“It is not so, nor it was not so. And God forbid it should be so.” In that strange, wild, drowning light, no one looked as they did before, least of all the two foxes so regally enthroned in the hall.

“I rushed downstairs, just in time to hide myself behind a cask, when you two came in dragging the young man by the arm. And, as you passed me,” Lord Petty shrieked. “I thought I saw you try and free his sapphire ring, and when you could not, it seemed to me in my dream, that you pulled out your sword and hacked off the poor man’s hand.”

And as Lord Petty drew a rattling breath, his diatribe chaptered by deep inhalations, Mrs. Fox said in a voice so calm, so certain, that the world stilled at its conviction. “And then you stole the dead man’s hand so you could barter it for my own. Though you watched me be wedded to my husband, though you drank to our happiness, though you claim yourself an honorable man. You stole a dead man’s ring and then bade the wolves to come devour us.”

Mrs. Fox rose and something ancient stood in her place. “No, Lord Petty. That is not how the story ends.”

“How did the story end, Papa?”

“Bloody, of course.” Mr. Fox said primly. “Now go to bed, my loves. Tomorrow, a hunt waits.”

radio werewolf

“You really think there are Nazis in these woods?”

“I think there’s something in the woods.” He shrugs at me, tall and lean, still slightly gangly, like he’d never learned the art of his limbs. He raps the side of his nose, grey eyes stalking the pines.

There’s something in the woods.

I shiver and stuff my hands into my pockets, following his gaze to the treeline. Boom. A few seconds later: the crack and crash of timber, a snarl of fluttering wings. Bird screams.

The Nazis’ broadcasts said they had guerrilla forces waiting, watching from the mouth of the pines. Werewolves. Ready to devour us whole.

I hiss out a breath.

“Yeah. Us.”

He breaks out a laugh for me, sharp, this yipping thing like he’d chewed it off something bigger than him, something wilder than him. If dogs could laugh, this would be the sound they make.

“Someone is going to get court martialed then. Between the Panzerfausts debacle and the radio transmissions.” I rake my nails along my chin and down my throat, where the stubble’s grown wild.

He looks back at me, not quite smiling, the corner of a lip jagging upwards.

Boom.

“I really think someone is just fucking with us.” I grumble.

“I don’t.”