To Live Among Wolves (Legends of Arcadia Book 1)

Chapter 2

One year later

I loved trees.

I could be happy in the forest.

Through some incredible circumstances, I accepted a part-time job for the autumn and winter seasons where I helped manage trails for the park services. Istudied what grew and dwelled there.

My History of Art professor had noticed my consistent concentration on all things forests and trees and wolves. She had a former graduate student who worked for the National Park Service who knew about all sorts of positions around our local area related to wildlife and fisheries.

And that’s how I ended up being paid to be in the forest doing a study on ferns. I didn’t earn much, but it kept me out of my parents’ hair and helped me avoid socializing.

My close acquaintances in my freshman college classes would always say that normal college girls didn’t isolate themselves and that socializing benefitted my mental health, contrary to my belief.

The joke was on them because I wasn’t isolated.

I preferred the term independent.

Bigdifference.

But the forest felt alive today. The autumn breeze sent gusts through the tops of the spruce and cedars. The melody deafened birdsong. Something had awoken the forest. Nature stirred with excitement, the leaves swirling in eddies along the ground, whipping the hair that had escaped my curly ponytail.

Freedom.

The study page I worked on had a roughly sketched fern with the scientific name for this particular plant.

Asplenium montanum

It was once thought that these specific ferns were helpful in healing ailments of the spleen due to the shape and design of the leaves and fronds. Hence their name ‘spleenwort’. However, not much validity has been found in that wives’ tale.

It’s not that I didn’t like ferns, only they weren’t my main fascination.

I’d really been drawing a coyote track not too far from the spleenwort, so I squatted to copy the roundness of the pad in contrast to the sharp claws. They were smaller than wolves but sort of cousins. Like the cattle dog of the woods. So they counted at least for something in my book.

While I labeled my drawing, something cracked behind me. Not the kind of sound that birds and squirrels made.

A deer maybe.

After a cursory glance around, I packed up my bag of journaling supplies and snacks.

I retied my hiking boots, tightened my ponytail of messy curls, and pulled my oversized sweatshirt out of my bag, slipping it on over my long-sleeved shirt. The air had dropped several degrees since I sat down half an hour ago. Winter made its way to Tennessee, elbowing autumn out of the picture.

I stood and tugged my leggings up.

Turning to head back down the trail, another loud snapping of branches caught my attention. A mass of rustling leaves followed in its wake.

Bobcats wouldn’t be out in the open right now. And it sounds too big to be a deer.

I crouched as I walked, and my neck prickled like someone or something watched me. I stepped off the trail and surveyed my surroundings. Nothing moved. I knew I could spook a coyote or a bear if necessary. Worst case scenario, I’d lose my backpack if I had to throw it as a distraction with my snacks. I briefly lamented the potential loss of all my wolf studies, specifically the ancient history of the red wolves in my region. I tugged my journal out of my bag while I climbed further on the trail and up a switchback.

The crack and rustle from before had disappeared, leaving me once again alone in the woods.

In a way, the silence seemed scarier. The wind died. After the trees were so loud for so long, the silence now enveloped my senses. My ears ached to hear something, anything. The forest had gone deadly still, pausing for a breath in anticipation of… something.

Maybe it’s waiting for whatever woke it up.

I started to turn around when something caught my eye under a group of saplings. Crouching lower, I pulled the sapling’s leaves to the side.

“No way,” I whispered to the trees.

Forgetting my nerves and pulling out a pencil, I sketched the track etched into the dirt. It was large—larger than any other print I had ever seen in those parts. Bigger than a grown man’s hand, maybe nine inches long and six or seven inches wide. And it had claws that I imagined would be thick and sharp from the straight marks in the dirt at the end of each digit. Maybe worst or best of all…

A wolf print.

It can’t be.

But it is.

I made frantic notes along the side of my quick drawing.

Could this be what made the loud crack and rustling noises? My heart quickened at the thought. Wolves don’t give up their prey so easily, but a creature of that magnitude had to be impossible to miss. It had to be twice the size of a juvenile black bear.

But there hadn’t been wolves in these parts in centuries. The red wolves were eradicated long before I had been born, and there were only a couple dozen in existence out on the coast of North Carolina. And even those were small, forty to eighty pounds at most.

None of this makes any sense. Have I found another werewolf after all these years?

Whatever creature had made that print was big. Bigger than big. And I began to feel like the forest wanted to be left alone for the day.

Shoving my journal and pencils back into my backpack, I zipped it shut, ready to head back to my car.

A snap behind me accompanied a low reverberating growl. The sound crawled up my spine, the creature’s hot breath making my body tremble with chills.

Stay calm.

I slowly turned to catch a glimpse, thinking that if the creature’s curiosity took over, it might investigate and go away. Or smell my bag and want a snack. Both were viable options, and I could be patient if it meant surviving.

Out of my peripheral, I saw a wall of fur.

Bear.

And then a tail swished behind it.

My heart sank as I connected the track in front of me to the beast behind. I used all my self control to not run out of pure terror. I angled my head up until I could see the top of the creature’s head.

Big wolf. Massive gray wolf.

The beast, larger than a brown bear, bared its teeth and snarled at me. The growl rattled in my chest. Its green eyes were unblinking, a sign of dominance and intense focus.

I turned my body, and the wolf snapped at the air, more a warning than an actual attack. I froze, my backpack slung over one arm. I kicked myself for not spotting it in the first place. At the same time, I wondered how a beast that big could sneak right by me.

The wolf stepped forward, and I swear the ground shook. Breath erratic and heart racing, I thought of the bear spray on the seat of my car and blamed my complacency.

I glanced back. The bank pitched down for a decent length.

It would hurt, but I could tumble backwards down the bank and potentially escape.

If I was honest with myself, I would’ve chosen a broken limb and escape by evasion rather than get chewed by the creature staring me down. I loved wolves, but I had a healthy respect for them.

They were still wild.

Unless it’s a werewolf.

Since I’d grown up, I’d seen many more stories and movies of predatory werewolves, but nothing like the ones I had encountered as a young child. Iain had been gentle, human even. And he had rescued me when I could have died.

Could this be Iain? Had his red fur grayed with age?

“Do you remember me?” I said as calmly as possible.

The wolf opened its mouth wider, showing sharp teeth and curling its tongue outward. I stepped back, the ground shifting beneath my feet.

“Iain–”

My words cut off as I slipped down the embankment, hitting branches and leaves as I tumbled. My face burned. I cursed.

Through the dizziness of the tumble, a dark shadow bounded after me. I flailed for a grip on anything my hands could find.

My heart drummed in my ears, and I tried to slow my descent without breaking a limb. I leaned my body sideways and rolled over a log, falling headlong towards a collection of stones.

Everything disappeared, but the shadow of a wolf remained ingrained in my mind.