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“We’re all bastards,” he said. “Mutts, mongrels. Here’s how it started—how we all started. A woman who was dying anyway, she decided to make her death count. This is back when, peasants and scythes. So she drank a bellyful of some poison plant, then walked naked out to the wolves who had been snatching the village’s children. To kill them. But, because she offered herself to them, the wolves didn’t want her, wouldn’t eat her. Instead, they invited her into the pack, and when she died from the poison, they licked her eyeballs hard enough to roll them back around from the whites. She came back
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What a way to describe the origin of werewolves!
“That’s us,” he said. “That’s what we are, kid. Animals that never should have existed. Accidents. Reminders about who should mount who, and who shouldn’t.”
People say werewolves are animals, but they’re wrong. We’re so much worse. We’re people, but with claws, with teeth, with lungs that can go for two days, legs that can eat up counties.
This is how it is with werewolves. Even when they lie, it’s the truth.
In the heaven of werewolves, there’s just new grass folding back into place. There’s a wolf running across one part of the meadow, her true husband waiting under the shadow of the trees, and there’s a wolf standing behind as well, taking snapshots with his eyes, with his heart, with his nose. With his pen.
