Running with the Pack

“Who let the dog out,” Rob sang, sniggering. He made woofing noises, then gave a poor imitation of a coyote howl.



Normally, I’d have hunched in on myself and scuttled down the hall to my locker. This time I just turned around and stared. I saw that neither Lee nor Jeth were wearing the sly, malicious grin that usually accompanied these little dominance displays. Jeth was looking at the floor. Lee’s lip curled in disgust, but he was looking at Rob, not me. And I understood I’d gotten my revenge.



I’d exposed their leader as a coward. And if he was a coward, what were they, who had followed him? I’d broken Rob’s hold. He wasn’t harmless—no one who will use violence and stealth to make his point is ever harmless. But, here and now, I’d stolen much of his power.



He had been raised to think that being white and male made him better than anyone who wasn’t. But even here, in this backwards Southern town, no black folks were going to step out of his path, and no girls of either color were going to want him just because their other options seemed worse.



Hell, he and his little crew had run from the young black woman who had stopped to help ’Rion and me. The thought made me grin.



Rob had noticed Lee and Jeth weren’t backing him. His grin went sickly, then turned thin and hard. He glared at me, but his posture was hunched, defensive. “Bitch,” he snarled at me, “what are you smiling at?”



Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thomas scowling, pushing his books back onto the shelf while his long hands curled into fists. Part of me really wanted to let him come to my rescue, just so I could smile gratefully up into his beautiful brown eyes. And it would be satisfying to see sweet, bookish Thomas, who was also six-four and ran track, mop the floor with Rob.



But that way lay heartbreak, I reminded myself. Thomas was smart and sweet, which meant in a year he’d be gone, just like ’Rion. So I handled it myself.



I walked up to Rob, still grinning. I pushed into his space, the way an alpha wolf can crowd a subordinate, dominating by the simple act of not being afraid. And even though he was six inches taller than me, he cowered. “I was just thinking,” I said. “That if you are going to howl like that, you should at least do it right.” And I tilted back my head, and howled.



It wasn’t a proper wolf-howl, of course, but it was as close as a human throat can come.



And that whole noisy corridor went completely silent, as that sound rose up from me. Lee and Jeth went dead white, and for a moment I thought Rob was going to wet himself again. When I finished, I gave him a slow, satisfied smile. Then I walked away, feeling his eyes on me.



Just for a moment, I looked back, and let my eyes flash gold.



RED RIDING HOOD’S CHILD



N.K. JEMISIN



If Anrin had not needed to finish the hoeing, all might have gone differently. The blacksmith was a strong man and the walls of the smithy were thick. Not that the smith would have killed him—except perhaps accidentally, if he’d put up too much of a fight—but his future would have been set in the eyes of the villagers. Blood told, and they’d been waiting for Anrin’s to tell since his birth. This was what happened instead.



“Come here, boy,” said the smith. “I’ve something special to give you.”



Anrin stopped hoeing the tailor’s garden and obediently crossed the road to the smithy. “More work, sir?”



“No work,” said the smith, turning from the doorway to reach for something out of sight. He returned with a big wooden bowl, which he held out to Anrin. “See.”



And Anrin caught his breath, for the bowl held half a dozen straw-berries.



“Lovely, aren’t they? Got them from a nobleman traveler as payment. Came from the king’s own hothouses, he swore. Have one.”



They were the most beautiful strawberries Anrin had ever seen: plump, damp from washing, redder than blood. Entranced, he selected a berry—making sure it was small so that he would not seem greedy—and took a careful bite from its tip. To make it last he rolled it about on his tongue and savored the tart-sweet coolness.



“Lovely,” the smith said again, and Anrin looked up into his wide smile. “If you come inside, you can have more. I have sugar, and even a bit of cream.”



“No, thank you,” Anrin said. He gazed wistfully at the strawberries, but then pointed toward the half-hoed garden. “Master Tailor will be angry if I don’t finish.”



“Ah,” said the smith. “A pity. Well, you’d better get on, then.”



Anrin bobbed his head in thanks and trotted back across the road to the garden. He’d finished the hoeing before it occurred to him to wonder why the smith, who had never been kind to him before, had suddenly offered him such a delicacy.



No matter, he told himself. The strawberry had been ever so sweet.



Once upon a time in a tiny woodland village there lived an orphan boy. As his mother had been less than proper in her ways—she died unwed, known well to several men—the villagers were not kindly disposed toward the tiny burden she left behind. They were not heartless, however. They reared young Anrin with as much tenderness as a child of low breeding could expect, and they taught him the value of honest labor so that he might repay their kindness before his mother’s ways took root.



By the cusp of manhood—that age when worthier lads began to consider a trade and marriage—Anrin had become a youth of fortitude and peculiar innocence. The villagers kept him at arms’ length from their homes and their hearts, so he chose instead to dwell within an eccentric world of his own making. The horses and pigs snorted greetings when he came to feed them, and he offered solemn, courtly bows in response. When the villagers sent him unarmed into the forest to fetch wood, he went eagerly. Alone amid the dappled shadows he felt less lonely than usual, and the trees’ whispers were never cruel.



Indeed, Anrin’s fascination with the forest was a source of great anxiety to the old woodcutter’s widow who boarded him at nights. She warned him of the dangers: poison mushrooms and hidden pitfalls and choking, stinging ivies. And wolves, of course; always the wolves. “Stay on the path, and stay close to the village,” she cautioned. “The smell of men keeps predators away . . . most of the time.”



Old Baba had never lied to Anrin, so he obeyed—but in the evenings after his work was done, he sat atop the small hill near the old widow’s cottage. There he could gaze out at the dark, whispering forest until she called him down to bed.



On one of those nights, with a late winter chill making the air brittle and thin, he heard a howl.



The next day began the same as always. At dawn he rose to do chores for Baba, and then he went from house to house within the town to see what needed doing.



But as Anrin came to the smithy, he noticed an odd flutter in his belly. His first thought was that he might’ve eaten something bad, or perhaps pulled a muscle. After a moment he realized that the sensation was not illness or injury, but dread. So startled was he by this—for he had never feared the villagers; they were too predictable to be dangerous—that he was still there, his hand upraised to knock, when the door opened. The smith’s apprentice Duncas stood beyond, escorting another village man who held a new riding-harness. Both of them stopped at the sight of him, their expressions shifting to annoyance.



“Well?” Duncas asked.



“I came to see what chores the smith has,” Anrin replied.



“He’s busy.” Beyond Duncas, Anrin saw the smith talking over a table with another customer.



“I’ll come back tomorrow, then.” Nodding politely to Duncas and the goodman, Anrin turned away to leave and in that moment felt another strange sensation: relief.



But he had other houses to visit and other work to do, and by sunset he had forgotten all about the moment at the smithy.



That evening Anrin again sat on the hilltop and looked out over the dark expanse of trees. This time he heard nothing but the usual sounds of night, though he found himself listening for the mournful cadence of wolfsong. He heard none—but as the waxing moon rose he thought he saw something move in the distance. He narrowed his eyes and made out a fleet dark form running low to the ground against the tree line.



“Come down, boy,” Old Baba called up, and with a sigh Anrin gave up his darkgazing for the night.



Old Baba did not greet Anrin as she usually did when he reached the foot of the hill. Instead she gazed at him long and hard until he began to worry that he had done something to upset her.



“The gossips in the village are all a-whisper, Anrin,” she said. “They say the smith offers you gifts.”



Unnerved by her stare and the statement, Anrin said, “A strawberry, Baba. I would never have taken it if he hadn’t offered.”



“Did he ask anything in return?”



“No, Baba. He said I might have more if I came into the smithy, but I had other work. What’s wrong? Are you angry with me?”



She sighed. “Not with you, child.” After another moment’s scrutiny, she took hold of his chin. “You are not quite a boy anymore.”



The gesture surprised Anrin, for Baba had never been particularly affectionate with him, though she was never unkind either. He did not resist as she turned his face from side to side. “Such thick dark hair, such deep eyes . . . so like your mother. You’ve grown beautiful, Anrin, did you know that?”