Part One

As Cherie left Willow’s Perch, he heard branches snapping nearby causing him to swivel around, wondering where the noise was coming from. He looked around, curious to see if he could spot the rustling of bushes to detect where the noise was being produced. Then he spotted it: a Musk Hirsch. Cherie gawked at the beast in disbelief: he never saw one before and here it was, a few yards away from him.

The Musk Hirsch was a deer, but a special deer, as these deer were vampiric and dangerous. Possessing massive fangs, probably up to four inches long, the Musk Hirsch used its fangs to easily tear into the flesh of other prey. Unlike most deer, the Musk Hirsch was carnivorous, preying upon rabbits, voles, smaller deer, and even humans (though, that probably was a tall tale to scare off the children from Willow’s Perch).

The Musk Hirsch donned milky blue eyes, a vivid black pinwheel star on its forehead which nearly blended in with its dusty, dark chestnut-brown hide. Its wide ears pivoted against the faint breeze, black nose twitching. The Musk Hirsch was small—hardly three feet in height—but the way it was staring Cherie down made him feel uneasy.

When the Musk Hirsch took a step forward, Cherie found himself taking a step back. The Musk Hirsch cocked its head at Cherie, as if challenging him to step forward. As much as Cherie wanted to approach the Musk Hirsch, knowing what he knew about them being violent and very territorial, he didn’t want to mess with it. Cherie studied the Musk Hirsch one last time before he left the forest hastily. After all, Wolf did tell him to get out.

Cherie made his way back to his grandmother’s cottage—it was now evening. This was bad. This was the most time he ever spent in the forest. Merissa was going to kill him. No—she would get the Father to kill him. Cherie silently cursed his curiosity getting the best of him but how could he suppress these dark desires? It was constantly growing in him and he knew it wouldn’t go away any time soon. Cherie entered his grandmother’s cottage hesitantly, wondering if Merissa would suddenly burst out of nowhere and beat him up. Turns out his grandmother was asleep on the couch.

Exhaling silently, Cherie began creeping upstairs when Merissa said, “Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

Cherie’s heart dropped and he saw Merissa behind him. “N-Nana?!” He sputtered, eyes widening. “I-I thought you were asleep?”

“Asleep? Boy, why would I sleep at 7 pm? I’m not that old!” Merissa snapped at him. She grabbed the collar of Cherie’s shirt and tugged him down the stairs until he was on ground level. “You were out in Willow’s Perch, weren’t you?” She growled at him.

“No—?”

“Liar,” Merissa growled as she slapped him hard, catching him off guard. It wasn’t like Merissa had never slapped him before, but it had been a while since she slapped him. “Look at your shirt, covered in blood. What did you do this time?”

Cherie glanced down at his shirt and saw it stained with his blood. Right. The feel of Wolf’s fangs sinking into his neck, the feel of Wolf’s tongue lapping the blood up—Cherie tried to calm down. He didn’t need his body to heat up in front of his grandmother.

“Well?” She demanded at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging at it. “What the hell is this, Cherie? Do you have a death wish?”

Merissa was just like all the others, just like Wolf. No one understood him. No one. A spark of anger flickered in his throat and he swallowed down the bitter feeling. Why was everyone questioning him? He didn’t have a death wish…not really. More so a deep fascination with death which he knew could be fulfilled by Wolf. But if he were to tell his grandmother—or anyone in the village—they would certainly believe that he was suicidal.

But he wasn’t.

“Cherie!” Merissa snapped at him, and he looked at her. “Answer me, boy!”

“I cut myself.” Cherie said simply and Merissa gave him a startled look.

“You—you what?” Her voice jumped an octave, her blue eyes widening in disbelief. “You cut yourself?” She echoed after him.

Cherie smiled and gave a short nod. “Yeah. I cut myself sometimes. It’s mostly to distract myself, you know? It’s like a restraint, or, perhaps, a relief? Because I have a lot going on in my head.”

Merissa stumbled backwards, brows knitted in concern as she studied Cherie’s vacant expression. He never saw this much fear in his grandmother’s eyes before, never seen this much emotion out of her before. It was new. And it was amusing.

“Cherie, you can’t be doing that,” Merissa stammered as she tilted Cherie’s face to the side, staring at the marks on his neck. “Cherie…Cherie…my grandson…” Her voice was weak, feeble, a frightened, lost look in her eyes as her hands shook. “Why would you do something like that…? Why?”

He pulled away from her and gave a half-shrug. He grabbed Merissa’s hands tight and squeezed them, saying in an even tone, “I’m fine, Nana. Honest. You know me. I’m rather unhinged. Maybe we should talk to the Healer, yes? He knows what to do. He could spit out a diagnosis and whip up a potion in an eye’s blink. What do you say? Schedule an appointment for me?” Cherie could see the uneasy, apprehensive look on his grandmother’s face and he was amused. He gave her a curt nod and disappeared upstairs to his room.

Once in his room, he opened up the small, old dresser he had by his bedside. Inside of its top drawer, it had a Wharncliffe knife, its handle made of heavy, dark wood. It was a nice knife; it felt well in his hand and it was a nice knife to use to cut through things as well as skinning fruits/vegetables. Of course, it had a defensive mechanism, too, but Cherie preferred his favorite weapon, Susinahka.

Susinahka was a special weapon, a generational weapon gifted to him by his late father. The blade, phantom red in color, was a cross between a scimitar and a shark-fin design, insanely sharp and flat, allowing it to be easily maneuvered through the air. Its hilt, a malik, was made of thick, violet-colored leather, the metal a deep maroon. It was a small blade, hardly fifty-five centimeters, but it fitted beautifully in Cherie’s hand.

Cherie had yet to use this very sword. His father had used it many times to slay beasts that had wandered too close into Il’amore, but Cherie hadn’t found the need to use it. Perhaps because the last attack was ten years ago. That faithful early morning that had taken the lives of Cherie’s parents. Cherie vaguely remembered seeing the wolf that claimed the life of his father.

The wolf had turned into a teen boy, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. His bare, dark skin stood out against the white background, a darkness in lightness. He had red painted over his face and chest, the telltale sign of murder and victory. His silver eyes were watching…a fascinated, riveted look in those beautiful, haunting, animalistic eyes that kept staring.

Then the wolf-boy smiled at him, flashing white fangs that gleamed under the moon’s pale light. It was a mocking grin, a challenging smile that said, You’re next. The wolf-boy ran his tongue slowly over his lips, collecting the blood that had gathered there, and gave him a taunting salute.

An icy shiver crawled down Cherie’s spine. He couldn’t exactly picture the hybrid wolf’s face, but he did remember his eyes and mouth. Those phosphorescent silver eyes haunted Cherie’s nightmarish dreams nightly, causing him to wake up in cold sweat. Those mocking, relucent, moonlit silver eyes that put forth a dangerous challenge. And that mouth possessing those glistening fangs. Those fangs could easily snuff out someone’s breath once clamped around the neck.

Cherie set down his Wharncliffe knife and stared out the window of his bedroom. Night had fallen, the sun dipping past the thick of the forest, casting elongated shadows on the barren ground. The sky was profound midnight blue slipping into an ashy black, the telltale sign of night creeping in.

“Was that you, Wolf?” Cherie murmured to himself as he leaned against the windowsill, staring at the forest. Perhaps he was being delusionally sanguine, wanting to believe that their paths had crossed once ten years prior. But if their paths had crossed that day, that would answer his question he had been wondering to himself in secret. He would know who the wolf was who had murdered his father in cold blood. He smiled to himself, steepling his fingers together as he chuckled darkly. “Oh, this got so much better…” He glanced at Susinahka, which was resting by the footboard of his bed. Perhaps he finally would have a use for that weapon after all.

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