Page 4 of Run, Little Doe

That’s what I tell myself as I stumble back toward the glow of the bonfire, my pulse still skittering under my skin. The path looks unfamiliar now, lanterns beginning to dim to dull embers, shadows stretching too far across the trail. It’s late. The forest feels thicker—alive, almost. Every rustle, every sigh of wind sounds like footsteps behind me.

He was there. I know he was. The mask, the voice—low and rough, brushing against my skin like the sweetest sin.

“Go back to the fire, Little Doe.”

The words replay in my mind, looping until they start to feel less like a warning and more like a command that I will never stop hearing. Something that will live in my dreams.

I tighten my grip on my camera, the strap biting into my palm. The lens is still warm from the last flash, proof that something—someone—had been standing in front of me. But when I scroll through the photos, frame after frame is nothing but light and blur. Smoke. Trees. A suggestion of movement that might’ve been a trick of the firelight.

Still… I can feel him. There’s a strange current in the air that hasn’t gone away.

By the time I reach the edge of the field again, the noise of the festival rushes over me like a tide—music, laughter, shouts. The heat from the bonfire and the crowd licks against my skin, yet I can’t shake the chill in my bones. Carly spots me instantly, waving me over with yet another drink in her hand, her fox mask pushed crooked on her face.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, breathless from dancing. “I turned around and you vanished.”

“Just… needed some air,” I lie.

She eyes me, skeptical, eyebrows raised, “Air or a man?”

“Neither.” I try to laugh, but it sounds hollow. “Just wanted some shots away from the crowd. You know, get the whole vibe of the festival.”

Carly shrugs, already distracted by the song changing. She tugs my arm. “Come on, Doe. One more dance before the costume contest!”

I let her pull me closer to the fire, though my gaze keeps drifting—to the tree line, to the shadows just beyond the light. Every time the wind shifts, the smoke seems to twist toward me, curling around my legs like something sentient. I tell myself it’s nothing. Itryto believe it.

But as the drums build and the crowd begins to chant, I feel it again—that same prickle along my neck. Someone is watching me.

I scan the crowd, my heart pounding. There are so many masks—horns, teeth, painted smiles—but no wolf. Still, my body seems to know before my mind does.

The awareness hits low and sharp, a pull in my gut that feels far too much like recognition, a heat flooding between my legs I shouldn’t acknowledge.

It’s then that I see it.

Just for a second—between two dancers, through the heat and haze—a glint of silver and the pale curve of bone where a mask catches the light.

My breath catches in my throat.

He’s here.

The crowd shifts, bodies moving in rhythm to the heavy beat of the bass; the fire throws wild shadows across painted faces. I blink once, twice, but he’s gone again.

For a moment, I wonder if grief has finally made me start seeing ghosts.

****

The Wolf

She feels me before she sees me.

I can tell by the way her breath falters, the way her body tenses like prey scenting a predator in the dark. She knows I’m watching her. But she doesn’t run. Not yet.

I stick just beyond the firelight, where the shadows lick the edges of the crowd, only stepping into the light when I want her to see me. From here, I can see her perfectly—the auburn mask, her chestnut hair, the flush in her cheeks, the curve of her neck where the ribbon ties, and I don’t miss the small tremor in her hand as she lowers her camera.

She’s beautiful. Not in the shallow, practiced way of the women who wear masks or makeup to hide themselves—but in the raw, unguarded way of someone who hasn’t yet learned her power, her feral side, what she’s worth to the dark. But she will.

The music swells.

The dancers spin.