A branch cracked and something moved, hidden by the bush. She peered in that direction, but could see nothing. An animal rushed away. Lesser things.

The wolves howled again, closer.

Red steadied herself, still holding the basket in her hand. She heard them breaking through branches and darting through the trees.

A pack of wolves. Four of them.

Red stared into the darkness, seeing their eyes glimmer in the moonlight. They growled, still hidden in the woods.

She swallowed. The test begins.

Each wolf emerged from the darkness at a different location and stalked about their prey, sniffing her scent in the air.

She had never seen wolves this large before. Even the smallest one possessed the bulk a lion. These were not lesser things. These weren't the wolves she was expecting. Did her mother know?

The smallest wolf bulleted at her, his teeth reflecting in the moonlight, claws outstretched. Red pivoted and knocked it out of the way against a tree with inhuman strength.

The beast cried, but recovered quickly. It shook out its fur.

A second wolf, the size of bull, bounded at her from behind, throwing her body across the clearing. She landed on her basket, crushing it. This wolf snapped its jaws at her face. Red batted its muzzle away. Then with both feet she kicked the creature backward.

The third and fourth wolves inched closer. Red scrambled to her feet. Soon, all four wolves spread out in circle around her.

On the ground by the crumbled basket, the utensils splayed out--a knife. The blade gleamed in the moonlight. Silver. The baker's voice sprung up in her mind, Good ole' Edna always looks after you. She took hold of the knife and held the blade out.

She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes. She remembered her father's death, and how angry she had been. Werewolves had killed him. Werewolves killed her great grandmother and almost took her mother. These were werewolves, the arch enemy of her people.

Hatred bubbled inside her. She crouched and hissed. She bared her fangs.

Her attackers hesitated a second, then they pounced all at once, but Red jumped high into a long arc and over them. One swiped at her with its claws, shredding the back of her cloak.

She landed on her feet some distance away and sprinted into the woods, over rocks and through trees. They howled and gave chase.

The smallest one had been the quickest, gaining on her. Red ducked under a fallen tree, but shifted upwards and hid inside a hollow space inside in its trunk. She held the blade steady.

The first wolf clamored under the tree in a mad rush to get through, unaware of the impending attack. The moment its fur grazed the bottom of her feet, Red plunged the blade deep into its back.

The beast shrieked and convulsed, nearly knocking Red off. Then it whimpered. Its hind legs kicked out weakly. Fur gave way to skin, claws to fingers, beast to boy. He cried muffled tears.

Red rolled the boy over. Alfred Tiller, the quiet son of the outcast farmers.

"Alfred?" she asked.

They had never met, but outcasts in the same village always knew each other. Alfred never spoke. The children thought him mute and stupid, but Red always suspected he hid his true nature. He'd proved it a week ago.

"Let's drown her," she remembered Sarah Good leading the chant. Just the week before an elderly woman had been drowned in the pond just outside the village. Pastor Good administered this test to see if the woman was really a witch. Sarah and her entourage, following his example, would have done this to Red also, but Alfred pulled up a wagon of cabbage in between them and Red. When they caught each other's eye, Alfred motioned for her to run. The distraction was all she need to escape nearly unseen into the woods.

Now, here he was. The boy's eyes widened with recognition. His fingers reached out to brush her red hair.

She held his limp frame in his arms. "This wasn't supposed to happen," she said more to herself than him. The ritual was supposed to involve wolves, not werewolves. Werewolves were not supposed to be outcasts in her village.

The boy smiled and closed his eyes, as if relieved to be in Red's arms. A series of howls pierced through the night sky.

The rite of passage did not involve werewolves or outcasts killing outcasts. She wanted the night to end.

She turned to Alfred's exposed neck. Should she?