A Hunger Worth Dying For

Simon is hungry for his big break.

It hadn’t taken him long to realize that getting his dream job as junior-reporter was only half the battle. The other half was being assigned only the fluff pieces no-one else wanted (Honestly, he thought, how many times can one man write about ‘missing’ neighbourhood strays?).

That’s why he spends every Saturday night strolling the downtown streets until after midnight. Getting the drop on something like a shoot-out or a bank robbery would give him leverage to show his boss that he’s a serious, respectable reporter capable of sniffing out good stories. Now he just needs to actually find one…

Drunken couples and groups pass him until he’s alone on the street once more. Suddenly, something in the treeline of the park caught his attention. A rustling, maybe a voice… He can’t be sure. The glow of the streetlamps only stretches so far. He watches the branches part, and someone steps through them.

It’s a woman.

And she’s smiling.

Guinevere is hungry for a lot of things.

A good nap, a full-speed run through the forest, a beach vacation.

But, mostly, she’s actually hungry. Starving, really. Or, she was, until several minutes ago. She can still taste the tang iron with a hint of cheap ale on her lips from the old man who’d made the mistake of following her home. He’d assumed himself lucky as she led him to a dark forest, and was none the wiser until he saw her fangs.

This feed was much needed. The satisfaction was so intense it made her lightheaded. Not a quick fix like a stray that needed putting out of it’s misery (those were never as filling as they were depressing). Gwen feels the energy return to her muscles and reinvigorate her, putting all her senses on edge.

Which is good, because the man in front of her definitely deserves her full attention. Thick, dark curly hair and bright eyes. She wonders if he’s been following her — if he knows what she just did.

“Are you alright?” He calls, brows furrowed in concern. Gwen relaxes her shoulders. All he saw when he looked at her was a vulnerable, human woman.

Not a werewolf already looking for her next meal.

Simon was, for once, speechless.

The woman from the trees was gorgeous. Flush brown skin that glowed faintly in the moonlight. She was almost angelic, and it made him feel like he was dreaming. He tried to brush off these embarrassing thoughts and assess the situation. What was a young woman doing out here in the middle of the night? There didn’t seem to be a good explanation.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m just fine, thank you.”

She was petite and walked confidently towards him, and she wore a high neck burgundy dress, with curls piled atop her head. Wide brown eyes observed him.

“Does such a gentleman usually wait by the trees to watch young women on their nightly strolls?”

“I was just passing by when I heard a noise. I wanted to make sure all was well. Why go out alone in such a dangerous neighbourhood?” This street in particular was lined with grubby pubs and shady businesses.

“The lady prefers a shortcut. Besides… I am not afraid.”

He couldn’t believe this. “Not at all?”

She continued forward until she was just one step away. Though he looked down, her gaze still intimidated him. It was so magnetic he fought the urge to take another step closer.

“Does that sound so odd that you won’t buy me a drink?”

He swallowed, standing taller. “I’m technically working but… I suppose I could take a quick break.”

Gwen has never been to this particular alehouse, but the intriguing man — Simon, apparently — recommended it. Despite his preppy appearance (he was wearing a thick, knit cardigan under his trench coat), he blended in well. The barman immediately recognized him and gave him a drink on the house. She asks about this as they take their seats.

“I wrote about his sons bike getting stolen, which led to it getting returned. It was nothing, really, but he’s very thankful.”

Her mouth quirked up. “That’s charming. Do you usually write about children’s toys being taken?”

She liked how his cheeks got a little red when she teased him. He cleared his throat.

“I… do, actually. I’m a new reporter and don’t exactly get the good tips. That’s why I’m out tonight, actually. To find a good story, make a name for myself.”

Gwen shifted in her seat. She wondered how he would react if he found that the best story he could ask for was sitting right across from him.

“That’s a shame. What type of story are you looking for?”

He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t know. Something big and important, something that changes the world. But all I get are ‘the case of the missing strays…’”

She stiffened. “Oh?”

He told her about the neighbourhood old ladies reported seeing less and less of them each week. “Though I’m sure it’s just a rogue wolf — not exactly news.”

Suddenly the pub was overcrowded, too loud and too bright. She needed air.

“Listen, it’s rather noisy in here. Do you want to go somewhere quiet?”

She loved how he pretended to have to think about it.

“Lead the way.”

Simon isn’t used to this.

Nothing is usually ever this easy. Her arm is looped through his and they chat easily. He mostly tells her about his job, and she seems to prefer avoiding direct questions about herself, so he doesn’t push it. Eventually, he realizes they’re approaching his street.

“I must have walked towards my place without thinking. Forgive me. I’ll walk you back. Where do you—?”

“You live close by? I’d like to see it. I never get to come this way…”

This is where a gentleman would politely reject her and insist on walking her home. He would ignore the hunger in her eyes and the lust crackling between them and send her off.

What a night to find out he isn’t a gentleman.

Gwen likes his place.

An apartment above a seamstresses, mostly full of messy book and newspaper piles. He gets her a water from a tiny kitchen and she waits in a tinier living room. Still, she likes it. Smells like him, earthy and clean. He looks nervous as he hands it to her. The preamble is always the most awkward part. Best to get it over with quickly.

She downs the water quickly and places it on the table. He watches wide-eyed as she undoes her belt, walking closer to him before turning around. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks softly, “Would you mind unbuttoning me?”

It proceeds smoothly from there. She enjoys the warmth of his mouth on her neck and the thrill of his roaming hands. He mumbles praises about the taste of her lips and the softness of her skin, and they entangle like they’ve known each other all their lives. The hunger is bone deep, urgent passion clawing out of her chest to get to him. Soon, she forgets anything else in the world exists.

It’s the kind of satisfaction that makes her realize she’s been starving for it all her life.

Gwen didn’t care about Simon five hours ago, and now she’s slipping out of his room before morning and can’t stop herself from writing him a note about where to meet her next time, despite the little voice inside urging her not to. She tells herself ‘just one more time…'

Simon is disappointed.

From what he understands, you shouldn’t be if your one-night-stand slips out before breakfast, and yet… This feeling is only softened by her note. It gives him something to think about all day. Counting the minutes until he can see her again.

Gwen smells him before she sees him.

Both are wonderful sensations. The curve of his green eyes and his steady hands. She itches to reach for them under the pub table.

Simon’s already blushing. “To be honest… For a moment there I thought I’d never see you again.”

“And this displeased you?” She can’t help the smirk.

“I…”

“It would have displeased me to. I… looked forward to tonight.” It’s the barest of compliments but it makes him smile with victory, eyes locked on hers.

“What exactly were you looking forward to?”

They leave together before they’ve even finished their drinks.

It continues on like this longer than she’d like to admit.

Every night, she watches him sleep and tries to convince herself to leave and never return. But she never can stop from giving home more of herself, like a spout that won’t turn off.

It’s also getting harder to avoid his questions. She’s made peace with being a pretend-secretary at a pretend-law-firm, but still, he asks about her family. How could she possibly explain that she had to leave them behind centuries ago, after the turning, for their owns safety?

Sometimes it’s all too stressful and worrisome and she decides the next date will be their last… and then she feels the touch of his fingers and the heat of his body and it’s all forgotten. Looking down at him from above, face flush against the pillows, she’s sure she’s never seen anyone so beautiful. That this ravenous hunger deep inside is only sated with him, even when they’re just talking. That alone makes her feel more full than she’s ever been.

Still, she worries.

The closer they get, the more he’ll wonder why full moons agitate her, or why sometimes she goes out alone at night and returns with blood on her dress. Why only one of them ever seems to age. She watches him breath and tries not to think about it.

Simon is excited.

He has a lead on a new story, one that he hasn’t yet shared with Gwen. He wants to surprise her when it’s finally published, tell her it’s only possible because of her support, that she’s unlike anyone he’s ever met before — then he’ll finally ask her to be his. Maybe even admit he’s in love with her, if he’s feeling brave enough.

In a particularly rough neighbourhood downtown, there had been a string of peculiar murders that no-one seemed to paying much attention (likely, he figured, because the victims were all homeless drifters with a string of offences under their belts, always seen last at some shady pub).

He had to pay a pretty penny to the cops’ secretary, Donna, to get an exclusive tip: every body was found with their flesh torn and mangled with bite marks, like some kind of animal — or beast — had attacked them.

Now that was a story. The last two were found in alleyways in this area, even one in the thicket of trees not far from where he’d first met Gwen. He never did understand how she was so totally fearless, so unafraid of the dark. She just laughed and looked away whenever it came up, saying I’m not scared of the boogeyman. He wondered if she knew what was really lurking these streets. He decided to warn her soon.

A sound knocked him from his daydreams. The rattling of a metal trashcan, a deep grunt. It was hard to make it out with only sparse streetlights and the cloud-covered moonlight. Still, his heart pounded.

Donna’s words had rattled him. Surely she’s kidding, he thought. And yet, the gravity in her eyes had struck him as entirely real. Maybe it was a rabid animal… or a human predator. But what kind of human could inflict the kind of damage she’d described?

He told himself to relax; it’s probably just a raccoon or a lady of the night. And yet, the moaning wasn’t pleasured, it was… haunting. Guttural. Instinct told him to run. Instead, he steadied himself and took several steps into the alleyway. At first, there were only shadows and dumpsters — and then Simon heard it.

Deep, heavy breathing. A slow dripping. Strained breaths. A growl, getting louder now. Simon backed away slowly, calm only by virtue of the fact that this thing hadn’t seen him.

He was only a step away from the safety of the main street when his foot sent a glass bottle rolling.

Wide eyes snapped up to meet his through the darkness, and sharp canines glinted in the light. Simon realized that whatever it was held an unconscious man against the wall, before letting him hit the ground. Then it started towards Simon. He panicked, rushing towards the street, when he accidentally stepped on another glass bottle and fell backwards.

He heard his head slam the concrete before he felt it. Forcing himself to sit up, he scooted frantically backwards until he hit a wall. The sidewalk was no more than four feet to his right, but it felt like a world away.

The beast stalked closer, snarling with every movement, and he realized then it walked on all-fours. Simon was horrified to learn just then that it was possible for blood to literally run cold, as a chill flooded his body. He forced himself to breath, to not close his eyes. On the odd chance he survived, he needed to remember every detail for his future book.

The beast had brown eyes, long fur, a snout… the closer it got, the more Simon saw it for what it was: a wolf. A ginormous one, by any standards, but still. It pressed closer until it’s face was inches from his, blood still dripping from it’s mouth. He waited, tense and horrified for the bite to come. But the animal only sniffed him for what felt like an eternity. Finally — mercifully — it backed up, turned around, and ran off into the night.

Gwen can’t breathe.

It’d taken her longer than she’d like for her wolf mind to recognize Simon. She remembered sniffing him, the way the memories and emotions burst through like a flood of colour. Not him, she pleaded from the back of her mind, not him. It was like screaming inside a soundproof room. Eventually, somehow, she forced herself to run, not stopping until she reached farmland.

That night had been sleepless. She thought of her own turning; being grabbed in the park, the sharp pain, her screams getting lost on the wind. The nights of agony and confusion. She remembers because she’d almost turned Simon tonight. Now, that impulse brings her shame. I can’t do that to him. She’d seen his horrified face when he saw her true form — and the man she'd killed.

Gwen had been walking home earlier that night, human as ever, when she’d heard a scream: a woman trying to fight a man off in the alley. She doesn’t remember shifting, she just remembers jumping on him, teeth first. Smiling when the woman get away. And then, suddenly, Simon was there.

The next night, she stops by his place directly, itching to see him again — but no-one was home. Dejected, she walks back out onto the dark street. Only then does she realize how full the moon is. That’s why it’s been harder to resist the urges lately, why she could shift so easily between forms… She prays it’s over soon. Sometimes she thinks she can only truly relax when the moon is dark.

The urges come again soon, as she’s walking aimlessly down another road. If she had more self-respect, she’d admit she was pub-hopping to see if Simon was out on a date. Luckily (and disappointingly), there was no sign of him. She walked the sidewalk along the park, until she heard the sound of a harsh slap. A man berating and shaking a woman, screaming about money and loyalty. Gwen pounced at him before she knew what was happening. She was vaguely aware of the woman running off as she held the man on the ground. She savoured biting into him — until a blow to her side knocked her off him and onto the ground. She heard voices, watched the man stand up and run off — but she couldn’t chase him.

She couldn’t move at all.

She sensed another figure coming closer as a warm pool of blood spread around her middle. The stinging made her realize with an odd sort of acceptance, oh, it must’ve been a silver bullet. The shooter kneeled over her then, looking into her eyes with an odd look. Something about him pulled at all her senses — until it clicked.

And she realizes that Simon just shot her.

Simon can’t believe it.

He’d been so thrilled to catch the rogue-beast in action, to stop it from hurting anyone else… He’d spent all day at the library and oddity shops preparing for tonight with these special bullets, planning to take down the beast, publish his big story, and celebrate with Gwen… And then he looked into the wolf’s eyes and realized why they seemed so familiar — why they looked right into his soul.

And he realizes then that he just shot Gwen.

Simon reached delicately for her soft face, shock and horror twisting in his gut. “Is it really…?”

As if answering him, the shift began, and suddenly human Gwen was in his lap. Simon wrapped his trench-coat around her naked form and the dark red bullet-wound. He remembered how touching her used to set his soul on fire, bringing every part of him to life. Now, she just felt cold.

“I didn’t know, Gwen. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry…”

Her face tipped up, the trace of a smile on her lips.

Gently, she says: “I know.”

And then her eyes close, and she is gone.

Only after Simon’s death, decades later, does his daughter get a letter from his estate lawyer directing her to a lock-box. Inside is a stack of paper with a note on top: It’s time. Please publish this.

On the front page is one word — the title:

“Gwen.”