as the wolf comes running
and running we did
.
.
She sees the wolf for the first time when its teeth are biting into Kate Argent's neck, coated in vibrantly red blood. When the wolf is finished, it rises its head and captures Lydia's eyes with its own (blue, she will remember, like the northern sea). She stands still, frozen to the white ground like an ice statue, the wolf's gaze piercing her like a knife straight through. She thinks she will die soon, but still she makes no move. Maybe that is why the wolf leaves her alone. (Then again, it may be not.)
Kate has snowflakes in her hair. Blood is pooling around her face, warm and red, melting the snow beneath.
.
.
The second time she sees the wolf is in the village – people are running, and it's burning, burning all around her, her skirt swishing around her legs and feet burying in the snow as she searches for Allison and Jackson. They are supposed to hide inside the church – the wolf cannot step on holy ground – but she's lost, again, or left alone (again).
It's too far away, she realises as she comes too close to the fire (the burning barricade the bishop has formed), and too dangerous for her to step into an open field unprotected. She knows about the wolf, about its strength and speed, (she knows about its eyes, too – she has seen them, blue like the winter sky). That's why Lydia turns around, her feet hitting the small alley's pavement, and she dashes between the buildings in the hope of being unnoticed. But the wolf finds her anyway.
It is larger up close, Lydia notices, and its fur is brighter around the eyes. It opens its mouth, long tongue licking its teeth, and for a split second she thinks it smiles.
"You are not running from me," the wolf says. She can't define its voice in any way, she just hears and understands, but can't find the words of her own. She has always been good with words, loved stories and poems, but now they are slipping from her and she's lost, (lost in the wolf's eyes).
"You are like me," it says, and she breaks, the wolf's breath hot on her face (if she holds out her hand she'll be able to touch its fur, or its teeth, sharp and bright in the moonlight). Her vision blurs – is she crying? - and she takes a blind step back, eyes never leaving the creature. Her back hits the wall.
"I am nothing like you," she whispers. "You are a murderer."
It is then that a bright figure appears at the end of the alley, and in a flash it is by her side – a man with a torch, scaring the beast away. The wolf roars, its anger rolling off of it like waves of the ocean, and looks at Lydia for the last time. "I will find you," it says; and then it's gone.
She is trembling so terribly she doesn't mind the man's warm embrace, her small hands gripping his coat so tightly her knuckles go white.
"It's alright," Scott says into her hair, awkwardly patting her on the back. "It's gone."
"But it will be back." Her voice sounds strange – drained and thin, as if she's used it all. "You heard what it said."
Scott lets go and takes a step back from her. His face is concerned again, brows furrowed and creases forming between his eyes. "It didn't say anything, Lydia."
.
.
The third time is in the darkness. She lies curled up in her bed, legs tangled in the sheets and eyes shut tightly. The wolf comes with the creaking of the floorboards, with a warm breath, and calloused fingertips trailing across her forearm. She doesn't dare make a move.
"Lydia Martin," he says silkily, this time with a man's voice that rings in her ears and sends shivers through her body. The weight of him is heavy on the bed, warm and real. She keeps her eyes closed and listens to his heartbeat, steady yet fast; disturbingly alive.
His fingers wander along her skin, and in the stillness of the room his voice cuts like a knife through flesh, "you are quite exquisite, my dear. Immune to my spells, and the only one who can hear me."
She opens her eyes. He is so close she can see her own reflection in his blue gaze, she can see her still face and rose red lips open in a gasp.
"I want you for my own, Lydia," he purrs as his hand hovers above her hip, unbearable warmth seeping from his skin, ready to burn holes in her body.
But Lydia shakes her head, not really sure if her voice is of any use. The wolfman withdraws his hand, something that could be mistaken for sadness painted across his face. "I will ask again, by the next full moon," he says. "It will be easier for you to make the right choice, then".
.
.
They sit in Allison's backyard, making flower crowns and bouquets for the spring celebration. Lydia curls blue flowers around each other and thinks about eyes of the same colour, that burned like suns and wished to eat her alive.
"You seem awfully quiet lately," her friend says, a look of concern passing her features, but Erica scoffs and nudges her shoulder.
"She is in love, that's all," she laughs mockingly. Lydia laughs too, for all the wrong reasons.
I can hear the wolf. I can see the wolf. And I can never stop.
But she plays her part. (She always does.)
.
.
And during the spring celebration Jackson asks (tells) her to marry him, which should make her float above ground and cry with happiness, because he is the perfect man for her, the perfect man to fall in love with, build a family and a warm home her mother always wanted for her. (But Lydia blinks, thinks of blue oceans and cloudless skies and raging fires, her lips moving against her will, saying words she doesn't really wish to keep).
They are to be married in the summer.
(The wolf doesn't come).
.
.
"I don't want to marry him," she whispers, but no one hears. (Her mother is twirling around with Lydia's wedding gown in her arms, the full skirt swishing around her legs like an ocean breeze, snow white and gleaming against her ginger hair; Allison prepares her bouquet from red roses, and Erica just sits there, gaze focused on something too far away for any of them to reach.)
"This is not the life I want." Her words are lost in the whiteness and redness of the room, and her company dresses her and paints a smile on her face. Lydia doesn't cry.
"Love comes to those who wait," her mother says, planting the last kiss on her daughter's cheek. She sounds sure of these words, but Lydia knows a lie when she hears one – knows these types of lies that become truths if you believe in them strongly enough. "You will love him, just as much as I loved your father." And that, that is a lie that feels like nails against stone, Lydia thinks as she is left alone.
She sits on the floor in the middle of the room, with her dress pooling around her feet and flowers scattered on the rug. She should be walking down, slow steps down the stairs, tall and graceful into the arms of her future husband, the love of her life. But she sits on the floor, waiting.
.
.
He comes, dressed in black, red lips and blue eyes and white teeth and fire, fire burning from his form as if he is the sun. He moves surely, quickly reaching her spot and kneeling in the white heap of her gown, so very close, yet still not close enough.
She feels the wolf's lips on her throat, the tips of his teeth grazing her skin ever so gently, and she sucks in a breath, her body arching like a bow in his direction. He growls, and she shivers, her body melting under his touch and trembling with desire.
"I crave you," he whispers into her ear and she can feel the tip of his tongue touching the spot just behind it.
"I will go," and it almost sounds like a sob, when he pulls her up into his arms, and then jumps straight through the window, into the woods.