Road to Anywhere

The Huntress

Story written for "Gloves Up | A Multi-Genre Smackdown Contest", Round 2.1 (September 2022). Genre: Werewolf, using two selected quotes and two selected picture prompts.

Warning: Contains (non-explicit) depictions of gore and death, as might be expected in the Werewolf genre.

Story word count = 2497

My quarry was near. The pungent, musky scent hung in the still night air like smoke. No sound challenged the silence, save a distant owl hoot. The full moon cast eerie light through the deep forest, setting the mood.

Perfect.

Every nerve tingled, every sinew tightened, and every sense focused as I melted into the shadows. The primal huntress in me reveled.

Earlier this evening, an old man met a gory end, gutted with innards spilled out. This was the second such killing this month and people were on edge.

"Looks like a grizzly," I told the lawmen. "He might've gotten between cub and mama. Happens sometimes."

I lied. The scent revealed the true perpetrator — a werewolf who had undergone the lycanthropic transformation. I am all for live and let live, but when a werewolf became a mindless beast driven by blood-lust, they crossed the line. 

Sheriff Mather twitched his gray handlebar mustache and cast a knowing nod, releasing me to the hunt. My business card reads 'Dr. Tanya Grimm, Associate Professor of Anthropology.' No one else but the sheriff knew my other job — Werewolf Hunter.

Circling the clearing, I held to the thick trees. A flickering movement near a dilapidated hunting shack and slight rustle of grass revealed the werewolf. I approached from behind, shielded from sight by the broken-down structure. Soft-soled moccasins minimized the sound.

I drew a pair of tomahawks from a holster, my go-to for close-in fighting. The silver-plated steel heads were special-made just for this task. Rounding the shack with weapons ready, I found nothing but shadows.

Where did it go? An airy rumbling growl behind answered that question.

I spun, coming eye-to-eye with the monster. Dark abyss eyes stared back, a sight few ever survived. The werewolf monster stood upright like a man, but not human. Razor-sharp claws extended from elongated hands. Any skin not covered with coarse brown hair had the pale color of death. Dried blood caked its fur. Hissing, the beast revealed jagged fangs and foul breath like rotting meat.

Dropping to the ground, I ducked below a claw swipe, then chopped at its clawed foot with a tomahawk. Throwing its head back, it howled in pain, giving me a chance to roll away and jump up. 

The werewolf circled me, growling as it considered another attack. Although lanky and twisted, it paced with the fluidity of a wolf.

It pounced, leading with fangs and slashing claws. I twisted, blocking with one tomahawk and chopping with the other. Howling again, it staggered back with a shoulder imbedded tomahawk.

Defeated, the monster turned and loped away. Nope, not going to happen. I threw a tomahawk, looping it through the air. The blade buried itself in the werewolf's back. While it writhed on the ground, I finished the job with a hack across its neck, severing the spine.

Now came my least favorite part — the clean-up.

Then I noticed my slashed t-shirt and the growing crimson stain coming from four parallel cuts to my side. I sighed. Not the first time, but fortunately, I heal fast.

Because I am a werewolf.

When I finally stumbled into my log cabin, it was almost dawn. As I collapsed into bed, a lucid dream came.