Weekly Writing – April 6 2024

They came in silent twos and threes, drawn by the smell of blood and runework. Yet he could sense them, even with his eyes squeezed shut. The feeling of being watched, assessed by a slowly closing circle. The warm weight their bodies displaced in the air, so much larger than he had imagined, when he finally forced himself to look. The length and height and weight of an average adult wolf were just numbers. The creature hunching down to sniff at his heel was a shadow those numbers could never add up to, a bristle of grey fur against the dusk and solemn lantern eyes looking up the length of his naked body.
He could hear the cushioned whisper of their steps as they drew closer on every side. The heavy pads of their paws crushing out the scent of clover. It was too late to run, but not too late to die in indignity and terror.
Would the ritual still work if he did? None of his studies had said. No tome would record fear as an ingredient that would spoil a successful working – they all just assumed it wouldn’t be present.
His breath was coming faster, the wolves leaning closer to take it into their own massive, huffing lungs. His fingernails were digging blood out of his palms, but he wouldn’t close his eyes again. He couldn’t choose whether to be afraid, but he could choose to see this through.
A cold, wet nose, almost harmlessly canine, nudged at the blood in his palm. A much warmer tongue flicked out to clean it from his fingers. The wolf, silvery white as the moon still asleep and close enough to touch, huffed a breath against his bare and waiting wrist.
Then closed wet, hot jaws around it and bit down.