words. “Not goodnight. I’ll give you one hour on top of the car ride. I’ll see you in three hours--no later. Promise?”

Melchior had already made a different promise. So, he couldn’t lie. “C’mon, the cab won’t wait much longer.” He turned away, unwilling to look at Ira’s slumping shoulders any longer. If the choice ahead of him was to watch Ira leave or turn himself back into the dark and dangerous forest--the answer was obvious. He tucked the duffle bag under his arm and advanced towards the thick fir lining.

Behind him, the car door shut with a heavy thud. The engine purred as the driver moved the gear into drive. Melchior exhaled a slow release of relief. He’d expected more of a fight from Ira. Not that the boy should particularly care what nonsense Melchior involved himself in, only that he seemed to greatly enjoy being difficult.

Melchior turned himself in the direction of where he’d hidden his weapon. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to dismantle and reassemble it for the brief moment the cab driver would be around. The darkened pine glimmered beneath the overcast of the green branches. He picked it out carefully and shook the dirt loose before slinging it over his shoulder, resting it on top of the duffle bag.

Melchior glanced back towards the parking lot. He couldn’t see the vehicle, not between the heavy canopy of pine. He shut his eyes and focused his attention on the silent night. He could hear it then, the crunch of tires retreating back into the city. He released any concern he held for Ira, and turned himself fully into the task ahead.

The forest was still, but Melchior knew he wasn’t alone. He could smell it in the air: the thick grit of pure hatred. The scent of Ze’ev. He turned his face to the ash burning his lungs, and chased it deeper into the trees. The atmosphere leaking from the wolf was nearly something Melchior could see. A mist, hanging heavy in the shade of emerald-green fir trees. Each step beckoned him forward. It was a calling of challenge, and Melchior would gladly take it up.

His memories of a night six years ago rolled just beneath the surface of his skin. Not even then, in the worst moment of his life, had he been alone. If Melchior had any sense left, he’d be terrified. He’d turn and run while he still could.

So, it was better that he was senseless. It would aid him in what came next. Melchior took his bow from his shoulder, freeing his arm to shrug free from the canvas bag hanging over his back. It was extra bulk that he couldn’t afford now. It fell into the grass with a thump, another obstacle that Melchior easily stepped past in the darkening woods. Melchior’s fragile heart had been pierced by an iron hook, and now the line pulled him forward. He was incapable of stopping. He was incapable of turning around.

He thought of words he’d spoken to Ira. Monsters seek monsters. Why else did they chase him if not to reclaim his cursed blood for themselves? Why else did he chase them back if not to give into the illness inside his veins?

Melchior pulled a pine-shafted arrow from his quiver. In the setting sun, the wood appeared freshly oiled. It reflected the light nearly as well as the tip of the needle. One single tooth, glimmering as brightly as moonlight at the end of his weapon. He notched it in his bow, pulling the string tight. His palm rested a few centimeters from his cheek. His breath tickled the tops of his fingers, sending shivers through the bowstring.

He could hear it now. The quick thumping of another heartbeat in the forest, ragged breath passing over sharp fangs. If Melchior had been nothing more than a laity hunter, combing the forest for the tanned hide of a buck--he might have fooled himself into believing that these noises were proof of life. It sounded animalistic, it sounded alive. It was something natural. The draw of cooling oxygen into warm lungs, it was something that his creature did not deserve. It didn’t belong in this world.

He was close. Melchior squinted between the trees, trying to see the land laid before him between the pine needles. He lowered himself to his knees, bending beneath the branches in front of his eyes. Beneath the canopy, he could see further. He could see the creature.

It was a great wolf--or it appeared as one. It was the size of a small rhino, covered in fur the color of iron-rich soil. Ears swiveled at the top of its head, detecting Melchior’s heartbeat in the otherwise silent forest. He held his breath, but the Beast did not look at him.

It seemed too muddled by the cloud of its own emotional web to catch Melchior’s scent. The cur raised its black nose to the sky and then lowered it back to the grass by its massive paws. Searching, or hunting, for him.

Melchior’s stomach twisted with the sense of wrongness. The setting sun warmed his back, setting his skin on fire. This was different. Melchior sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek. This was the wrong direction. He couldn’t recall when it had happened. He’d been too preoccupied by his own worry for Ira. Choking on the wolf’s wide scent, he hadn’t noticed exactly when it had stopped following him. When had he become the hunter in their twisted game of cat and mouse?

It must have had a reason for coming this way after dedicating it’s entire day to trailing them. Almost as if it had given up. If Melchior turned now, if he walked away, could they both have gone their separate ways?

Or maybe it had no choice. Maybe this was not a divergence from the hunt, and merely the consequences of the turning of the land. The Ze’ev had backed itself into a small clearing beneath the overhang of a boulder. Sheltered from the orange setting sun, and cut off from the parking lot at the trailhead.

Melchior watched the creature pace in front of a large rock ledge, its ears swiveling back and forth at the top of its head. Melchior held his breath, an easy thing to do. The air this close to the Beast was sour and thick with turmoil. He had a clear shot. He could hit it in the throat, ending the monster before it could take notice of him. Before it had a chance to fight back.

Melchior blew from his nose, a hot breath that trickled over the skin of his wrist. His bright eyes darted to the sleeve there, dislodged by his hectic day of hiking. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. It was his reminder. He might have stared down at the marred flesh of his wrist for only a second, or for an hour. Time seemed trapped in the wolf’s web, too.

Beneath Melchior’s vantage point at the crest of the slope, the wolf moved. His eyes darted towards it, silently cursing himself for not taking his chance when he could. It had caught his scent, or it was simply ready to move on--either way his chance was slipping between his fingers--and he wasn’t entirely unwelcoming at the thought.

Melchior’s muscles tensed beneath the skin of his legs, ready to adjust to whatever the creature did next--but it froze again. It’s paws left indents in the soft earth. How long had it been pacing here? Unwilling to go on? What was it waiting for? Melchior had never seen one this close, for this long. He couldn’t help but give into his curiosity.

The Ze’ev raised its head, tilting its glimmering teeth towards the sky. Its hollow yellow eyes seemed to be focusing on something far away, something in the stars. Melchior couldn’t look away. He knew what came next. He’d heard it enough times in his nightmares.

The wolf cried out. The howl sliced the summer air, sending shivers of fear down Melchior’s spine. Melchior was rooted in place, helpless to do anything but listen. His heart stirred in his ribs, filling him with something he couldn’t quite place. The wolf’s song swelled in the night, flooding the space between the trees with the unshakeable sense of missing.

As quickly as it had begun, it became quiet again. The echo of the creature’s mournful baying ceased, melting away as pitifully as the last snow. It seemed almost as if it had never existed at all, but it did. And it remained, seared into Melchior’s mind. The Ze’ev’s glowing yellow eyes fell back to the forest floor, a huff of hot fog tumbled past its fangs. The wolf held perfectly still, waiting. Melchior froze, too, in anticipation, but it was pointless. No reply ever came.

The bow relaxed beneath Melchior’s grip. He almost scoffed at himself, at the realization of what he was feeling. Pity, for a ruthless Beast. And, beneath that, shame--for almost killing a creature that had never wronged him.

Melchior blinked. Where had those thoughts come from? Just from one mournful tone? He shook his head until he was dizzy.

“Angels, what’s wrong with you?” He cursed himself. This monster wasn’t blameless. It was a demon. All it could ever hope to achieve was destruction. No Ze’ev was innocent. Melchior knew what they were capable of. He’d witnessed it. He’d barely survived it.

Melchior’s lungs shuttered in his chest. He gasped, suddenly choking when he had not been moments before. He was suffocating. He was drowning beneath the weight of the world. He doubled over gasping, his bow falling from his slackened hands. He reached for his throat, clawing at the skin there. Why couldn’t he suck oxygen into his tightening throat? It was as if the air itself had suddenly thickened--as if--a thud echoed in the back of Melchior’s mind. He forced his rigid spin upright--he forced his tear filled eyes to gaze across the slope. Into the yellow glow staring right back.

He’d been stupid enough to give himself away, and now the wolf had set its sights on the prey within its reach.

He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t make sense of the world unfolding before his eyes. His bow was heavy in his arms. He couldn’t move fast enough. He couldn’t move at all. The Ze’ev lunged forward, hurling into a run. It was coming faster than Melchior could restring his arrow. Faster than he could think.

Claws, the size of Melchior’s fingers, churned the earth as the creature ran up the hill. He was frozen, and it was already too late. From this distance, his arrow couldn’t accumulate enough speed or force to stick in the thick hide of the brute. Melchior couldn’t turn his eyes away from its glistening teeth, aligned in a jaw opened to strike--it’s teeth. Melchior had teeth, Ze’ev teeth. He’d fixed one to the end of his dagger--if he could plunge it into the wolf’s throat as it lunged for him--where was it?

He’d snatched it from Ira early that morning out of some pathetic sense of privacy, and now he wished he had the time to apologize, or to at least explain himself--enough! He was out of time, or would be soon enough. Where had he put it? His belt? His pocket? Think--think! The wolf snarled as it came upon him, Melchior could taste its sour breath. It was closing in--it was too late. He had to move, nothing else mattered.

Melchior reached into his pocket. His heart sunk. The knife wasn’t there. His fingertips clutched at the only thing he could find. He flung it out, holding it over his chest. Why had he done that? He knew it wasn’t his weapon, even as it left his pocket. He’d failed. He was completely hopeless. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and pray to the angels to let him pass under their promise, despite his wicked blood.

Too late had Melchior even had the thought of using his arrow to stab at the brute. He’d never been a quick thinker. He’d never been able to hold his own in a fight, either. Why had he thought that tonight would be any different?

It seemed some sick joke that he’d die like this, before even getting the chance to complete his trial. And over what stupid mistakes? Grabbing his pill bottle instead of his dagger? It was hilariously pathetic, and he wished Ira would never hear about it. Well, who was going to tell him? Melchior couldn’t. Not if he was dead--if he was dead?

Melchior’s heart thudded in his throat. He’d heard people speak of their lives flashing before their eyes--but just how long was that supposed to take? This moment had seemed stretched for far longer than it took for teeth to meet flesh.

He slowly became aware of himself. Eyes squeezed shut, laid flat on his back. His arm ached, held straight out from his torso. His pills rattled in his shaking grip. The cold of the grass soaked into his clothes. Hot steam tickled Melchior’s face. He flinched, and against better judgment, Melchior opened his eyes. This close, he could see trickles of green in the yellow eyes of the Beast. It’s maw hung open, revealing fangs as long as pencils.

Saliva collected on its rolled pink tongue, slipping over its lips to drip in Melchior’s lap. He was trapped, beneath the cage of its legs. The wolf stood tall over him, panting heavily. Even with Melchior’s arm fully extended, he couldn’t touch the under belly of the Beast. Its ribs flexed beneath the force of its breaths, which curled in the air between them. Melchior’s limb trembled, his fingers tightened around the bottle resting in his palm. The creature flinched, inching away from his reach.

And they remained, trapped in this final death blow. Neither one moved. Melchior knew why he held so perfectly still--he was terrified, and he wasn’t scared of admitting it. So, what was the Ze’ev’s reason? Why not finish him? Why hadn’t it lunged? Now, when the opportunity was unmistakable, or all day when it had followed him?

Melchior’s joints ached, his arm wavered in the air. The wolf snarled, yellow eyes seizing his upheld medicine bottle. The force of it shook Melchior to his bones. So he grit his teeth and became frozen again, holding as dutifully still as a glass doll. Melchior wondered how long they were meant to stay like that. He wondered why it had happened at all, why hadn’t the demon torn into his flesh?

He had a thought. A small ticking at the base of his skull. He remembered words spoken to him a long time ago, as he and Ailbe worked at grinding away herbs in their kitchen. Not herbs, flowers. They’d been beautiful, until Melchior worked them into a pulp. Their color had leaked onto the oak table, staining it purple. Ailbe had been rambling, as he always did. His words had passed over Melchior as harmlessly as clouds. He hadn’t cared much at the time why he needed to take his medicine, only that it would work. Now, he was glad to recall what Ailbe had said.

It seemed impossible--except that nothing was really ever impossible. He’d been living a reality so twisted it seemed some sort of nightmare, and so he knew better. He took a chance. Melchior shook the vial in his hand, the pills rattled in the confines of the plastic.

The dog took another step back, a low warning rumbling in its throat. Melchior could have laughed. He almost did--but he figured he looked crazy enough as is. Taunting his would-be killer by shaking his vitamins.

“So you don’t like them either?” Melchior noted. He began to slowly push himself up into a hunched sitting position.

The wolf barked, but Melchior didn’t obey. “I’m not listening to you.”

As he rose, the Beast retreated. Its tail lashed the air angrily, the rich fur along its spine rose in a manner that seemed much too animalistic. It was fear. Melchior could taste it mix in the air.

He reached with his other hand, cracking the cap of his medicine bottle. The sickly sweet scent of the pills leaked into the air between them, tainting the scent of the Ze’ev’s apprehension. The wolf shook its head to not breathe in the slight smell. “Yeah, you know what it is--don’t you?”

Maybe Melchior really was crazy. Maybe he’d seen his sanity slip away in the moment he thought would be his last. Why couldn’t he stop talking? Was it because he knew the wolf could understand him? The Ze’ev leveled him with glowering yellow eyes. It snarled deep in its chest, taking another few steps of retreat. That growl had a noise. One only Melchior could understand. It tasted like rot on his tongue. It sounded like bones snapping in his mind. It was only one word, one that Ailbe had said to him a long time ago; poison.

Melchior stared down at the small capsules, each one filled with purple dried powder. He tilted it, filling up the basin of his palm. The wolf backed away, fully releasing Melchior from the cage of its long limbs. He kicked his boots, pushing himself further from the pacing creature. And neither one moved. They’d been locked into another stalemate.

Melchior might have sat there for hours. All he knew was that his shoulder ached. He rested his palm on his knee, displaying the handful of pills to the Ze’ev. It watched him warily. Making small noises of discontent. They tangled up in Melchior’s mind. He couldn’t make heads or lashing tail of it. His understanding had been something he’d long denied, but as the sun finished setting behind the cusp of the mountain, Melchior finally admitted his defeat.

He knew what the wolf meant to tell him--sometimes. Other grunts echoed like hollow thuds behind his eyes, but it was in the words he could grasp, that his heart stuttered behind his ribs. “If I do what you want, can we both go our own way?” Melchior felt stupid saying it.

Why was he negotiating with this hellhound? Well, what else could he do?

The wolf paused in its pacing. It stared at Melchior with eerily shimmering eyes. Absent of sunlight, they’d become the brightest thing left in the forest. The Ze’ev seemed to consider his plea. Melchior groaned and rolled his shoulders. He really was losing it. Demons didn’t negotiate--they would sit like this all night until Melchior spilled his pills and the wolf could take its chance. Or, he’d thought. Until the sound startled his mind into a free fall he was incapable of correcting.

Agreement.

It wasn’t a word. It was a noise, a tone small and warm from the back of the Ze’ev’s throat. Yet it echoed in Melchior’s head as something he could comprehend. He blinked, frozen, and unsure of what to do next.

“Y-yes?” He stuttered.

The wolf growled. Little and soft. Agreement.

“Angels,” Melchior breathed.

The wolf snarled, pulling lips over sharp fangs. Melchior threw up his hand in surrender, the one not full of poison, and shook his head.

“No, no, no! It’s just an expression! An expression!” He didn’t know if the wolf understood him, but it licked its pink tongue across its pearl-white fangs and fell silent again. “So, uh, what do we do about this? Aw, man, I feel totally crazy.”

Agreement.

“Is that all you can say?” Melchior snapped. He sighed and shook his head. “No, arguing with the stupid thing won’t make me feel any less crazy. So, uh, why were you following me? Are you looking for something--a pack? Are there more of you? How many more? Did you come from the rip in the Trammel? Or, from somewhere else?”

The wolf considered this. Finally, it rumbled in the depths of its throat. Melchior’s shoulders slumped. “Agreement.” He scoffed. “You really aren’t making your cause that you’re capable of coherent conversation. Okay, maybe you’re more of a one question at a time type of wolf?”

Agreement.

“Great.” Melchior resisted the urge to set his head in his palm. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the thing. “Then, tell me. What do you want?”

The wolf growled, something feral and guttural. It filled him with the sense of an attack--it turned his stomach sour. Melchior’s heart stuttered in his chest as fear filled his skin. He worried for a moment that he’d run out of goodwill, that the creature was going to tear him apart now--but it didn’t move towards him. It glanced over its shoulder, into the forest beyond. It looked back at Melchior, waiting for his understanding.

He didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to respond to a warning from his enemy? One he couldn’t decipher at that. Melchior let the sense of the meaning wash over him until his mind began to boil it down into one thing that he could grasp. Slowly, the words came to him. Melchior looked at the wolf, staring into reflective eyes. “The apex predator.”

The wolf didn’t speak--wolves couldn’t speak. Melchior began to think he really had lost it. The Ze’ev regarded him with cold yellow eyes, as if waiting for Melchior to reply. “I just. . .don’t understand. What does that mean?” He had nothing left to say.

The creature huffed. His meaning was clear, even to those who couldn’t pick apart a deeper understanding. “Disappointment.” Melchior recounted slowly. His shoulders slumped. Now, he really had nothing to say.

The Ze’ev turned on its haunches. It glanced once more over its shoulder, drinking in the sight of Melchior crumbled on the forest floor. It blew from its nostrils again and disappeared back into the trees. Taking with it the heavy cloud of rotting air.

Melchior went limp, falling on his back in the dirt. The fear he’d been denying rose up his throat, as thick as sick. He didn’t want to think about what the wolf had said. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that he could so clearly understand it.

He lay still in the grass until it began to pass until it all began to grow hazy. He wanted to pretend it had been a nightmare. His pulse began to settle in his veins until the terror he felt was replaced by the bitter sting of failure. Why couldn’t he manage to do anything right? He groaned to himself, consumed by white-hot self despair. He could lay like that all night, sinking into the dirt until sleep claimed him. He might have if there wasn’t someone waiting on him.

Melchior pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the trembling in his knees. How much time had passed? Would Ira pester him with concerns? He certainly wouldn’t be rushing to tell the story to anyone anytime soon. He could chalk it up as another lie of omission and add it to the rapidly growing list.

11 | Melchior Meets His Maker

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