The Girl in Red

Winter was on its way. The ground was covered in a white dust, and the skies swirled a temperamental gray overhead with the promise of more soon. The villagers had erected the tall bonfire in the square—a ten-foot-tall blaze of flames that helped any lost huntsmen find their ways home, or ward off any unwelcome visitors. A handful of burly men in furs stood around it now, rough hands outstretched in a desire to warm their calloused fingers before they set off for yet another excursion in the woods.
Rita walked by, wicker basket on her arm. The dirt trail she walked led her clear past the village and into the thicket beyond the trees, where the berries she hunted awaited her arrival. If she was lucky, they hadn’t been touched yet—her grandmother needed them to make a few pies before the icy weather hit full force. A few villagers waved as she walked past and Rita nodded politely in return as she moved past the last few small brown houses.
She’d always wondered what lay beyond the woods: Perhaps merchants, princes, faeries, and goblins? She’d heard all manner of scary stories from the hunters as a child—wolves big enough to eat a small child whole wandered about in the shadows, just waiting for unsuspecting prey to pounce on. But she had never been afraid; Rita had always possessed a rather wild imagination herself. It was, as her father always put, not one of her most attractive qualities.
Rita knelt by the bushes and began to pluck the juicy berries from the stems. Her scarlet-red hood kept her curls and cheeks from the biting winds, and she hummed one of her father’s lullabies as she continued to work. Her father—also a huntsman—had a lovely voice. Every widow or young woman in the village said so. It often disturbed Rita how many girls her own age found Father so attractive. Granted, she knew herself he was handsome, with his broad shoulders and thick hair that fell past his neck. Even so…he was her father. Not some dandy to be ogled!
Frowning, Rita hissed when she plucked her finger. “Oh, damn!” she swore under her breath, studying the red droplets of blood as they stained the snow beneath her boots. It was a bold contrast, one that made her pause and admire it in a slightly morbid way. Red was such a pretty color—her favorite, in fact. That was why Granny had picked the reddest berries she could when she had decided to make Rita’s cloak for her seventeenth birthday.
“Besides,” her grandmother had said as she tied the finished product about the girl’s chin. “Red suits you.”
Rita had always wondered what that meant; had the color simply looked best on her, against her tawny skin? She wasn’t some pale beauty like the women and princesses from the neighboring kingdoms. Or perhaps Granny had simply meant that it set well on her raven curls. Vain though it was, even Rita knew her hair was her best feature, falling in silky waves the color of ink down her back.
She sighed in exasperation and stuck the finger she’d wounded in her mouth, sucking at the injury. She would have to mend it later, for the berries wouldn’t last much longer in the frigid weather. But she also didn’t want to ruin them by spoiling them with her blood. The metal taste was foul on her tongue, but Rita sucked it up and wiped her hand on her skirt. It wasn’t ladylike, but it wasn’t like anyone was watching. Once she had ceased the flow of blood, she knelt back down and quickly finished picking the berries. Safely tucked away in her basket, she turned and hurried back to the village. The thought of Granny’s pies baking made Rita’s mouth water, and she could hardly wait any longer. She was in such a rush that she barely noticed the heavy footprints she’d left behind in the snow.
Nor the way the large shadow with golden eyes leaned down to sniff them.

The wolf had seen everything. In fact, he’d seen more than everything—his eyes were always on that blasted little village. The damn hunters with their cursed rifles, the frail and pasty women and their delicious looking infants…the very mental image made his empty stomach rumble so loudly that birds fluttered away in alarm. The wolf let out a low snarl when the men had set the bonfire alight that morning. The angry flames were threatening, promising a nasty burn should the wolf venture too close.
But he was starving. And his hunger only grew when the majority of the men had dressed and readied themselves for a hunt. No guns meant a quicker chance at dinner. And while the wolf wasn’t some weak pup to need an easy meal, the thought of not overtaxing his huge body in the harsh elements was equally pleasing. So the wolf had lain in wait for the men to rally their brothers and male family members. It would be sometime tomorrow, or even late that night that he could move. Perhaps snatch a fat babe from its bed, or tempt a plump maid out past the village’s boundaries…the prospects of dinner made the wolf’s jaws water and he laid his huge head down on his massive paws.
It was the humming that had awoken him. A soft, sweet cadence that made his sensitive ears perk up and his golden eyes open. It was then that he’d peered through the leaves of his hiding spot and spotted her. She was a young thing, slim and small for her age, and wearing a long cloak of blood-red that hid her features. He had stared at her curiously, listening to her calm heartbeat as she pulled berries from the bushes. She was just a child, innocent and naïve. But there was something about lack of fear that made him…inquisitive.
The girl had pricked her finger and the scent of her blood made him drool. She had frowned at it, and the wolf noticed her plump lips turning down. Plump, full lips that were nearly as red as her cloak. Perhaps they were even pretty lips. The wolf had watched as the girl lapped up her blood, and his eyes widened in surprise. That was unnatural—humans didn’t eat their own blood. But the girl didn’t seem to relish it; she merely wiped her finger on her dress and gathered her basket. Then she turned and the wolf saw her face.
She was very beautiful, with large eyes and curls that framed her doll-like features. The wolf realized he was staring at her with an odd sense of burning in his stomach. When the girl had rushed back towards the village, he crawled forth and sniffed the dainty footprints she’d left behind. Her scent was that of cinnamon and flesh, and he let out a low growl. She wouldn’t be his dinner…oh heavens no. She was far too scrawny a thing to make a decent appetizer, let alone a meal. But the wolf gave a smirk and sauntered back to his hiding spot.
He had plans to meet this little hooded girl. And he was simply dying to make her acquaintance