The crackle of snow underfoot accompanies labored breathing. A small nose pulls in the chill air and sharp eyes search through the midnight wood. Pausing to rest, she leans her head back against a the hard bark of a pine. Her hands clench tight, almost drawing blood and she bites her lip; the mist drifting off shedding into tiny crystals on her raven black hair.

The quiet night air breaks with a long mournful howling, and she turns toward the source of the sound, her hand slides to her hip and her breath pauses. Her body is taut like a string, the air silent as she readies; her eyes grasp for the source.

Target found, the crunch of four paws not far off. She waits, watching and then she's moving. Practically gliding on the snow, she runs on her toes using thick tree roots to gain ground. Her short-trimmed hair flickers in the wind as she sprints. Focused, hunting, a hand at her hip pulls a long dagger that glimmers in the dim moonlight, the high moon reflecting off the polished silver. Quickly fanning it out to the side, the edge held away from her body, her vice-like grip giving little doubt to the intent.

Leaping from another root she's upon it, its golden eyes glaring at her fiercely, its hackles up. She screams out, both creatures teeth bared in unison, the lupine thing leaps at her, its shaggy black fur darker than the sky itself engulfing the smaller girl. Crimson droplets spatter on the snow, and the sounds of tearing flesh fill the night air.

---

I was a fucking idiot. Either that, or wanted to die. Maybe both. Man does not beat the wolf, and when it's hungry jaws are around your throat, you will see how much of an idiot you were. Anger makes you do stupid things, but it is not an excuse.

I could blame my past; the horror of being ripped from my mother's arms by a state worker and the unjust nature. I was just a product of my environment, no fault of my own that I turned out that way. But then, I would just be like everyone else. No one takes responsibility for their mistakes- fuck that.

Yes, my brother, Chay's passing did mess me up more than a bit. Seeing a wolf eat his head as I was stuffed in a hole will do that. The wolf does what it does though, it's a hungry beast, something I've grown familiar with. I thought I hated it, blind, intense hatred, but really I think I was jealous, the little child in me adored its power. The blood on its jaws as my brother's headless body fell, concealing the moonlit sky and the toothy leer on that creature's face.

---

That grin, the shape of the long muzzle, sharp teeth illuminated by the moonlight, contrasting the black mess of fur around it. It didn't last long as a knife sunk into it's belly, a foot soon following as it impacts with it's insides. Confusion, worry, uncertainty displayed on it's not completely lupine expression. Another kick, and it's moving, running now, warm blood melting the snow in a trail as it bounds away.

The girl is up on her feet now, the scent of the hunt, fear. Out of her clothing comes a miniature crossbow, the silver tipped bolt inserted as she sprints after. No longer impassive, there's something horrendous in her expression; like the moment she's been waiting for, a loud and angry hunger to see the creature in front of her a bloody corpse, the huntress stalking the prey in a reverse fashion. A bolt fires out striking the creature in the calf of its hind leg, a loud yelp in the still night air.

The black beast is hobbling frantically, its leg growing more and more useless, as if a venom were coursing through its veins. The creature weaves, and the girl slows her pace. She fires another bolt grazing its back, and the scent of burning flesh filling her nose, she watches the thing collapse into the snow like a discarded sack. Pausing her motions, approaching with no apprehension there is a quiet power welling up inside her. Words spoken, not in english, her words are thick with the sour taste of hatred. /"You were death once, now I am death. Your flesh will turn to ash and dust, like your black empty heart."/

---

I was strangely poetic in that moment. I had won, I could taste it. I was going to take from that horrible creature the one thing it valued, like that son of a bitch had done to me. I had become him, the true horror is that I became the thing I wanted to kill, the creature that found joy in the suffering of another, fed off of it. He certainly deserved it, the creepy fuck didn't just eat my brother, he was an awful human, and an awful wolf. He murdered and raped for fun, often in that order.

I did cut off his cock, not that he used it on me or anything. I still have it, some sort of sick trophy I guess, but I can't bear to part with it for whatever reason. I've not asked a shrink, I don't like them much. Then again, I really don't like people. You might say, who does these days, but really I'm telling you, the only thing I like about them is how they taste.

I don't really blame my Ina for taking her own life, I have tried myself a few times but my success rate is lower. Unlike her, I did not have both my children torn from me, and told their ancestor’s way of life was unacceptable. Fucking barbaric and racist. Plopped in white foster homes, what the fuck did they think we’d gain from it? Morality? It certainly helped churn out someone who doesn’t feel bad for eating people.

The truly pathetic part is that I don't even remember her face. I have memories of her voice, her smell, her touch but her face never comes. I suppose it’s fitting, she was stolen from me like I was from her. A little four year old girl not understanding why. I am still that frightened little girl, wishing my Ina would come rescue me. Every day putting on a mask to greet the world and taking it off to weep into my pillow at night.

If I could, I would kill her again for failing me, taking the coward's way out and leaving me for him...

---

Blood matting its fur in patches, snow covers the once great predator, shrivelling in the eyes of the huntress. Her eyes move to the silvered dart buried in his leg, blood dripping and sizzling from the wound. A hand reaches out to touch it, a whimper the response. She strokes her fingers through the fur of the wounded creature, and then grasps the bolt gently as if to remove it. A small smile creeps into her expression; flesh twists as the bolt turns, breaking off in lupine flesh with a snap. The creature turns its gaze at its tormentor, the golden eyes filled with hatred mirrored in her own.

An eternity passes in that chasm between them; an understanding found in their mutual loathing. The dagger jutting, a black nose twitching above a snaggle-toothed snarl. The wind whips over both, the universe in waiting.

---

Fuck him, the wolf drove him to eat, it drove him to enjoy it. It didn't drive him to torture Chay like he did. The wolf is cruel, he was sick and I am glad he's dead. In those moments I saw Chay's gaze reflected in those golden orbs, judging me on what I had become. The wolf took even that from me.

Why did you hunt there? Why did my brother take us that deep into the Black Hills? It brought all our ends, like some cruel joke of the Great Trickster. He ate his fucking head, its not like it even tasted good. I almost starved to death in that hole below my brother. He left his corpse, not even bothering to eat him. Like Chay wasn't even worth the meal.

This is why Blackjack had to die.

---

The dagger moves, and the girl falters; a momentary hesitation but enough for the black beast to spring, his jaws sinking greedily into the flesh of her arm. The dagger falls, silver glinting in a gentle arc, and crimson blooms on white snow. A gasp, a growl , neither creature hesitating. A spare bolt finds its way into a golden orb, driven with fine grace and finesse of skilled hunter.

Jaws slacken, a bloody muzzle tensing in a panicked motion. The air smelling of burnt tar as the great beast swings its head back and forth as if to shake the impaling object off. The girl's blood pulsing out in time with her rapid heartbeat. Frantically patting the snow, fingers searching in desperation for the familiar comfort. Finding purchase, her numb hands fumble with the slick leather-bound hilt; a life taken to make something designed to take lives. The wolf howls in pain as she bolts upright, swaying as she finds traction. The wolf's corded muscles ripple as it begins to grow in size. Another howl, and then silence; the dagger buried in the creature's trachea. Out, and then in again, flesh parting in its passing.

The girl is screaming, a hundred red welts darting the wolf's bulky torso. Pistoning in and out, wolf collapsing, sundered under the rainfall of knife cuts. The girl is still screaming, long after flesh has turned to pulp underneath. The blanket of flesh and midnight fur embraces the girl as she falls on top, ebbing blood stealing her away.

---

Blackjack was my penultimate kill, the twisted hatred I felt was what drove me to hunting. I can't claim a moral high ground, my wolf and I have long sense become versed in Blackjack's faults. The church was hunting him long before I killed him, long before he ate my brother. If they had done their damned job and killed him, a better person than I would still walk this earth.

I don't regret plunging that silver inside him. I wished for the strength to carve his black heart out, but instead I just took his cock. Less symbolic, but far more insulting. I would have delivered his heart to the girls he raped, the oddly inhuman cock would be harder to explain. "Oh yes, the man who raped you also turns into a wolf." I would scar them more than being raped did. So instead I keep good old Blackjack's member with me, long since dried up it is little more than a brittle twig, much like the monster that wore it.

Instead, I have taken his place. I don't have the equipment to take them as a man, but the sweet taste of girl flesh does please the wolf. Wise men can argue that killing is a grand mercy, but they should be made to eat their own shit. No creature truly embraces death, I certainly didn't even with the choice.

---

The shivering wakes her, warmth drained from the fleshy blanket surrounding the girl. A beast no longer, rather just freezing blood and sinews. Another shiver; she's dying. Vitality escaping like the flux of the moon's tide. She gasps and cries out, pulling herself up out of the snow. The dagger clutched in her left hand, her right limp and useless. Her eyes focus on the once beast, her eyes drawn to its male-hood, proudly erect even in death. A shining arc of silver removes the offending sight.

Wisps of hair stuck to her face, she gazes through bare branches at the shimmering warm embrace of the moon. Her hand presses against the wound in her arm, the flesh having already begun to knit. She grimaces at the sight, and grasps the knife, holding her injured wrist out for the moon to see. She presses the edge of the knife against the bare flesh, a trickle of blood as skin parts. Frost shedding from her cheeks, tears freezing near instantly in the chill. A silent question passed to the great mother moon. "Why?"

---

The great black wolf had died, leaving a new pup in his place. Taking lives is easy, I was doing it quite often before my wolf, and now it's so much easier. I have the strength to keep up with them, I can sniff them out and their flesh goes down far easier in my jaws than it ever did a knife. Hypocrisy, wolves will cry, but they know just as I that we are a menace to be put down. Maybe I should have taken my life right then, but I craved life too much. I still do, even when I hunger for another's life.

There’s no pity, I certainly don’t pity those I eat. People think that even in the worst of times, their inner self will remain good and pure. Fuck their naivety, the amount of pain they’ve felt in their life probably amounts to less than my mother felt birthing me. Sympathy? How could someone begin to comprehend what it feels like to try to fall asleep with your brother’s blood dripping down on you. I barely can.

I am absolutely certain, Blackjack’s story would be filled with tragedy. Something to explain why he enjoyed harming people, playing with them like that doll the girl I fostered with had. The one that had it’s head twisted off, and its feet stuffed down its own neck. The answer is, frankly it feels good. Sometimes that’s all that matters in the end. Explaining the why is never going to answer anything, nor does it justify ones actions. Besides, no one likes to admit the answer, “life fucking sucks.”