Page 2

Chapter 2

Hungry Like the Wolf

brIAR

I fucking hate gardening at night.

It’s something I will never stop complaining about.

Not that anyone hears me.

I wish to cultivate gorgeous flowers to brighten my home and life. I want to bring joy to the land and attract the birds and the bees to my doorstep. So, at night, when it is safe for me, I toil under the moon to bring life instead of death.

For once.

I’ve been trapped here, stuck in this house, for millennia. It’s been lifetimes upon lifetimes that I have been unable to exit the fairy circle around the perimeter. If I could convince someone, anyone, to help me break it, I would be free.

I could finally live.

Very few adventurers end up on my doorstep, but I beg their help when they do. None have been able to break me free of this prison.

Unfortunately for them, they’ve not gone free, either.

It’s not intentional. I try to control myself.

But I’m just so hungry.

Hunger changes a person on a fundamental level. If left to starve long enough, even the worst decisions seem justifiable.

I sit back on my heels and stare up at the prison I have called home for all my life. The glamour is fading, and rotten boards and broken roof tiles intersperse the image of sweet candies and treats.

The house could use a makeover.

Waving my hand, the glamour fades momentarily, only to be replaced by one knitted out of shimmering strands of purple magic that makes the home look like a multi-tiered cake. The frosting is the color of the sky at sunset, with purple flowers dotted over it.

I’ve never had sweets. I have been told all about them by travelers who stumble upon me, though. I beg them to tell me stories, to describe what the outside world is like, and they acquiesce. Once I learned about sweets, I couldn’t stop asking questions, going as far as getting the travelers to sketch what they looked like in the dirt with a stick so I could create the first glamor for my home.

A lovely woman was with me when I created it, and she gave me pointers to make it look more authentic. I miss her sometimes. Her memory is one that fills me with regret, but I cannot erase it.

If I ever get out of here, I hope I can find someone with sweets. I would like to try them someday, even if human food never seems to agree with me.

I wipe off my hands and stand, happy with the evening’s work and drained from the use of my waning magic. I should have saved it for something of substance, but a little joy in my surroundings feels necessary.

If my magic is a spring, I am scraping the bottom of it with my shovel, trying to extract water from the packed and drying mud.

Walking inside, I can almost ignore the gnawing hunger that claws at me every second of the day. How long has it been since I’ve had a proper meal? Whenever a creature wanders through the fairy circle, I can trap them, but they do not satisfy me like humans do. The creatures of the woods must talk because they no longer visit frequently.

And it’s been so long since one came to me. The ache in my gut grows at the thought of the last one I had. A pretty man with rich dark skin that was the softest I’ve ever felt. I quite enjoyed playing with him.

He satisfied more hunger than one.

Unfortunately, I lost control and drained him all at once. I like to think if I had only sampled him, I could have convinced him to stay with me.

I think he enjoyed fucking me just as much as I enjoyed feeding from him.

The sun is getting close to rising. I can stay up to see it, safe in my home, but what is the point? I cannot go outside and warm my skin in it, which makes seeing it taunting me through the glass of my windows infuriating.

I throw my body across my couch, wallowing in self-pity. My head hits the bottle of ale I finished last night, and I groan, remembering I drained my most recent batch and need to check if the wort for the next is fermented enough yet.

I cannot make myself move from the couch. The weakness in my bones is settling in, and I know the only thing I’ll be able to do is sleep soon. I have so few productive hours anymore. Every day, my energy gets depleted faster and faster, and I sleep more and more.

Eventually, when I sleep for good, never waking again?

If I’m lucky, maybe a handsome adventurer will stumble through my door and trip and fall in my pussy so I can fuck and eat at the same time with no effort on my part.

A witch can dream, huh?

* * *

I stretch with an obscenely loud groan, my back on fire from sleeping on the couch that must be as ancient as me instead of my bed. I see the sun’s rays through the window and grumble at it for having the audacity to be up still.

Looks like I’m stuck indoors for a bit.

The tepid water I filled my tub with for last night’s bath lay in wait for me. I meant to take advantage of it and clean myself off before I slept, but I was too weary to put in the effort.

Dirt from the garden is still caked on my hands and under my nails. I know I’m on my own here, with no one to look nice for, but I haven’t hit the point yet where I wallow in filth.

Give it another few centuries, and I bet I’ll end up there.

I use just the smallest amount of magic, scraping the dregs running through my veins to warm the water under my touch. It has been too long since I’ve eaten, and I am too depleted to generate enough magic to leave it steaming.

My simple red dress and white cotton panties, threadbare from use, pile on the floor haphazardly as I slide into the bath. My bones are weary as I slip under the water into a tepid bath that feels like a fire on the other side of the forest warmed it.

As my eyes drift shut, I imagine what it would be like if I could stay just like this, slowly losing breath until I sink to the bottom and die. What would my Banisher say if he returned and found me dead, my corpse waterlogged and bloated? Would he rage that his punishment had been thwarted?

Would he find a way to bring me back so my torture can resume?

Unfortunately, that stupid reflex that makes my body not want to die kicks in, and I jolt to the surface, gasping for breath.

This reflex brings into question if I even can die. I’ve been here for, from what I can tell, all of time, and I barely eat. And yet, I never get sick. I never starve to death.

Am I immortal?

Gotta be honest, I sure fucking hope not. Being here is curse enough. To not allow me to die and escape it? That’s just cruel.

My hair sticks to my back in dripping clumps, the water making its usually soft lavender shade dull and brassy. Much to my chagrin, the purple hair is not glamour but a fluke of my magic. It clashes with everything I own clothing-wise.

Sometimes, I think my Banisher brings me ugly clothes on purpose. It’s just adding insult to injury, making it so I can’t even look cute for myself.

The Banisher, as I’ve come to know him, has no face. He appears in the night, cloaked in shadows, and every twelve moons, he brings supplies to keep me in the barest of health. Last year, he brought me a beautiful new dress, but it was in the most obnoxious shade of buttercup yellow.

I took it despite the garish color because new clothing is a rarity. I made a dye from the hyacinth I had growing in the garden, hoping for a rich blue, but now I have a ghastly shade of green that reminds me of sick.

If I knew when he would come this cycle, I’d wear it just so that he had to see it.

But he is late, and I am too hungry to be petty.

The water grows colder by the minute, my nipples constricting with the audacity of it. I flick one of them with my nail, the bite of it barely registering.

After centuries alone, playing with yourself gets tiring. There are only so many ways to rub your clit, and I think I’ve found all of them. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right… none of it works for me anymore. I’ve even tried my asshole a few times, but that button ended up as useless as the others. Unfortunately, my own sexual desire does nothing for my hunger.

As I stand, I watch the water slide down my figure back into the tub. I’m thinner than I should be, with collarbones and hips that jut out of my flesh. My skin is milky from lack of sun exposure. I think I may have passed as attractive in another world, but here I am, just Briar.

A monster trapped in a house alone for eternity.

After my bath, I slide on a worn black dress with thin straps that constantly fall down my shoulders. I hate this dress and would throw it away if I had the means to procure more clothes. For a while, I would exist in nudity, but I began to feel a bit too much like a wild animal, so I returned to dressing regularly. It helps me keep whatever is left of my humanity.

Maybe not humanity. That is probably the wrong word. Because I don’t think I’m human. A human couldn’t live this long. And they certainly don’t eat how I do.

The skirts of the dress barely caress the middle of my thighs, and with the straps threatening to revolt down my arms, my breasts are trying to abandon ship and escape the top as well. It makes me wonder why I even bother dressing if my clothes won’t stay the fuck on my body!

If I could have one meal, I would probably fill the dress out better and rid myself of the annoyance.

In the distance, I hear a wolf howl, and my ears perk up. I don’t get many wolves around here. If it gets trapped in my circle, I may do okay. They have almost the same amount of blood as humans, and wolves have magic simmering in their veins. I once fed from a few humans with small amounts of magic, which made the meal much more satisfying and long-lasting.

Reinvigorated, I leap from my chair and fling open my door, pleased to find the sun has just dipped below the horizon. My eyes scan the woods, searching for movement or a flash of fur. Branches snap to my left, and I leap from the porch, running to the edge of my prison to intercept the wolf.

Imagine my surprise when I find not just a wolf but two large, dreamy men.

Dinner is fucking served.