Her mother said she was a selfish creature, but she disagrees. She is simply not satisfied so easily. She simply wishes she could have a choice.

So she chooses him.

The nearby town has sprung out of the ground like stubborn fungi. One moment it was a barren clearing of weeds, the next, it had sprouted wooden pillars and clay shingles, giant men hacking and sawing with bellowing songs and even louder knives. During the day, they disappear into the caverns across the river. During the night, they huddle inside of their wooden homes, exchanging drinks and songs in a melodious language she’s never heard.

It is magnetic, she thinks. Like a will o’ the wisp beckoning young men into the deep. But it’s not monsters that draw her in; it is beauty. It is the only spot of warmth and light in the desolation of snow. It is a house full of human chatter, so different from the howling wolves and crooning birds.

She does not remember the last time she has heard such happy human voices.

She misses them.

And when she stands there, freezing in the cold, in the dark, her limbs gaunt with hunger, for a moment she feels like she is home again. There are her mother’s hands. There is her tribe’s song. There is the boy she had fancied, eternally a youth now, never to become a victim of sagging skin and crow’s feet.

That’s why he catches her eye. Even through the window, he is a clear image of boyish wonder. He is plump, but that speaks of his age; he is the only one without a beard. The other men throw their arms around him and ruffle his hair. He laughs but his shoulders are drawn in, and his hands are tight around his glass.

They are all tall and fair, skin paler than hers. But it is not the paleness of snow, not the whiteness of death. The boy’s cheeks are ruddy; the redness spreads farther and farther, reaching even his neck. Blood beneath the skin. When he turns his head, his eyes catch the light. They are a pretty shade, green as spring.

He does not see her yet, but he will.

 

~*~

 

The men rise before dawn and return home long past dusk. But that means nothing here, where the winters are barely graced by sun. She does not dare follow them into the caverns, but she likes to watch from outside. They bring out crates and crates of glittering rocks—precious metals, precious stones. Each man emerges from the caves like a warrior from battle: shoulders weary, clothes buried in soot, eyes hard. And their leader is not kind, but she knows that they make fun of him at night when he’s tucked into bed on the opposite end of town. She’s heard them. She’s mimicked their smooth, gliding vowels. They are clumsy in her mouth, but she likes the cadence of it. Likes the tune.

Nobody notices her as she darts between the buildings. She makes sure they don’t. There are a few women in this town—wives and daughters—but they keep to themselves and don’t resemble her. She does not envy the stiffness of their wide skirts or the monochrome of their dresses. But she envies the ease of the language on their tongues.

She learns from them other words that the men do not speak.

Now her words are complete.

It takes many moons for the boy to find her. He is never alone; he has been spooked by stories of the wild woods and fragile ice. But one warm night after the other men have been too rowdy, she finds him sitting on the porch of his boarding house, a giant cape over his shoulders and an oil lamp gleaming beside him, keeping him warm. Keeping him visible like a beacon.

She emerges from the deepest corner of the woods. Her gait is silent but steady, stick thin legs graceful even in the thickest snow. Her dark hair billows like a veil around her face. When the boy sees her, he startles like a rabbit, and almost knocks the lamp aside.

But she stands there, quiet and harmless, her head tilted up towards him.

“Are you all right?” he asks, approaching, lamp in hand. He almost slips but steadies himself at the last moment. She waits for him to stand in front of her, so close that she can see every detail of his shocked face.

She nods.

“Where did you come from?” he asks. He almost reaches for her but hesitates at the last moment, his hands curling around thin air. “Are you lost?”

“Not anymore,” she rasps.

He blinks, pupils widening at the sweetness of her voice. If he is surprised that she speaks his language, he does not show it. Instead, he removes his cape and offers it to her, even though she has furs of her own.

“Here, take this,” he says. “Or else you’ll freeze to death. Why don’t you come inside? Tomorrow morning, we can figure out…”

She takes the cape but does not reply. As much as she loves learning the language, she also loves this; loves listening to his voice. Even while frantic it is a gentle, soothing thing.

They trudge back towards the boarding house, the lamp swinging between them. Shadows stretch and squeeze across the snow. The boy hesitates suddenly, then throws a glance at her.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

She gives him a name that one of the other village women have used. He nods.

“I’m Michel,” he says, and then resumes walking. Before they can step onto the porch, she tugs at his sleeve. He skids to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Why were you sitting outside?” she asks in return.

He ducks his head and colors briefly in shame.

“I, ah, needed some peace and quiet,” he admits.

“But everyone is asleep now?” Will anyone hear?

“Well, yes.” He lowers the lantern. It illuminates their boots. “I didn’t realize I was outside for so long. I couldn’t sleep.”

She nods. That is a rare problem for anyone in these woods. In winter, it is far too easy to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep. They are ruled by hibernation, death, and decay.

But while everything rots and rests around her, she’s found that she is the only one who can stay awake. The only one who rises, day after day, her heart beating in her ears. Her stomach empty and rumbling.

That is how she found them, after all. A lone candle in a night of wandering.

She reaches for his face. He startles, then blushes again—so much blushing, this one. But when her fingertips brush his cheek, his eyes glow obsidian, and he licks his chapped lips.

She smiles.

He should have stayed inside. He should have stayed asleep.

But it does not matter. She grabs him by the throat. The lantern falls, stutters, dies. She sinks her teeth into his neck before he can scream. And later on, once she’s picked off his bones, she pushes the door open and steps inside.

The mine is empty the next day.

~*~

 

The Elders said it had been the worst winter they had experienced in their lifetimes. But they said that too about the previous winter, and the one before that. She couldn’t imagine a winter without pain, without the threat of lost limbs, without the constant hunger eating a hole into her belly.

Her mother told her to be patient, to have a little faith. To hold on. But what was the point of faith when there was no end in sight? Their root cellars were empty. The rivers were frozen and bare. The months stretched before her, white and blinding, an endless procession of misery. Each day was a fight for survival; they had grown as starved and desperate as the wild dogs.

Days ago, her father had ventured deeper into the woods in search of food. All edible plants had long withered away and died, or been plucked to extinction. They hadn’t seen an animal in weeks. Either the creatures were in hiding or they’d been devoured whole by wolves.

But deeper into the forest her father went. He never returned.

Her mother pretended that there was still hope. That he had merely gotten lost in the blizzard but would find his way back. The girl knew better. That man was lost to them; they would not even find his frozen corpse. Maybe even his spirit was restless, doomed to traverse this pale wasteland for eternity.

But they were patient. They had a little faith. They held on. Each day unspooling with agonizing slowness, cushioned only by stories and song and bodies huddled together in their homes. Sometimes they would dance to warm themselves. But not for too long, because there was no food to replace what had been burned.

First it was Watseka’s grandmother who passed in the night. The woman had lived a long and prosperous life, and they honored her spirit’s journey into the next.

Then it was Keme’s older brother. He was a cheerful man who had grown gaunt with time. He gave all that he had to his family, until his body devoured itself.

And then it was Watseka herself, her eyelashes frosted and her lips blue as ice.

One by one, their spirits were plucked from their homes.

Day by day, they feared that they would wake up next to a corpse.

Night by night, the girl clutched her mother tight and shivered. The furs and the flames could not dispel the growing agony inside her stomach. The emptiness of her throat. The void inside of her, yearning to be filled. She was long past dizziness and nausea. Every movement reminded her of the ache. Every movement demanded her to eat.

“Just wait a little more, my darling,” her mother said. “The men will be back from the woods.”

No, they wouldn’t.

Hours later, the girl stole away into the edge of the woods. Her calves sank into thick snow. Her hood was raised to protect her face from the biting wind. And a lantern was in her hand, silently swinging, as she warded off the darkness.

All around her an aching, blinding, searing white.

Up ahead the safe embrace of the woods.

She held her breath and entered.

The wind nipping her face died down. The howling in her ears grew subdued. Darkness fell upon her gaze. Her sole lantern seemed pathetic in the majesty of the dead trees.

But her stomach was rumbling, and there was a spear strapped to her back, and something was calling her.

Something sweet and heady.

Something burrowing.

Something alive.

Something made of flesh and blood and bone.

Something that beckoned her closer with its warmth, with its croon, with its soft fur.

Something that tasted like meat and copper. Something that screamed like a man. Something that cried as she sunk in her teeth. Something that satisfied the ache in her belly.

Something that made her forget her name.

All she knew then, in that oppressive darkness, was that she was a creature who hungered. Who desired.

And whatever she desired, she would have.

 

~*~

 

The men all look different, but they all act the same. When they look at her, they see a young, feeble girl. Beautiful. Fragile. A little doll to tuck into their arms. They’re impressed that she has no accent, that she speaks any tongue as well as they do. They want her, and that she understands, because she wants them too.

But their bashfulness or swagger always die down the moment she reveals her true self. The handsome smile becomes a slack-jawed scream. The awe becomes terror, becomes the primitive instinct to flee.

They never manage to get far.

Sometimes she is so hungry that she devours them whole. Sometimes she slows down, takes her time, drags her fingertips across their bloodstained skin and hair. They are always so warm, even if their spirit has just left. Her body is so cold in comparison, practically carved from ice.

She craves it, their heat, their touch. She grasps their limp hands and brings them to her cheek. She takes their coats and wraps it over her furs. She eats them piece by piece, hoping that they can settle inside her body like a stone, warming her from the inside.

It never lasts. Her stomach is a bottomless pit. The men, if there is anything left, grow stiff and cold.

And there, alone on the crimson-coated snow, she continues to want.

 

~*~

 

There are men who resemble her people but they have grown to fear her name. When she cries out at night, sweet and innocent, they do not come. When she wanders past their houses, they do not peek. When she waits by the stream, they do not swim alone.

Her potential victims grow faded and gray. They are replaced by their sons and grandsons. And each one knows to stay away.

So she looks for unfamiliar travelers. The men without roots. The men fleeing their old lives. The men who do not know the way of the land.

One day, she blinks, and she no longer knows how much time has passed.

Once, the fields had been barren, and now there is a wide, endless road.

She pulls her cape tighter around her body and takes her first step.

 

~*~

 

She must have slept too long this time.

There are giant, hulking beasts along the road. Monsters of steel that could fly faster than a falcon. The women no longer wear structured dresses and long skirts. The women dress like men, and they dress colorfully, bright as a summer’s day.

Above her, the sky is black with smoke and ichor.

This new town, she thinks, is too big and too noisy. It hurts her ears. And there are so many languages spoken around her, most of them alien and unfamiliar. Some of them barely recognizable as ones she’s learned before. But all she needs to do is to listen and repeat the words on her tongue until they settle comfortably into her mouth.

At least, with so many people, she is anonymous. She does not have to change her shape for them not to see her.

She isn’t sure if that is comforting or lonely.

The wind is vicious and cutting, and everyone scurries back indoors. She waits until night falls. After the sun sets, she expects to be greeted by the moon and stars. The only familiar things left. But instead their lamps burn too brightly, as if they are afraid of the dark.

Maybe even they have heard of her.

They must be fools, though, because more of them loiter around at night. Walking, laughing, screaming. Alive. Drunken babble. Faces flushed red and pink. Couples holding hands, couples kissing. Young boys hollering into the air.

Most of them aren’t alone.

Until she spots him.

Tall but hunched over. Scratchy beard. Puffy, dark circles under bleary eyes. Loose, dark clothes. An unsteady gait. He stumbles out of one of the colorful establishments but there is no euphoria on him. No contentment. Only his boots slick against the wet pavement, his hands fumbling with a set of tiny keys.

When she corners him outside of his house, he squints at her, as if she is blurry and unreal.

“What do you want?” he croaks. Defeated and defenseless. Wary and uncharmed.

That hasn’t happened before.

But she doesn’t need him to want her. She just needs him to stand still.

She saves his clothes and his keys. She sits inside of his house. It is a tiny, cramped box. Dishes piled on the sink. Moldy smells from the floor. A tight bed. A closet full of the same dark, dreary colors, more like the men she had taken before.

He was so drunk that his blood made her dizzy. Now she leans her head against his tiny window, watching the lights dance on the wet streets. The pedestrians ambling past. The keys are clutched in her hand.

She must have slept too long. He did not want her, and he tasted like bile.

She can’t get the bitterness out of her mouth.

 

~*~

 

She watches.

This town, it seems, attracts all sorts from all over. She hasn’t run out of new sights yet. Always an unfamiliar face, an unfamiliar street, an unfamiliar noise. Always something left to discover.

During the day, she holes up in the dead man’s house. During the night, she wears his clothes and wanders the streets, draining lone men.

She’s spoiled for choice. The life here is fast-paced and dizzying. Endless. She could feed for days, months, years without end. Maybe she’ll finally be able to satisfy her aching hunger.

(Or maybe it will grow worse as her stomach becomes accustomed to this bounty.)

But soon, it becomes harder and harder to find men who are alone.

Soon, even the reckless couples duck their heads and scurry home. Even the children no longer stay out to play. Men and women in severe black suits roam the streets in packs, their eyes peeled. They have wailing sirens and blinding lights. They have dogs—wolves, really. They carry strange, sleek rifles.

Guns, she’s seen guns before. The hunters used to bring them into the woods to scare away bears and wolves. She wonders what there is left to scare away here besides her. Humans?

She learns to blend in. To be more careful.

To wait.

 

~*~

 

She spots him lingering at the edge of a crowd, his hood pulled over his dark hair and his mouth twisted in cruel laughter. He dresses like any other man in this city—thick and loose shirts, tight trousers, heavy boots—but somehow he is more gray. His face is pale as the moon, and his limbs are gaunt branches. He is tall and yet he hunches his back, folds in on himself, until he blurs at the edges of her vision. He is a wisp of smoke, silent-footed, only speaking when he is spoken to. But he listens. She sees it in every glint of his eagle-sharp eyes. In the sureness of his steps.

He has a common face, like many men she’s had before.

And yet she wants him too.

She hopes to catch him off-guard and alone. But he is never truly alone. When she tracks the crowd along the rest of the main road, they all diverge, and the man vanishes.

Where did he go?

She can’t even smell him.

For once, her heart pounds in frustration. But a hunter is patient, so she waits.

 

~*~

 

She finds him again with another group. They’re all young and beautiful—a stark contrast to his forgettable features. The sun is ready to set over the dusky horizon, but they don’t mind. They’ve forgotten time as they eat and converse and jeer, a feast laid before them.

She observes from outside. She is one anonymous creature in a sea of thousands, watching and waiting.

No matter how long she has been asleep, it seems that humankind has not changed. She blinks, and the metal tables become wood. Their puffy coats become pelts of fur. Their strange cuisine becomes slabs of bread, potatoes, and cured meat. The clean-shaven men age. The young man becomes a boy with plump, ruddy cheeks and eyes the green of spring.

Except this time, when he turns his head, he catches her eye. He sees her.

She startles. Those eyes are not green. They are brown, dark as earth. And his face is not plump; it is almost as skinny as hers, with a sharp, vicious jawline.

But then he turns away and the moment passes. He lifts a cup to his lips for a drink. He doesn’t react at all. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he didn’t truly see her.

She isn’t sure why the disappointment comes like the rushing tide.

Hours later, the group finally disperses. Outside, the wind has crawled to a slow howl. It is hard to vanish when there is no crowd to blend into.

But the girl waits.

The group says their goodbyes. As they part by the dim doorway, one of the fair-haired women links her arm with the young man’s. It’s unexpected, but he takes it in stride with a small smile. They walk down the long road, their coats shielding their faces.

The girl follows.

The wind carries their voices. She listens. The fair-haired woman has a high, pretty laugh. The young man doesn’t speak much. Even from afar, the girl can smell the stench of them—the coffee, the wine, the spices, the desire. Will they taste like a feast, she wonders? Will they taste like kings and queens?

Will something that luxurious satiate her?

The young man pulls the woman into a shadowed alley. The woman giggles, caught off-guard. She pushes him half-heartedly, even as she leans into his touch. The girl knows what noises will follow. At least they’ll be distracted. Could she have two meals tonight? Could she wrench herself between their embrace and tear them apart piece by piece? Will the man protect her? Will he leave her? Will he leave for her?

The girl slinks into the dead-end road.

The woman is limp in the man’s embrace. He’s clutching her so tightly, his face buried in her neck, his hands digging curves into her spine. For a moment, she sees nothing; only their darkened silhouettes. But then the moon glimmers. The man is twice the size of a normal human. His fingers end in pointed claws. His clothes hang from a skeleton as gaunt as dead tree branches.

Then the moon vanishes, and the image is gone. He is a whole man once more. A whole man who reeks of rot.

When he looks up, she meets a pair of black eyes. Those pupils are a yawning void. Darker than the vacuum of the night sky. Crimson paints his pale chin red. The noise of the howling wind, she realizes, is the rasp of his breathing.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” he says. His voice is a husky thing, barely human. It’s the noise of gravel, of broken glass, of ancient stones grinding against each other deep below the earth. Something half-dead and ancient.

She is not afraid. Fear is for creatures who can still die.

“I’m hungry,” is all she says.

He throws his head back in a chuff of laughter. The woman’s corpse slips from his grip. She glances at it, disgusted by the waste.

“Is that all you know?” he asks. “You’re the monster who goes bump in the night. Your carelessness has frightened the humans. It’s sent them scurrying back into their holes.”

“And you don’t?”

He sneers. “I know self-control. I am not a simple beast driven by desire.”

“And what is wrong,” she asks, “with wanting?”

His eyes glint obsidian beneath the wisps of lamplight. This city is so different from her own. It is all harsh stone and towering glass. Curved steel and unnatural light. But every place has its own dark heart, and when she stares him down in the dead-end alley, she remembers a long-ago forest, a single flickering lantern, a shadow beckoning her forward.

“When you followed us here,” he begins, “was it her you wanted? Or was it me?”

The girl’s silence is the most damning thing of them all.

The men all look different, but they all act the same. This one laughs again. It’s a sickly wheeze that smells like decay. For once, something inside of the girl burns. A different kind of desire, a different kind of hunger. One she thought she had forgotten. It rages through her body like a wildfire, makes her see red. The illusion of her beautiful visage flickers. Vanishes. Her claws elongate. Her hair dries like dead straw. Her skin rots and clings to bone.

She dives for him with a furious, anguished scream.

He fights back.

It is the first time she has ever struggled with a creature. The first time she’s ever had to really try. They are equally matched in every way: equally vicious, equally cruel, equally hungry. Her fangs sink into his sallow skin. His talons rip the bone-edged curve of her jaw. They fight to the death, to something more than death, to destruction. They fight with the sole intent to hurt. Not to devour each other, not even to satisfy their bellies, but rather, to sing the only song they’ve ever known.

They do not bleed, but the man vomits the blood he had devoured.

They do not bleed, but the girl realizes that what she feels is pain.

Only at the end do they lie there, two predators entangled in a death-grip, hungry again, and unable to die.

The girl wonders how badly she’s been wounded. Now the yawning void in her belly has extended to her ribs. To the center of her chest. She lifts her weary head and catches the man’s empty eyes.

He sees her. He raises one clawed hand in mock salute.

One must always keep an eye on their enemy. But the girl shuts her eyes tight and heaves.

The sob that emerges is almost human.

 

~*~

 

The snow drifts in gentle waves. It coats the city in pristine white. What hasn’t been covered by mounds is slick with dark, deadly ice.

Nobody in their right mind would step into a winter like this.

But the city never sleeps. All alone, in the twilight-darkness, a figure looms. It scrambles on foot, a lump of a man, tightly wound in thick clothing.

There are no trains running. No buses. No cars on the road. All this man has are his two legs—legs that have never failed him before. Strong limbs and relentless determination. He has lived his entire life in this country, and it is not the worst winter he has experienced.

It is nothing.

On days like this, he sometimes convinces himself that he is alone. A post-apocalyptic survivor, sole inhabitant of this old-city, population one. But those are just whimsies, just ways to keep himself sane and warm. He wishes the trains were running. He wishes he had one of those nice, fancy cars.

Up ahead, the world is blinding white.

But then he blinks and a single figure obscures the tight line of the horizon. He squints his eyes. The figure blurs with the wind. He blinks again. It is vaguely human-shaped. Strangely human-shaped, without lumps of clothing. Who isn’t dressed like a mammoth in a winter like this?

The wind howls in his ears. It almost sounds like a voice, a primitive scream. Like a hunting horn from an age long gone. His body is wracked by an involuntary shiver. The wind digs its claws into his skin, even through his layers of clothes.

The figure is closer.

He rubs his eyes. Skids to a stop. A girl stands beyond the bridge he’s on. He can’t make out her face in this distance, but he can see the lovely shape of her: tall, skinny, with long, dark hair and beady black eyes. He can feel her gaze on him. What else is she looking at?

What is wrong with her?

He shakes it off and keeps walking. As soon as he gets to his destination, he will be back inside and warm. Everything will be all right…

The girl is walking towards him.

Maybe they’re heading in opposite directions. He keeps walking, and walking, and walking.

By now the wind has reached a deadly crescendo. The gale threatens to knock him off his feet. He stands his ground, hissing against the biting cold. All around him, shopfronts are shuttered shut. Nobody is there to offer him momentary shelter.

Nobody is there to see.

He blinks, and the girl is closer. So much closer. Her skin is stretched thin over her skull. Perhaps once she had been beautiful, but now is she no more than a skeleton. And she glides across the snow, leaving no footprints. Barreling towards him with all the force of a storm, with her claws outstretched and her mouth yawning wide open, revealing a row of sharpened teeth.

The man screams. He must be dreaming. This must be madness. But his body propels him to the other direction. He runs away from her, clumsy in his boots and sodden coat.

Only to run into another mouth at the entrance of the bridge.

Blood spills and drenches the snow crimson.

Two shadows converge and then devour him whole.

 

~*~

 

The humans say it is the worst winter they have ever experienced in their lifetimes. But they said that too about the previous winter, and the one before that. She remembers.

She cannot imagine a winter without pain, without the constant hunger eating a hole into her belly.

No matter how much she eats, she is never satisfied. Her body clamors for more. More, more, more. Always more.

“What is the point?” she asks once, gazing at the sky. No matter how far she’s traveled, the constellations remain the same. She has forgotten her mother’s face and her mother’s voice, but she has not forgotten the sky. She has forgotten her own name, but she has not forgotten her desire. “Will it ever end?”

“A bottomless pit will never be filled,” he replies.

She isn’t sure she likes the sound of that. It is the truth, plain and simple, nothing to be done about it. But will they find themselves beneath this same sky after another eternity, fighting over scraps like dogs? Again and again, like a snake eating its own tail.

She is used to hunger. She is used to pain. She is used to wanting.

She is not used to this new black hole inside of her. This one that cannot be satisfied by meat and flesh and bone. This one that leaves her ribs aching and raw after she’s grasped for it. This invisible wound that refuses to heal.

This wound that throbs worse when they find themselves in a crowd, like wolves stalking amongst a herd of sheep.

She looks at the faces of the girls around her. Was she like that, once upon a time? Did she look so young and lively too?

He says it is pointless to dwell on it. Predators are meant to devour prey. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

~*~

 

They are not sure who is older: him or her.

She asks him about his earliest memories. (She has trouble gathering hers.)

He mentions fire and flint. Stars and sky. Bones and teeth.

She asks him if she is the first.

He does not reply.

 

~*~

 

Hunting becomes a game between the two of them. Set their target loose and play.

They might fight over first blood, might lash out and gnash their teeth, but they always share.

After all, it doesn’t matter how much you throw into each bottomless pit. Neither one will ever remain full.

 

~*~

 

She blinks to wakefulness. The skies above them are bright and clear, obstructed only by faint branches.

The girl scrambles to her feet. Leaves and soil fall from her shoulders. A mushroom pops out of her elbow. Insects skitter from her hair. She turns, and turns, and finds that a tiny forest has grown around them. The houses she remembered have all fallen into decay and disrepair. No dogs, no humans, no smoking chimney. No vehicles whirring past. No road. Only birdsong.

How long has she been asleep?

Something shifts beside her. A mound bursts between gnarled roots. A tiny shrub collapses on its side. Rocks and twigs tremble.

He emerges, his pale skin matted with dirt. But his eyes blink pure obsidian. For a moment, they stand there, as statuesque as the trees around them.

And then his lips twist into a grimace. He must feel it the same time she does.

That same relentless hunger. That same relentless desire.

She shuts her eyes briefly. There is a whiff of blood in the distance. Something small and furry, something alive.

He ambles towards it, already sure-footed, still brushing off weeds.

She hesitates.

He goes fifty paces before he realizes she has not followed. He pauses and looks over his shoulder, eyes burning with a question.

She does not want that tiny beating heart.

But—

With every step he takes, the void in her chest grows larger. Her breath hitches.

“Are you coming?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, almost incoherent. A paper-thin whisper that smokes through the weeds.

She does not know where they are, how much time has passed. She does not know if the stars will still be the same when the sun sets.

All she knows, in that sunlit forest, is that she is a creature who hungers. Who desires. And whatever she desires, she will have.

She supposes there is another eternity left to fulfill it. If not meat and blood, then what? If not prey, then what?

He turns away, walks deeper into the trees.

She imagines him vanishing into the woods. She imagines the silence, the cold, the dark.

She imagines another eternity left to figure it out. Another eternity left alone.

 

~*~

 

She does not hunt. She follows.