Red's Untold Tale (25 page)

If I hadn't made the deal with the tax man—if I still wore the necklace—would my Wolfstime dreams become increasingly extreme, as the wizard had cautioned my mother? He'd
told me that my mother longed to understand the meaning of her dreams, because she'd been so desperate to discover her true self. But as for me, what if I was too afraid to find my true
self?

What if I just wanted to fall asleep peacefully instead of fearfully and have dreams like everybody else had?

What if I wanted to dream about Peter?

Friday, May 18

I sat straight up in my bed. Clutching my pillow to my chest, I rocked back and forth. My eyes prickled and my body felt as if it had been tied to the vane of a windmill for days on end.

What had I dreamed to make me feel so battered?

I rocked some more, blinking back tears I didn't understand.

It finally dawned on me that the sun had risen—and yet the rooster hadn't crowed.
Everything is fine
, I consoled myself as I swapped my nightdress for skirt and blouse,
topped it all off with my cloak, and fetched the egg basket. The instant I stepped into the backyard, the air took on a sinister chill. And it was quiet, too quiet.
Something is wrong.

“Granny! Come quick!”

Huge wolf tracks had torn up the tender springtime soil in the same pattern I'd dropped the poisoned dog biscuits—with a detour directed straight to the chicken coop.

My grandmother appeared on the back porch, rubbing her hands on her apron. “No.
No
, not again.” She bustled across the clearing, trying to stop me from going in. But she was
too late. As I stepped through the door, the light of day flooded the coop. I shook uncontrollably as four deep gashes—no doubt the claw-marks of the wolf—loomed on the wall before
me.

Ripping the broomstick off its hook, I started sweeping up the bloody feathers and bird parts. The gore clumped and streaked, and though all I accomplished was smearing it about even worse, I
kept sweeping. “With any luck, our chickens will be that wolf's final meal,” I said.

“Don't be ridiculous, child. This was merely an appetizer.” Granny waved her hands around as if I hadn't even noticed the massacre.

“I poisoned the dog biscuits and scattered them outside the cottage last night, in case the wolf dared come back here. In case it went after our chickens again.”

“You did
what
?” she asked.

“The biscuits are gone, Granny.” I smiled, feeling oddly serene despite the morbid sight, stench, and stillness surrounding us. “Maybe the wolf is dead.”

“Haven't you heard a single thing I've told you, all these years? This is no ordinary wolf, child. It's more powerful than you can ever imagine.” Granny snatched
the broom from my grasp. In one hand she held the broomstick, and in the other, my shoulder, as she marched me out of the coop. Next she set the bottom of the broom on one of the wolf tracks. The
paw print eclipsed the bristles, and its claws splayed out even farther. I knew the wolf was gigantic—I'd seen its tracks before—but I couldn't help gasping. Granny nodded.
“You see? A poisoned dog biscuit won't give this creature a bellyache, let alone kill it.”

“The hunters went out last night, you know,” I said, my stomach twisting as I thought of Peter. “I just wanted to help.”

Granny nodded and handed me back the broom. “Let's pray the monster stuck with a poultry diet,” she said as she walked back into the house.

I finished washing up the chicken coop and then returned to my room for my bow and arrows. Even though Granny thought it impossible, I wanted to hold on to the belief that somewhere out there
was a dead—or at least, very sick—wolf. And luckily, tracking was what I did best.

As I hiked, I daydreamed about discovering the wolf's dead body in the forest. No one knew for sure how many wolves roamed the woods and terrorized the village, but if the poisoned dog
biscuits vanquished one, I could make more and eventually do them all in.

I would be the village hero! The very thought of it made me grin ear to ear. Word would spread near and far, and everybody would respect me and love me.

Like earlier that morning, the air grew colder, lending it a certain bite. My heart hammered—and not merely with exertion—when the paw prints led me to the hill behind the
blacksmith's shop. I took a deep breath and shivered. Had a wolf wreaked havoc at Peter's place last night?

Drawing my bow, I followed the tracks to a grove of towering evergreens. When I spotted blood on the ground, I hoped it was from a rabbit, or perhaps a deer.

But it wasn't. It was from a man.

I just stood there, paralyzed, not
knowing what to do. Taking in the torn-apart neck, shoulder, and thigh—the blood-drenched shirt, and legs bent at
ungainly angles—I wasn't sure if I screamed out loud, or if it was only in my mind.

Finally, I mustered up enough courage to move my wobbly legs closer. It was Amos Slade, the hunter. I would recognize that shaggy hair and bushy gray mustache anywhere. Peter and his father had
been out with Amos last night, and my stomach roiled with worry. “Oh, no. No, no. Please let the others be safe,” I prayed in a choked-up whisper.

I swallowed back the sour taste of vomit and dropped to my knees beside Amos Slade. With trembling hands, I felt for a breath. It just seemed like the thing to do; but really, all I had to do
was look into the old man's cloudy eyes to know for certain that he was gone. “Oh, Amos,” I said as I closed his eyelids.

The instant I touched him, I saw hundreds of glowing, razor-sharp teeth, coming straight for me. Terror snapped itself around my neck like a bear trap, and I couldn't breathe. The world
went black, as if a dark curse had blocked the sun.

The next thing I knew, someone was gently shaking me.

“Red? Red, answer me. Are you all right?”

Peter.

Peter!

I pried open my eyes. Peter's handsome face, illuminated by sunlight, came into a fuzzy focus. “Peter, is that really you?” Suddenly, pain thudded on the back of my head like
I'd been walloped with a croquet mallet, and I grimaced.

He was kneeling before me, his hands on my shoulders and his brown eyes wide. “Yes, it's me.” He wrapped me in a huge, warm hug and whispered into my hood, “You scared
the dickens out of me, Red! What happened? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Peter.” He let go of me and we both scrambled to our feet. “I think I just must have hit my head somehow…” After I'd closed Amos Slade's
eyes, I must have rocked backwards; and though the tree had broken my fall, it had also given me a big knot on the back of my head. “I'm fine,” I repeated, mainly for myself.
“I only wish I could say the same for poor Mr. Slade.”

Then I recalled the horrific vision I'd had when I'd touched Amos, and my heart raced. I couldn't get the frightful image of lethal, glowing teeth and the undeniable sense of
terror out of my mind. It was almost as if I'd somehow been let in to experience what Amos had gone through in his last living moments. That made no sense, though. Maybe something like that
could happen if I was a witch or a sorcerer, but that was just crazy. In all likelihood, the vision was just my imagination getting the better of me. Then again, perhaps I'd hit my head and
fallen asleep just long enough to have one of my Wolfstime dreams.

I heard the snap-crackle of pinecones underfoot, and reached for my quiver. “Who's there?” I called.

Peter jogged over to a bush and waved my weapon down. “Look here. It's just Amos's hound.” The pitiful dog must have been hiding there. Had he seen the wolf murder his
owner? “Poor thing,” Peter said, trying to get him to come. The dog seemed dazed; yet when he caught a whiff of something, he snarled and backed away. After a moment, he took off for
the woods.

Peter shook his head and sighed as he approached Amos's corpse. “He insisted on hunting the wolves after the rest of us had given up and headed home for the night. Papa and I tried
to talk some sense into him. Lot of good it did…Stubborn old bastard.” His voice hitched, like he was trying to hold back a sob.

As for me, I couldn't hold back. I wept, and again, Peter embraced me.

“Oh, Peter, I hate this. I want to leave. I want to go far, far away from this place,” I said between sniffs. “Someplace where horrible monsters don't lurk in the
shadows.”

“I'll take you wherever you want to go, Red,” Peter said, steering me down the hill, away from the grisly scene.

I dug in my heels, making him come to an abrupt stop. “Really, Peter? You want to come with me?”

“Sure, why not?”

I sniffled a little. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” he said, looking me directly in the eyes. Not for the first time, I wondered what he saw when he gazed at me like that. But this time, I wanted to help him discover the
possibility of
us
.

Having found Amos Slade dead in the forest would no doubt horrify and sadden me for the rest of my life. However, it also made me realize just how short life was—how precious every moment
was. It very well could have been Peter lying on the ground, torn to shreds. It could have been me. Maybe I didn't have all the time in the world to show Peter how I felt.

Without another thought, I rose onto my toes and leaned in to him. My eyes closed, and my lips found his. At first, our lips barely grazed, soft as feathers in a breeze, and I drank in the sweet
air that had been inside of him only a second prior. I pressed my body against his and pulled him closer by the back of his neck. He removed my hood and his fingers ran through the waves of my
hair. As our kiss deepened, we took turns exploring each other's lips, mouths, necks. It felt so nice and familiar and yet, at the same time, so deliciously dangerous.

I completely lost track of time, caring about nothing but Peter as he answered my unspoken questions. He centered a gentle kiss on my parted lips, and I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me.
I was thankful when his hands snaked around my waist because I felt quite certain my knees would give out at any moment.

“Thank you, Peter,” I said, still feeling a bit woozy.

“For what?”

“For giving me a second chance at a first kiss.”

I wished I could live in the afterglow of having kissed Peter forever—or at least a little longer. However, as I stepped into the kitchen, it was obvious I'd need
twice as much time as usual to deliver all those baked goods. And I'd really have to rush if I was to make my noontime date with the talking crow. As I let go of the bliss of kissing Peter,
the grief of Amos Slade's gruesome death began to pour back in, and I felt a lump forming in my throat.

“Where have you been all morning?” Granny asked, and then shook her head. “Never mind, forget I asked. We have much to do, and I'm too exhausted to deal with your capers
today.” She turned back toward the sink.

“I followed the wolf tracks,” I confessed.