The moon looked small and distant between the clouds while the black wolf followed it. He had lived long enough that the very stars had wandered from their positions in the night-sky he remembered as a child, yet the moon always showed its same, worn face.

The earth felt soft from recent rain, and he made sure to avoid leaving pawprints; game wardens sometimes appeared in the day. He didn't want to leave the area for all that the north held plenty of forestland. Staying in one spot made it easy to lose track of time. The weight of years never pressed so hard among trees that were just as uncaring about their age.

Mud blurred all scents. Drizzle dampened his fur. Small irritations, too small to nip at his concentration while he sought out the witch's cabin.

Franny Harford had been gone for years. Bones in the water, when he'd last looked. Yet her home remained, far out in the woods where only the lost or desperate could stumble over it, and sometimes he visited it to see whether it still stood. Tonight, his nose caught traces of new scents while still miles off. Chimney smoke. Gas fumes from a car hot from a long drive. And two women, both unknown. Witches or humans? His nose wouldn't catch the answer until he was closer.

It interested him either way. He was long tired of killing witches, but this was his territory now. He never shared.

And if they were human... the years had slipped away again, and he couldn't remember the last time he had seen any. The last time he had worn his skin instead of his fur. His path gained purpose.

Water dripped from the surrounding redwoods as he reached the cabin, shabby and squat and leached of all color beneath the moonlight. At first, he avoided the gravel driveway, preferring to stay silent in the shadows even though the cabin's windows were dark except for a faint flicker in the attic. It smelled like wood rot and dust and hearth smoke—an abandoned shell taken over by newcomers.

Closer, now, close enough to take in how entangled and miserable the women's scents were with each other. Unhappy lovers. One thoroughly human, reeking of malignance and anger. The other so bright with desperation that he couldn't make out anything else. There was also the sour grape of wine and the richness of meat cooked in its own fat. A meal gone bad, maybe.

The black wolf licked his nose to clear it and then searched along the gravel pathway for older scents he might have missed. No spilled blood. No luring magic. Whoever had settled into the cabin wasn't about to pick up where Franny Harford had left off. When disappointment didn't bite at him over the fact, he realized more of himself had faded.

Some of the younger black wolves didn't understand the harsh nature of their curse. They thought immortality meant never fearing the grave. It took centuries to realize what they lost by surviving everything else. Empires. Languages. Love. Time erased everything.

The black wolf was too old to feel sorrow over it. He simply existed without caring, and now even his hunting instincts had worn away, like jaws with nubs for teeth. He caught easy prey when his hunger was too annoying and that was it. What reason was there to do anything more?

Just before he returned to the darkness of the trees, movement twitched at one of the unlit windows. Behind the film of curtains, a woman peered out. A girl, really—he could tell that even with the cold barrier of glass muffling her scent. Moonlight picked out the sweet curve of her face. Got caught in the largeness of her eyes. He did, too, falling still as he searched for fear in her scent. It had to be there. Even the weakest set of instincts recoiled from eyes glowing in the dark, and hers didn't seem weak at all. She stared right at him while standing like stone herself, and there was a tightness in her body that revealed she was well-used to hiding when threatened.

Yet when he took a step closer, still trying to find that prey-terror, the girl's lips only eased out of their thin, unhappy line, growing full and flushed while her hand pressed against the glass. For a moment, the entire world froze with them.

Something stirred deep inside the black wolf, much stronger than his shriveled needs for food and shelter. Sharp like teeth, thrilling like a howl. He couldn't put a name to it, only felt it run hot through his veins like bloodlust.

Then the girl started back from the window, twisting away into the darkness as if called. The second female scent joined hers—the greedy one—and he surprised himself by flashing his teeth in a silent threat. He, who hadn't felt anything beyond tiredness in decades.

He left, but not quickly, memorizing the car's scent and taking in nuances from the girl. There in the fabric of the driver's seat, he could smell her fear, and could even smell that it was of the other woman. A thorny type carefully stoked until it riddled the heart, winding together with trust and love. So. Another predator had already found her.

The black wolf circled the cabin a final time and then slipped away into the forest. Yet now he moved with purpose. He recognized the interest waking his sluggish heart. It was well-known that all the black wolves held a peculiar softness toward women, and he was no different. Hope had long faded, though. He'd lived too long. Some girls could face a beast, could even be willing to sit with his head in her lap and stroke his fur, but sooner or later they saw what sharp teeth did and could no longer ignore their fear.

So, he would follow this one for a few days. Maybe even try living in his skin for a while, if he could remember how to be human. The urge to see more of her meant a hunt damned to end badly, but as he thought again of her haunted eyes and lush mouth, he knew it didn't matter. He had to see her again, and he would.