Page 44 of Taken By The Wolves
I’m a stranger, but she doesn’t seem to care.
But why was she alone in the forest? My mind lurches back to that moment when she was a wolf cub, her fur slick as she trembled and whimpered and then, impossibly, shifting into this perfect human shape in the span of a heartbeat.
Did I imagine it? Was it a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline?
My breath catches. It can’t be a werewolf, can it?
I snort quietly, embarrassed by the thought, recalling teenage fantasy novels about high school werewolves, talesI wrote off years ago as nonsense.
But then I think of Finn wandering off into the trees, drawn by an unknown, and the dog-wolf returning in his place.
More wolf than dog, although I didn’t want to admit it at the time.
Something’s going on here.
Muffled voices filter in from outside: Nixon’s controlled baritone, Finn’s low rumble, and Reed’s sharper edge. They all sound tense as they debate what will happen next. My grip on the helpless baby tightens.
Any normal person would have dialed the police the moment they suspected an abandoned infant, waiting for them to dispatch a worried social worker to swoop in and declare the child safe. But this? This is far from normal.
I shift the baby so she nestles closer. Her tiny fist unfurls and curls around my finger, and my heart splits open, like a ripe fruit fallen to the ground.
No. She’s not just an abandoned child. She’s... something else. An abandoned changeling. A miracle clothed in flesh and unanswered questions.
But how did Finn know she was out there?
“Scarlet?” Finn’s voice at the door interrupts my thoughts.
I look up, adjusting the child as he fills the doorframe. His expression flickers from hope to fear and finally to wary tenderness. He’s such a soft-hearted man.
I swallow. “She’s not human?” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“Not entirely.”
Behind him, Nixon’s shadow looms, and then Reed’s. They fill the office with their tall, muscular frames and theirintensity.
I close my eyes, cradle the baby close, and steel myself for whatever comes next. Because whatever they decide, I know one thing for sure: she’s safe in my arms, and I don’t want to let her go.
Nixon’s shoulders are curved like he’s carrying the burden of centuries of worry. His eyes find mine, intense, but not unkind. The baby stirs against my chest, her cheek nuzzling my collarbone, and I tighten my hold without even thinking.
“There are things you don’t know about the world, Scarlet. Things we haven’t been ready to tell you, but this… this discovery has brought forward an inevitable discussion.”
“Inevitable?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Listen through to the end, okay.” He sighs and looks at the ceiling, searching for inspiration. “There was a time when the goddess, our goddess, grew tired of humankind, destroying her forests, slaughtering animals without thought, poisoning the rivers. So she gave a few humans something new. Animal aspects. Wolf forms. Bear forms. A reminder of the beauty of the wild. It was supposed to be a lesson in humility and connection.”
I stare, not blinking, holding my body tight.
“She thought it would teach compassion. If your brother could turn into a bear, maybe you wouldn’t hunt bears for sport. If your lover could become a hawk, maybe you’d leave the skies alone. Your lover could tell you of the freedom of the hawk and the beauty of the skies, and you’d think before you acted in a way to destroy either.”
My arms tighten instinctively around the child. “Thissounds like a myth.”
“Mythology is often rooted in distant truth. We make stories from the parts of history that seem too distant to be real.”
My lips part, but no words come. It’s too much. Too strange. My mind reels, trying to fold this wild tale into something logical, something grounded. Shifters? A goddess punishing mankind with animal blood? It’s the kind of thing you read in dusty old books or hear in half-remembered folklore, not something whispered in a quiet room, by men you know to be serious. Not something that makes your skin prickle because some part of you knows… saw the truth of it. I shake my head, more to clear it than in denial. “So it’s not just a story?”
He shakes his head. “It’s real.”
“So, what happened?”
