I found a half-dead werewolf in the woods. I pinched pennies and skipped meals to buy him medicine, brewing potions until my eyes were raw. And in the end, he said to another, “I would never fall for a notorious witch.” I found that bizarre. “I don’t know what the customs are for you werewolves,” I told him later, “but for the record, I don’t date pets.” 1 I’m a witch. I live deep in the forest. My dream is to have a dog. The first time I saw Rhys, bleeding out on a bed of moss, a little shriek escaped my lips. Finally! It was my turn to find a stray! It wasn’t until I’d dragged him home and washed him off that I realized I’d picked the wrong species. The coat of shimmering silver fur wasn’t fur at all, but a ruined pelt he was wearing. Beneath the tangled, matted hair that covered his face was the face of a man. The ears and the fluffy tail, however, were real. Wolf ears and a wolf tail. I went still. My hand, mid-scrub, froze. I considered how to put him back exactly as I’d found him. The dog whimpered. No, that wasn’t right. It was a man’s groan. His lashes fluttered, and his eyes slowly opened. They were dark and brilliant, like polished obsidian from a deep forest cave. He did look a bit like a puppy, though. Fine. I’d just raise him like one. 2 I went back to scrubbing him clean. “How about I call you Lucky?” I muttered as I worked. “Sound good?” Lucky’s gaze drifted upward. “I have a name,” he whispered. “It’s Rhys.” “Right,” I said. “Lucky.” Lucky was silent. Lucky shut down. He closed his eyes again. Youth is a wonderful thing; he was asleep in an instant. It took me the rest of the day to get him clean, even combing the knots out of his hair until it was straight. I tried to wake him for some broth, but he was dead to the world. He’d passed out again. I managed to trickle some healing potion between his lips, and his eyes fluttered open. Rhys ran a hand through his hair, a thoughtful frown on his face. I puffed out my chest. “Your hair was a total mess! It took me all afternoon to get it straight.” “I have naturally curly hair,” he said, his voice flat. The silence that followed was deafening. I forced a laugh. “Well, think of it as a new look.” 3 Rhys’s injuries were serious. But when you take in a pet, you have a responsibility to see it through. I’d always been a broke witch, living meal-to-meal. Now, saving up for Rhys’s recovery, I was lucky to get one meal a day. A bundle of pain-dulling herbs cost a silver coin. A poultice of blood-clotting moss was two. Every day, I’d squat by the door with a stick, scratching figures in the dirt. The more I calculated, the more I thought Rhys was horribly unlucky to have been found by a pauper like me. I used the cheapest herbs, but the potions I brewed were flawless, distilled with a practiced hand. I often stayed up all night by the cauldron, my eyes burning from the smoke, and then spent the day tending to the half-dead Rhys. His wounds would begin to heal, but on the night of the full moon, they would tear open anew. He’d break out in a cold sweat, his already pale face draining of all color. He’d bite his lip until beads of blood formed and dripped onto his collar. I’d hold a wooden bowl to his lips, feeding him the analgesic potion one spoonful at a time. I hummed a little tune to distract him. “Hush now, little puppy, hush now, be good. Smart and so lively, a sweet, gentle boy…” He listened in silence. When I paused to take a drink of water, he told me, “I’m a wolf.” I nodded, unbothered. It was an easy fix. “Hush now, little wolfie, hush now, be good…” Rhys closed his eyes, his expression peaceful as he leaned his head against my shoulder. I could smell the scent of cedar clinging to him, a fragrance that reminded me of a pine forest blanketed in snow. 4 When Rhys was mostly healed, I started him on physical therapy. He hadn’t been on his feet for weeks, which is terrible for a wolf. I bought a bone from a local hunter, scraped it clean, and tossed it across the yard while Rhys watched. “Go get it, Lucky!” Rhys was sitting in a wicker chair, reading one of my spellbooks. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling his fine features. He was too beautiful for a common dog. He gave me a look, then returned to his book. Unimpressed. I tried a sweeter tone. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll make your favorite bone broth for dinner.” Rhys’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. He gently set the book aside and then, he was gone. A true wolf. His form was a graceful, powerful arc, a shooting star against the green of the forest. In the blink of an eye, he was back, the bone held gently in his hand. He looked down at me, his eyes shining. “Here.” I took it and immediately threw it again, even farther this time. Rhys: “?” I stood on my toes and patted his head in praise. Then I commanded, “Go get it.” Rhys let out a soft sigh. And took off running. 5 Once he was almost fully recovered, Rhys started hunting. In the mornings, he’d lean against the doorframe with the crude bow and quiver I’d made him, listening as I listed the potion ingredients I needed. “A frog, a fish eye, two sprigs of myrtle…” I finished the list. He didn’t move. He just stood there, looking down at me with that brilliant gaze. “Is there anything you want?” he asked. I looked up at him and smiled. “I’d love some baked bread.” I used to save up my coins to buy fresh bread from the town. But since I’d started saving for Rhys’s medicine, it had become a luxury I couldn’t afford. Rhys nodded. From then on, he came back every day with a small loaf of bread for me. At night, he would light the candles in the cabin and organize the herbs in my medicine cabinet. Then he would sit quietly, watching me stand on a stool, humming “Hush Now, Little Wolfie” as I brewed his potions. He would bend down, letting me stroke his fluffy ears. He’d listen as I absentmindedly called him “puppy” or “Lucky.” And late at night, he’d pick up his pillow and retreat to the small room I had built just for him. He was my healing little puppy. But the beautiful dream didn’t last long. 6 One day, Rhys left at dawn and didn’t come back. He was always back by dusk. I grabbed my wand, hopped on my broomstick, and flew out to find him. I knew Rhys might have enemies. But I was once a very powerful witch. I was confident I could save him from anyone. But I didn’t see any enemies. I saw Rhys at the edge of the forest. A werewolf with gray ears and a gray tail was bowing respectfully, addressing him as “Your Majesty.” Rhys, still holding the loaf of bread he’d gotten for me, stood bathed in the silver moonlight, his expression unreadable. His voice, when he spoke, was a low current of sound, cold enough to make you shiver. “I will return soon.” “You can reassure the pack. I would never fall for a notorious witch.” Neither of them saw me. I was perched high in the branches of an old oak, shielded by an owl. Its round eyes glowed in the dark as it hooted a strange call only I could understand. “Leora,” it cooed softly in my mind, “even the Wolf King in his Northern Ridge has heard of your reputation.” I lowered my head, silent. Of course I knew. I was the “notorious witch” he spoke of.
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