Page 7

The earth gives, and I take what it offers me. I have never needed the flesh of those who walk on two legs, no matter what stories they tell beside their fires.

Humans fear being eaten, so they give teeth to every shadow and call that truth. I have teeth; that much they know. They know little else.

I learned their tongue early on, because they never stopped using it. They speak when frightened, happy, alone, and angry. They speak even when no one answers; endless sounds shaping meaning. I understand them, though I have no wish to imitate them.

I could take the smaller shape if I so wished. I did once, centuries ago, when humans began entering my woods in large numbers, and curiosity pulled harder than caution.

I remember pain—bones folding inward, antlers sinking beneath the skull, muscle tightening into a body too small for itself, and skin smoothing over where rough bark markings should be. Humans would look at me knowing something was wrong, even when they could not name it. I have not worn that shape in five hundred years.

A new scent catches on the wind, and I stop, turning toward the eastern ridge without knowing why. I lift my head, one hand settling against the rough trunk beside me as I listen.

Water farther downslope, the faint groan of a branch heavy with last night’s damp, a vehicle far beyond the trees. Nothing unusual for this time of the morning, but that scent—

It reaches me again, and every muscle in me locks at once. Faint enough that a wolf might miss it beneath the wet earth and pine resin, but I do not. The air moves through the openings beneath the bone fused to my face, carrying the scent deeper into me, and I suck in a stuttered breath.

It belongs to one human—a male.

His scent clings faintly to the rough edge of a pine where his hand must have rested, and carried along the brush where fabric disturbed leaves that have not yet settled back into place.

I move closer to the pine. Countless things in the scent register—river water, damp earth, and human skin warmed beneath cloth. There’s a faint metallic trace of something he carries, too. But beneath it all is something else… something with no name in any human tongue I’ve learned.

I press my hand against the place his fingers touched, and the reaction crashes through me so violently that my claws score the bark. My entire body knows before my mind catches up, and the hollow inside me tears open so fast, I think I’ve been wounded.

I lift my hand to my chest, claws pressing against the hardened black texture there. No blood or torn flesh, yet something has reached beneath the bone and muscle and gripped.

Aimlessness withers within me so quickly it frightens me. I have always walked without needing anything beyond territory and survival. Now every part of me points in one direction.

I turn toward the scent and my feet move before choice enters my consciousness.

The scent leads close to the den where men in green cloth live, then fades beneath old vehicle tracks and other human smells. Rangers—humans who walk trails, watch fire, find lost people, and remove foolish ones from dangerous places. People have lived here across generations. Some knew enough to respect the woods; others did not.

The human I am tracking has been here. His scent has settled across the porch, around the foundation, on the steps, and faintly through an open window. Hmm, he lives here now.

I stand amongst the trees and look toward the den through the screen of cedar, drawing bark and leaf around my shape until even a human staring at me would see only forest.

I remain nearby for the rest of the day and hours pass, but I do not move far. It should feel no different from any other hours I have lived through, but it does. I notice every engine moving along the distant road, and every human voice carries too clearly.

I circle the cabin twice without approaching the den, reading more of him from what he has left behind. He walked around the eastern side this morning and crouched near the foundation where he touched the ground. When I find the place, I lower myself and examine what he must have looked at.

Small deer tracks run across the packed dirt, and his fingers disturbed the soil beside them.

Understanding settles through me with a warmth I have not known before. He reads tracks. He notices what moves around his home. He understands that the ground speaks if one knows how to listen. The thought feels strange in its simplicity, though satisfaction runs beneath it.

This human knows land. Not as I know it; he cannot hear the shift of a mouse beneath leaf mold or smell rain while clouds are still beyond the ridge. But he has learned enough to look down when other humans only look ahead. Most of the men who have lived here did not bother to look down at all.

The sun has sunk low when an engine finally turns onto the road leading toward the ranger’s den. My entire body responds before the sound grows closer.

I move into the trees near the clearing and let the forest cover me completely.

The vehicle comes into view, and his scent reaches me through the open vents and gaps in the machine before I even see his face.

The hollow inside me tightens painfully when the vehicle stops near the ranger’s den. He remains inside for several breaths, staring through the glass. I watch every movement in the shadows as one hand tightens on the wheel and the other passes through his hair. He releases a slow, measured breath and mutters something.

He talks to himself the way the lonely ones do. I know that sound; I know loneliness all too well.

When the door opens and he steps down onto the gravel, the hollow inside me that has waited to be filled since creation finally recognizes what stands before me.

For the first time in centuries, the memory of Aestrata rises whole. She gave us one promise—one not every Cervari would receive: a mate.