Flew The Coopby BandyChaptersWaning GibbousWaning CrescentNewWaxing CrescentWaxing GibbousFullWaning GibbousThe hole in the chicken coop’s protective wire mesh was twice as wide as a pony. Artemisia let the bag of feed slide off his back. The anger started slow, a faint nagging feeling like the first moment of wake when he realized he’d slept through his alarm. Except instead of missing breakfast, six of his chickens were dead. Well, three were definitely dead. He counted another twenty survivors strutting around the coop, blissfully unaffected. That meant another three were missing. He didn’t have to think too hard about where they’d gone. He set the bag of feed down and went back upstairs to his bedroom. His thoughts grew darker one stair at a time. Only once the anger was out completely could the grief set in. Things like this needed time. He knew from experience. In his bedroom, mangled chains and leather restraints littered the floor. A few were still attached to the bedpost. The one he’d drilled into the wall last week had been ripped out, along with a large chunk of plaster. So many were broken in so many places, it was impossible to determine where the first failure had occurred. That wasn’t entirely true, though. Failure started with him. Not taking enough precautions. Not sending his chickens away to Fluttershy’s like he usually did. Full moons came once every twenty eight days, like clockwork. He should have been ready. He should have known better. Burying the dead and patching the wire took him the better part of the morning and left him caked in dirt and simmering with self-loathing. By the time he left for the Ponyville Hardware and Artisanal Sauce store to pick up fresh chains and belts for some rudimentary restraints, he’d all but boiled over. The cashier, a distant cousin named Beauty Blush who lived a few blocks down from him, gave him a worried look as he placed his items on the conveyor belt. He set a silver hatchet down a little more forcefully than he meant to, and she flinched. “You, uh.” Blush coughed. “You okay, Arty?” “Fine,” he said automatically. “How’re you.” “Good.” She looked down at the leather belts and padding and chains, and she raised an impeccably-plucked eyebrow, the top of an accusatory question mark. “Heard from the fam lately?” “No.” He’d never seen kindness in her eyes. Only a mixture of distaste and concern, like she was weaving an elaborate conspiracy theory as to why it was his fault she peaked in high school. “Did something happen today?” she asked. “Yeah. Something got into the chicken coop. I lost six hens.” “Ah. So that’s–” she pointed to his chest. “That’s not your blood, then?” Artemisia looked down and noticed several pronounced smears of chicken blood running across his moonlight-silver coat. Heat bloomed in his cheeks. He’d been so caught up in fixing his failures he’d forgotten to clean himself off. After a scalding shower and a series of pills, Artemisia went to work on a new experiment. He strung thin-gauge metal wire at even intervals around the freshly-rewired chicken coop, then affixed the end to an air horn aimed at the house. If something so much as brushed against the wire, it would put stress on the wire and pull the trigger on the air horn. Sound deterrence. But building the trap burned precious daylight. By the time he returned to his bedroom and started rebuilding his restraints, the afternoon sun hung low in the sky, an anvil tied to a fraying string. The restraints Artemisia used on himself were ruggedly practical and devoid of any semblance of aesthetics. Workwear belts looped through heavy chains. A sixty pound boat anchor on a bike lock with open zip ties waiting to rip shut around his leg. Thin-gauge metal wire wrapped around the bedframe and padded with duct tape and kitchen towels. No wall-mounted restraints this time around. Not enough time to fix the hole in the wall. Not enough time to do anything. As twilight loomed, he stepped back to examine his work. The results, frankly, sucked. They’d last ten minutes, twenty tops. No chance they’d last the night. Maybe they will, he forced himself to think. The moon’s not full anymore. Maybe it’ll be enough. That evening, he stepped over his trap and went into the coop to feed his hens. One of them, a shy hen named Shirley, would only eat out of his hoof. Artemisia spread seed on one side of the coop for the rest of the birds, then sat down on the other side to feed Shirley. “There there,” he cooed. Shirley made little clucking sounds back at him as she ate. He couldn’t speak chicken, but he was pretty sure that meant, Thank you. Shirley was getting up there in years. She barely laid eggs anymore. But Artemisia had never put a chicken out to pasture because of a silly little thing like egg production, and he didn’t plan on doing it now. His gaze turned north. In the waning light, he could see the dark blob of the Everfree forest a quarter of a mile away. He couldn’t deny the wilderness had a certain pull. It was part of why he’d moved to Ponyville in the first place. Maybe it was his unusual situation. Maybe it was just a penchant for extremes. No one’s eating chicken tonight, he thought to himself. The sound of the air horn ripped Artemisia from his dreams. He was still in his bed. Still secured. Good. But if he hadn’t triggered the alarm, who had? He lost precious seconds undoing the locks and cutting the zip ties. Hatchet in hoof, flashlight in mouth, he raced towards the coop. His mind whirled with confusion. If not me, who? The rush of running towards an enemy in the dark blinded him, quite literally, and he almost tripped over the deer lying on the ground beside the coop. “What–the heck–was that–” the deer wheezed. His dazed, dark eyes flashed to Artemisia. Then the ax. Artemisia moved the flashlight into the side of his mouth and said, “Why were you trying to break into my coop?” “I wasn’t–oh jeez–do you have any water?” “No. Chicken killers don’t get water.” “Hello? Deer? Herbivore?” The deer took another gasping breath. “You’re the only killer out here. Scaring me half to death with that noise machine.” He snorted. “And what are you doing with that ax?” The adrenaline drained from Artemisia’s blood. An anvil of tiredness dropped on his back. “So you weren’t trying to break into my chicken coop?” “No! I’m training for a marathon. I was just running through your yard.” He propped one leg up, then another. At full height, the deer was a head taller than Artemisia, not counting the impressive rack of antlers on his head. “Some neighbor you are.” “Look, I’m sorry. I’m dealing with something–” “Yeah, you’re dealing with something, alright. When winter comes, I’m scratching my antlers on your trees.” With that, the deer shook the dew off his coat and bounded off into the dark. Artemisia let out a deep breath and sank to his haunches. That had been a bust, but it was at least comforting to know his booby trap actually worked. A tired smile came over his face. Yeah. That was just a proof of concept. A test of the system. So when the real monster came, he knew he could rely on it to work as intended. He turned to go inside only to feel a lance of searing pain fall across his back. He fell to the ground, mouth frozen open in mute agony. The pain came faster than a forest fire and clung like lit tar to his coat. He rolled over as it spread to his face. His fur was turning black, his eyes were on fire, the irises turning red and swelling until he was certain they’d pop. The moon peered out from behind the clouds, so close to full. Artemisia screamed in terror and raced inside. He flung himself up the stairs and desperately started slipping on the restraints. The zipties were all cut. He hadn’t bothered to replace them before his mad dash outside. Stupid. One foreleg split apart as he tried to belt it. The metal buckle snapped. No worries. He could use the clawed fingers now sprouting from his hoof to restrain his legs. He got both legs cinched down, peeling ribbons of fur from his skin in the process. He held his one hooved foreleg down and leaned on the belt with all his weight. A searing seam split his spine into pieces. He arched his back. The leather groaned. His gums boiled. Teeth cracked. In the moments before he lost consciousness, he heard the strangely muffled sound of his own bones breaking inside him. He’d gotten three limbs restrained. That was admirable. But it wasn’t enough. Morning came, another pristine Ponyville summer day. If he’d been in his bed, Artemisia would have felt the sun just barely tickling the tips of his hooves. He could flick his tail so it fell on his belly and feel the warmth locked in the hairs. Instead, he woke up with the light just under his eyes. Pain thrummed from his head all the way down to the base of his back. He felt the scratchy couch cushions beneath him, noticed a few copper-colored stains he’d have to wash out later. He’d really done a number on himself this time. Artemisia stayed on the couch all morning. The sun traced a slow finger down his neck, then to his side. He didn’t bother moving until it touched the bump of his hip bone. He took his hoof out from underneath him and touched a warm sunspot on the couch. An image of a hot skillet crossed his mind. Something wet plopped into it and sizzled. He burst into tears. Outside, something darker than dew glistened in the grass. Mangled chicken wire curled in on itself. Beyond that laid the decapitated head of Shirley the hen. Beauty Blush gawked at the leather lashing and lanterns and metal wire on the conveyor belt without bothering to contain her distaste. “So, uh. Having a party?” “Stop it.” The pleasant muzak coming from the hardware store’s loudspeakers grated on Artemisia’s ears. His tail flicked erratically back and forth. He was painfully aware how the bags under his eyes made him look crazy. But he was going crazy. It was a perfectly natural response to the deaths of his chickens. This was reasonable. But Beauty Blush didn’t seem to think so. Not from the look on her face, anyway. She rang him up without a word, then turned to her supervisor and asked, “Mind if I take my fifteen?” The supervisor nodded, and she undid her apron and walked around to the other side of the conveyor belt. “Let’s get a coffee,” she said. “I got work to do.” “You’ll work better if you have some coffee first.” In truth, coffee sounded good. He hadn’t really slept all that much, so some liquid focus couldn’t do any harm. With a sigh of acceptance, he nodded and let Blush lead him out the door and across the street to one of the town’s new StarBucks locations. Blush took a long, slow sip of her frappuccino, smacking her lips for effect, then said, “Can I be candid with you, Arty? You look like you’re about to snap.” “Sue me. I’m stressed.” He passed an iced americano from hoof to hoof. “My chickens are getting killed.” “But is this really about the chickens?” “Uh. Yeah. It is.” She tilted her head. “Is it?” His crazy eyes must have gotten a little too crazy for comfort, because she backed off almost instantly. “Okay. Okay. Totally just about the chickens.” She took another sip. “I saw your parents the other day.” “Oh.” “They came by the store for a new garden hose. They seem to be doing well. Their flowers are coming in.” He couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Good for them.” “I told them about your chicken problem, and we all–” “You told them?” He jerked his hoof. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “Why’d you do that?” “Cuz it’s so you. We all had a good laugh over it. Just Arty being Arty.” “It’s not funny. Something’s killing my chickens. Half the time, it’s not even eating them. I know what it looks like when a coyote gets in the coop and eats a chicken. I’ve seen it. This is malicious.” Blush reached the bottom of her frappuccino. Silent sips turned to burbles. She tore off the lid and tipped it up. The decorative cherry on top fell into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed. Then she said, “This is why no one from the family talks to you anymore, Arty.” Artemisia flared his nose. “Excuse me?” “I’m telling you this cousin to cousin, because I care about you. I want you to get better. But you get fixated on these little things, and you let them take over your life. You go crazy.” “I’m not crazy. Something’s–” “I know, the chickens. It’s sad.” She paused, something uncertain on the tip of her tongue. Then it tipped. “This isn’t the only unhealthy thing you’re fixating on, Arty.” Artemisia stood up so violently his chair fell backwards. The whole coffee shop turned to watch him storm out. Waning Crescent“Wow. A real werewolf?” Fluttershy leaned on her shovel, tipping the broad straw sunhat out of her eyes. “Are you sure?” “Very sure.” Artemisia gestured to the pull cart hitched to his withers, where the surviving chickens clucked contentedly in their cages. “I’m down to nineteen.” She nodded slowly, the recognition of someone who knew exactly what kind of death he was talking about. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She set her shovel aside and dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. “Would you like to come inside?” Out of the sun, Artemisia found tea and paperwork in abundance. “So boarding nineteen chickens for fourteen days at one bit per chicken per day, plus a feed fee–” “I brought a fifty pound sack of the feed. If you take off the feed fee, I’ll leave you the rest as a donation.” She smiled. “Thank you. Okay, so minus the feed fee, that comes out to two hundred and twenty four bits.” Artemisia flinched at the price, but he’d already done the math back home. All part of the plan. “And I promise I’ll take care of them like they were my own, but I do have a no-liability clause on page two.” Her smile turned awkward. “For business purposes.” Once the paperwork was signed, the pair set about getting the chickens acquainted with their temporary lodging. “It must have been an awful experience for you,” Fluttershy said as she unloaded the chickens. “Did you see the werewolf?” “Yeah.” “Not to sound uncaring, but I’m amazed to hear there are even werewolves left in this part of the world. They’re exceedingly rare.” “If it wasn’t terrorizing my birds, I’d be amazed too.” “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your plan?” “Honestly? No clue. I don’t think there’s any way for me to fight it. At this point, all I can do is werewolf-proof my chicken coop.” Fluttershy nodded. “I think that’s very prudent of you. Werewolves are as dangerous as they are rare. Have you ever considered seeking out a specialist?” “There are werewolf specialists?” “Oh yes. One actually lives not too far away from here. She’s very professional. She helps me with my cockatrice issue.” “Your, uh.” “They get exceedingly violent during their breeding season, so she helps me keep the compound safe for the other animals.” She motioned him to wait and went inside, returning a moment later with a laminated business card. “She can be a little eccentric, but for the price, there’s no one better.” The name on the card read, Metromesta Mercy. Demon Consultant. PhD. Artemisia studied the tiny embossed logo of a wolf’s head beneath the name. He knew from experience that he could trust Fluttershy. But she didn’t know the deepest parts of him, nor he hers. He was no element of harmony, and she was no Artemisia. The idea of bringing a stranger into a situation this close to home filled him with a sense of anxiety he couldn’t articulate--the same kind of anxiety he got whenever he got close to the Everfree. Fluttershy spoke up again. “You seem to be taking this all in stride. Most ponies would have moved out. Or at least called the sheriff.” Artemisia shrugged. “This is nothing compared to my family Hearth’s Warming parties.” They laughed. He liked hers better. It lingered like the kiss of the sun on his shoulders. He noticed that whenever they were together, he tended to pitch his voice to match hers. He remembered reading somewhere that ponies pitched their voices higher when they were attracted romantically to the pony they were talking to. He wasn’t attracted to Fluttershy. But he loved her voice. He wished he could have something like it. His own voice sounded so rough in comparison. “Does your family live in town?” she asked. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No. They live in Canterburg. It’s about an hour’s walk.” “They must be on the edge of their seats waiting to hear from you.” He paused. “I haven’t told them. It’s complicated.” Fluttershy nodded, ever the graceful conversationalist. “So how do you stay calm when you’re facing down a werewolf?” “Please, you’ve faced down a lot worse.” “It’s different. I face those things with my friends. If I were alone, I’m not sure I’d know what to do.” She smiled encouragingly. “So how do you do it?” Artemisia thought of the mountain of pills and bills cluttering his bedside table back home. “I moved out under some difficult circumstances,” he said finally. “I got those chickens to force myself out of the house. They were all I had for a long time.” He trotted over to the cart and hefted the fifty pound bag of chicken feed, depositing it into a nearby wheelbarrow to make it easier for Fluttershy to move around. “I also really like omelets.” Fluttershy laughed again. If only he could sink into that sound, assimilate it. Metromesta Mercy lived unnervingly close to Artemisia’s parents, a meager four miles from Ponyville. She lived above her shop, a two-story wood-paneled building no doubt responsible for the declining market value of houses Artemisia’s family was so fond of complaining about. Before Artemisia had a chance to knock on the door, a muffled voice came from inside. “Go away.” “Uh. Are you Metromesta Mercy? I got your address from Fluttershy. She said you might be able to–” “Go away.” “She said you could help me with a monster problem.” A pause. “A monster-sized problem? Or a problem that’s a monster?” “A werewolf.” Inside, a floorboard near the door creaked. “If it’s bigger than ten feet tall, I can’t help you.” “It’s eight. I could really use your help.” He got no reply for nearly a full minute. “I don’t need you to hunt it or anything. I just need some consultation. I can pay you for your time.” “Consultation’s expensive,” came the same voice, this time clear as a bell and inches from Artemisia’s ear. Artemisia screamed. He launched himself off the front stoop, landing with a painful thud on the sidewalk. A false section of wall next to the door slid away, and Mercy peeked out. She cradled a speargun in her hooves, not pointed at him, just there. “Please put that away,” Artemisia said. “My consultation fee is a hundred and fifty bits per hour.” She shifted the speargun from one hoof to another. The pointy end of the bolt caught the sun just so. “Don’t point that at me.” “I’m not.” “Just put it away.” “You said you had a werewolf problem?” His ears perked up. “Yes. It’s already killed–” “Don’t wanna know how many ponies it’s killed. That’s just gonna stress me out. And if you wanna kill a werewolf, you gotta be chill.” “I don’t need you to kill it. I just need–” Mercy wriggled back into the hole in the wall and shut it tight behind her. More floorboards creaked from inside. A moment later, Artemisia heard ten locks jangle, one after the other. The door opened. Mercy stepped outside. She was a full head taller than Artemisia, double that if you counted the ego. “Come in. They got satellites in Canterlot aimed at this house.” The interior of the house reeked of stale tobacco and expired milk. Buckets of freeze-dried emergency food gathered dust in one corner. File cabinets stuffed with enough documents to make a tax collector flee in terror lined the walls. “It’s a good thing you came to me,” Mercy said. She led him to what at one point must have been the kitchen. The fridge was a tangle of copper wire guts. The oven looked like she’d chucked a grenade inside. “Werewolves are tricky beasts. Exceptionally rare. Very few ponies know how to deal with them.” “Well, I’m hoping–” “Did it bite you?” “No.” She glanced at his legs. “You’d know if it bit you. Their teeth have a unique bacteria profile, and bite wounds get infected easily. Count yourself lucky.” “Right. I just need–” “I know, you need somepony who can get this dirty job done.” She made a show of smacking her hoof on an outdoor table serving as her dining room table-turned-workspace, rattling the tempered glass surface. Documents and stacks of old silverware shivered. “It’s gonna be tough. They have exceptional night vision and they’re working with the crown to undermine Equestrian values. They have powerful allies.” Well, at least she wasn’t completely crazy. Artemisia knew from experience that his night sight got much better after he transformed. But he couldn’t just come out and say that. For all he knew, she might think he was some kind of undercover agent and jump him. “That’s horrifying,” he said, playing along, “but I don’t actually need you to kill it. I just need some advice on how to werewolf-proof my house and my chicken coop.” “Are they indoor or outdoor chickens?” “Outdoor?” He didn’t think there could be indoor chickens. “Oh! No wonder the beast’s targeted you. You’re dangling a free meal right under its nose.” She shook her head condescendingly. “Ditch the chickens. The attacks will stop. That’s my consultation. I’m gonna charge you for the full hour, by the way.” “That’s not an option.” “Sorry, but this is a rounding up household, and ten minutes is close enough to an hour that–” “No, I mean I’m not getting rid of my chickens.” That finally got Mercy to pause. “Why not?” “Because I like my chickens.” “Do you like getting attacked by werewolves, too?” “Look, if you can’t help, I’ll just go. Thank you for your time.” She bounded past him and blocked the door. “If you really don’t want to get rid of the chickens, it’s gonna be a lot tougher to fight it.” “I know.” “But it will be easier to track it.” She leaned in, waggling her eyebrows. She smelled like keyboard dust and pyrotechnics. “In fact, we won’t have to track him at all. He’ll come to us.” Something about the way she said him set Artemisia on edge. “I just don’t have the bits,” he said again. “So you want your chickens to get eaten?” She gave him a look of such intensity, he swore she could see right through him, right down to his furry, carnivorous core. “Okay,” he said. “One night.” NewFour oversized bags of weapons and tracking supplies–all essential, according to Mercy–accompanied them to the train station. When it came time for Mercy to pay for her train ticket to Ponyville, she pretended to get distracted with a piece of dirt stuck in her horseshoe. Artemisia rolled his eyes and dug out his coin purse. “You can go anywhere on the first floor,” he said when they arrived back at his house, “but don’t go upstairs.” Mercy’s eyes narrowed. One of the bags on her back swung around and dinged the doorway. “Why not? What’s upstairs?” “Nothing.” “What are you hiding up there?” “I said nothing.” “Are you in cahoots with Canterlot or something? Got any radios up there?” “It’s a sex thing,” he blurted. “There’s leather belts and other things. I’d really prefer it if you stayed downstairs.” She studied him for a moment, her eyes piercing like radiation. Then she let out a barking laugh. “Hey, I’m not a prude. What you do in your house should be your own business.” She wrestled herself and the bags through the doorway and plopped down on the couch. “In the future, you can leave that kind of info out. This is a strictly professional relationship, and I’m a traditional mare.” Steam rose off Artemisia's burning cheeks. “Good to know,” he hissed. “Don’t mention it.” Her eyes turned to the kitchen. “Got anything to eat? I’m famished. No seed oils though. Or soy. Or anything shrink-wrapped.” She paused, then forced out a very artificial, “Please.” “Maybe after I show you the chicken coop? That’s the whole reason you’re here.” “What’s the rush? It’s not even noon.” “It’s twelve twenty four. And I want to start making improvements on the coop as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the more my chickens will be in danger.” Mercy glanced out the back window. “That’s your coop back there?” “Yeah.” “Just put concrete around it.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, put concrete around it. Werewolves hate concrete. Their teeth can’t go through it.” For a long time, Artemisia said nothing. Then he turned on a dime and stormed off into the kitchen. “Hey, do your chickens lay eggs?” Mercy called after him. “Maybe you could make us omelets!” A single plant-based granola bar flew from the kitchen and smacked Mercy squarely upside the head. Fully unpacked, Mercy’s four oversized bags filled the entire living room with a dazzling array of utterly incomprehensible gadgets and electronics. One of them popped when she flipped it on and showered Artemisia’s floor with sparks. His carpet didn’t make it out unscathed, but Mercy was undeterred. “Perfect time for a monster hunt,” she said. With her instruments secured, there was nothing more for her to do but wait for the sun to go down. Mercy sunned herself in the yard by the chicken coop, absently throwing a utility knife into the dirt blade-first. Artemisia split his time between the backyard and his upstairs room. His transformation was inevitable, but the waning moon brought a temporary reprieve from the worst of the curse’s symptoms. He would still look like a vicious monster. But for a few blessed nights, he’d have almost complete bodily autonomy and barely any hunger. This was an opportune time to dust hard-to-reach spaces and spruce the house up. Maybe he’d do some dishes. Just when he was starting to worry Mercy would fall asleep on the porch and force him to hide in his bedroom all night, she leapt out of her chair with a flourish and grabbed her toolbag. “I hear it!” she cried. “It’s running around in the Everfree!” “Really?” Artemisia asked, forcing down a smirk. “Really really. I’ve trained my ears to hear frequencies most ponies can’t. Just one of my many surprises.” She winked. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be back by morning.” With that, she galloped off into the night. Artemisia immediately felt a weight slide off his shoulders. He went inside and shut the blinds. After a moment of thought, he unplugged all her machines too. Just in case. The transformation was hell, but in a few short minutes it was over, and Artemisia could attend to the pile of dishes in the sink. With his favorite pink apron tied around his waist and a faint song drifting in from the radio in the other room, it almost felt like everything was fine. But the pastorality couldn’t last, because of course it couldn’t. Just as he was nearing completion on the dishes, a throaty, drawn-out sound caught his large canine ears. A scream? No. A howl. The same howl he himself made in his weaker moments. His ears pivoted. His nose twitched. Maybe it was just his imagination. A second howl split the air, even louder than the first. Artemisia hit the floor and crawled on all fours to the north-facing window. His breath fogged up the glass. He moved to the next pane and covered his mouth. Ten minutes of unbearable silence went by. Artemisia glanced at the door. Then back to the dishes in the sink. His paw went to the string on his apron. He squeezed the fabric between his hooves, feeling the threads of cheap microfiber linen. He didn’t have to go out there. He could finish the dishes. Forget he ever heard it. Nothing good ever came from answering these kinds of questions. But deep down he already knew he couldn’t stay here. He undid the apron and flung it off in one decisive, dramatic motion. He was out the door before it touched the ground. At a dead sprint, he made it to the treeline in just under twenty seconds. His eyes, attuned as they were to darkness, couldn’t see more than a few yards into the forest. Animal sounds filtered through the foliage. Moss and loam covered the smell of rot and rebirth. He paused. For a single wild moment, he felt the familiar animal impulse pulling him deeping into the dark, like hunger pulling him towards his chickens. Then he regained his composure. This was stupid. All he was going to find out here was trouble, especially if one of his neighbors saw him. A basal part of his brain cried, don’t turn around, but he compartmentalized the thought and started back towards his house. He should have listened to his instincts. From behind him, the snap of a branch made him stop dead in his tracks. Something leapt from the shadows and hit him between the shoulderblades, driving him face first into the dirt. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He rolled, flailing wildly. One arm caught his attacker in the jaw. The creature staggered backwards. The moon was new, and the skies were cloudy. If he had pony eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see the attacker. But his eyesight was ten times better than a pony’s. He saw the beast that attacked him in perfect clarity. A second werewolf, this one even larger than him. It snarled at him, gnashing a long row of canine teeth. Artemisia saw it was still dazed from the blow, but its sheer size blocked off his only route of escape through the dense foliage. He had to make a move while it was still off-balance. He charged forward, feigning attack. At the last moment, he leapt over the monster. It lunged forwards to meet him, jaws extended, clawed paws reaching for flesh. But it was a hair too slow. The jaws snapped shut a few inches short of his neck. Its paw caught Artemisia on the ribs, but it was a glancing blow. Artemisia hit the ground running and melted into the Everfree forest. There were a few facts Artemisia could infer from his meeting with the monster. It was stronger than him. Smarter than him, at least when it came to stalking. And its senses were just as heightened as his. That’s why, in order to cover his scent trail, he submerged himself in a puddle beneath a fallen tree and covered himself in mud. At dawn, he stole away, taking a circular route back to his house through one of the forest’s less-traveled paths. He returned to find that, mercifully, Mercy was still away on her fruitless hunt. He wondered if she’d seen the beast that attacked him. The thought sent a chill up his spine. A second werewolf. Was it another cursed pony like him? Or was it one of the originals, an eldritch beast with no birthday and no natural mortality who had sniffed him out and deemed him unworthy? He took his time spraying himself down with the garden hose. The contrast of cold water and warm sun shocked him back to life. He remembered the pile of dishes waiting for him in the sink, and he decided another round with the hose was in order. By the time he finally deemed himself clean and made it back into the house, it was almost nine AM. He’d been out all night. Good thing he didn’t need to sleep. Mercy returned half an hour later, her mane plastered against her neck. She took three steps inside, noticed the mud all over her hooves, and let out a tired laugh. “I’ll clean that up. Do you have a hose?” Artemisia nodded outside. “Did you find anything?” “No. Got a lot of great data though.” “Oh?” He turned away so she couldn’t see the nervousness in his eyes. “Incredible finds. Got half a dozen howls, some solid tracks, and this.” She held up a plastic bag with a muddy tuft of fur inside. Artemisia took a closer look and let out a silent sigh of relief. It was dog fur from a neighbor’s collie. “Congrats. Let me know what I owe you, and you can pack up your machines.” “What I–what?” Mercy’s face fell. “Why would I pack up my machines? We know where it lives.” “We know it’s somewhere in a giant impenetrable forest. And if your consultation fee is a hundred and fifty an hour, there’s no way I can afford multiple hunts. So, make a list and let me know what I owe you. I’m guessing you want it in bits.” “Gold is best, actually,” she said, very voice distant. “But wait–we can’t just give up. Not when we’re hot on the trail. This could be the biggest cryptid find of the decade! It’ll be incredible for business.” “Did you hear the part where I can’t afford your business?” Mercy froze, her lips pursed together in a thin pale line. Her eyes shimmered, all fire and frailty. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me use your house as my base of operations until the end of the next full moon. If I bring back its hide, you pay me what you can. If I bring back anything less, don’t pay me anything.” “I’ve already made up my mind.” “You think this monster will stop with your chickens? Once it eats those, it’ll go after pets. It’ll hit Fluttershy’s sanctuary. The Ponyville vet. The dog adoption center. Foals.” Artemisia’s voice rose. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You’d be doing a whole community a big favor if you helped me kill this thing.” Mercy took a step closer. The air between them was ready to combust. “Why don’t you want to help?” That stare again. He swore she could see right through all his careful disguises. That look screamed, I know. She was wrong about so many stupid conspiracies, but as Artemisia returned the stare he reminded himself that her suspicions were not entirely unfounded. Not here, anyway. “Whatever I give you won’t be as much as you want,” he finally said. “I make my money from magazine interviews and podcasts. Whatever you can give is enough.” Artemisia sighed. The fire subsided. The air between them cooled. He had to maintain his cover at all costs. Even if it meant letting Mercy snoop around. Let her. He was good at hiding who he was. He’d been doing it for so long it came naturally. And on the off chance she figured it out and collected her bounty of hide, then he wouldn’t have to worry about paying her. He cleared his throat to speak, but the deep gruffness of his voice shocked him into silence. He nodded, then went back to scrubbing dishes. The apron clung to his wounded side, soaking up blood. Out the corner of his eye, he watched as she unraveled the hose. Her hoof sunk into the damp patch where he’d cleaned himself off not too long ago. She squatted down and touched a clod of black Everfree mud clinging to the grass. Her eyes narrowed. Waxing Crescent“Over easy in macadamia oil, with toast and avocado and hot chili oil.” Mercy sat back in her chair with a self-satisfactory smile. “It doesn’t get better.” Mercy seemed more intent on hunting down a free breakfast than the werewolf. Last afternoon, she’d helped herself to a chicken egg from the fridge. He hadn’t stopped her. Now she was asking for more. “I don’t know about macadamia oil,” Artemisia said. “I have some wonder bread. And hot sauce.” He looked in his pantry. “Avocados are kinda out of season right now, too.” He trailed off. The huntress deflated. “Seed oil’s really bad for you, y’know. Messes up your GI. It also increases estrogen in stallions.” If you only knew. “Well, canola was on sale.” He raised the pan from the stove, pointing it at her like a sword straight out of the kiln. “There’s a supermarket down the street if you want to go get some macadamia oil.” Mercy sank further into her chair. “Canola’s fine.” In the afternoon, while Mercy napped, Artemisia went to the hardware store, intent on finally fixing the hole in his bedroom wall. He barely made it three steps inside before a buzzing Beauty Blush barreled into him. “Sooo,” she sang, “who’s the new mare?” “What?” “The new mare who’s been staying at your place, silly.” “Oh.” The implication sank in. “Oh. She’s a werewolf hunter from Canterburg. She’s there to help me protect my chickens.” “That’s so adorable. Tell me all about her.” He held up a slip of paper. “I need some stuff.” “Oh, for your room!” She smiled deviously. “Secret’s safe with me.” Before he could explain that he wasn’t buying ropes and restraints for the reason she thought he was, she took his hoof and marched him down the aisle. “She must like animals as much as you do. Knowing you, she’s gotta love animals.” “Yeah, I guess she likes animals. But that’s not–” “I know, it’s early. You don’t have to put a label on it. But she’s already staying at your place, so might as well make it official. Your mom and dad probably wouldn’t approve of that, but they’re so old fashioned. Honestly, the way they talk about you is backwards.” Her words wormed through his defenses. “They talk about me?” “Don’t even worry about it. The important thing is, you’re happy.” She paused in the aisle and wrapped Artemisia up in a monstrous hug. “I’m so happy for you. Really. You can put this phase behind you now.” Artemisia pulled himself away from Beauty Blush. He was so furious he didn’t know what to say. It took him nearly half an hour to find the right retort, and by then Blush had already filled up his basket and checked him out at the register. “Bring her with you next time,” Blush said as she walked him to the door. “I wanna meet her.” The fog in his head lifted, far too late. “I’m not–” The door swung shut in his face. Through the glass, he saw his own red-cheeked reflection. Beyond that, Beauty Blush was already back behind the register, flirting with one of the regulars. The transformation started earlier than usual that night. The moon was barely a quarter full, so the change started slow, but its momentum made it impossible to ignore. Fire fell across his back. Pressure pressed against the back of his eyes. Soon they’d turn red. The hunger would be back, worse than before. Mercy uncorked a bottle of cider with a fizzy pop. “Seems like something’s bothering you.” Artemisia looked up. He’d been scrubbing the floor, working over one troublesome spot of mud somepony had ground into the floor. “Don’t worry about it.” “It’s okay if you’re worried.” She gestured with the bottle in the direction of the Everfree forest. “I’d be worried too, if I lived this close to all that.” Artemisia grunted and scrubbed harder. He guessed he had about five minutes before the changes became noticeable. He’d have to excuse himself gracefully to avoid suspicion. “Want some cider?” “I’m fine.” Mercy shrugged and took a big swig straight from the bottle. “I’m curious, what did Fluttershy tell you about me?” “Not much. Only that you have experience with werewolves.” He paused. “Why? Is there something I should know about you?” “No, not like that. I just have a reputation. It’s all nonsense, but.” She shrugged. “Is it something I should be concerned about?” “It’s old monster hunting stuff. Chupacabras.” Artemisia’s ear twitched. The end grew to a sharp canine point. “Chupacabras are real?” “Just as real as werewolves.” “Okay, fair. So did you have to hunt one or something?” Mercy shifted in her seat. Artemisia noticed her usual bravado was gone. “This is kind of a bar-story. Is there a tavern we could go to?” “I don’t like bars.” “Then lemme at least pour you some cider. It would make me feel a lot better.” Artemisia sighed. So little time. “Can I keep cleaning?” “Sure. It’s your house.” “Then okay.” Mercy hopped around Artemisia and plucked two coffee mugs from the cupboard. Artemisia faked a sip to avoid showing his teeth. He felt them moving in his gums. Three minutes more. Maybe four. That was all he could afford. “So the first thing you gotta know is, I got kicked out of my parents’ place when I was sixteen. Fights, stealing, the whole nine yards. I was a bad foal.” “Huh. I got kicked out too.” “Woah, really? Rock on, Artemisia. I didn’t take you for the lawbreaking type.” He looked down at the floor. “I didn’t break any laws.” It didn’t take a genius to catch the hint. “Oh. Sorry for bringing it up. For me, getting the boot turned out to be a good thing in the long run, cuz by the time I would have graduated high school, I’d already been fishing for river monsters in the Amarezon and chasing buffalo spirits in the prairies. Real life experience. I even got abducted once.” “Oh.” Artemisia blinked. “By who?” “Aliens. Duh.” “Of course.” Artemisia went back to scrubbing, feeling a little lifted from the cider. “But I got into the monster hunting field when I was nineteen. I was working as a ranchhoof in the Guava province of Marexico when one of my co-workers went missing. Big bull named Flan. No one saw Flan for three days, so naturally the other creatures and I went out looking for him, thinking he’d gotten lost and set up camp somewhere. Marexican bulls know how to live off the land. We were worried, but we thought he’d be okay.” “I’m guessing he wasn’t okay.” Mercy shook her head. “I found him on day four. He died. But he had no outward signs of injury, other than a little hole in the side of his neck, like he’d gotten bit by a dog with only one tooth.” “A snake maybe?” “A snake couldn’t suck out all his blood and internal organs.” She peered over the lip of her mug at her reflection in the cider. “He was just skin and bones. Really nasty. Only one thing does that to its victims. Chupacabras.” She took a long sip. Foam lingered on the edge of her lip. “Because I had a criminal history, and because I’d found Flan first, everyone else thought I’d killed him. But I’d never hurt Flan. He was a good bull, and I was just as beat-up about it as the rest of them. They ran me outta town before I could even put up a fight.” A sharp stitch of pain made Artemisia gasp. Muscles rippled under his fur, snapping apart and reconnecting. The skin above burned as new hairs split the pores apart. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said through clenched teeth. Mercy shrugged. “They were scared. I was, too. But I knew what it was gonna take to get justice for Flan. So I let them think they’d run me out for good. Then I snuck back onto the ranchland and set up camp on the spot where that thing got Flan. I used myself as bait. Camped out for three nights straight. And every night, I could feel it getting closer. The thing was smart. It didn’t just jump me the first night. It scouted me out. Then it got a little braver the second night and probed my camp. Then on the third night, it decided to make a move. I was ready. I faked being asleep, had my machete under my blanket and everything. I could smell it. It was ten feet away. And all of a sudden–” She smacked her leg. Artemisia jumped. ‘Those stupid ranchers came back. They saw my fire and rushed me. Scared the chupacabra away. I barely made it out myself.” A single claw popped out of Artemisia’s rear right hoof. He put the mug of cider to his lips to stifle a scream. Two minutes. Max. “Were you close to the bull?” he asked once the pain had subsided. “Flan?” “Not really, but we worked together, and he was my friend. That’s why I want to help you. That werewolf’s not going to stop at your chickens. I failed to stop that monster from killing Flan, but I might be able to save this town. And not to sound weird, but I see a lot of myself in you.” Artemisia’s whole body shivered. “You barely know me.” “True. But I know you dragged me all the way out here, put your whole life on hold, and let a stranger into your house, all because you’re worried about some chickens. That’s dedication. Not a lot of ponies feel that strongly about anything.” She leaned back. “Don’t let that fire go out.” Two symmetrical fangs stabbed through Artemisia’s gums. Another claw popped out of his hoof. Then a third. The color and texture of his fur changed in slow, undulating waves. “I should get to bed,” Artemisia said. “Thanks for the cider.” “Thanks for indulging me.” Mercy tipped her head back to polish off her mug. Artemisia bolted for the stairs and didn’t look back. She’ll be out soon, he thought over and over to himself as he ziptied his rear leg to the boat anchor. This’ll all be over soon. But what about after? Could he really keep doing this forever? Hiding? Stuffing himself down? Strapping himself to anchors and chains? A sound from beyond the bedroom door caught his attention. Hooves on hardwood. Fear froze Artemisia to the spot. Only the kitchen and upstairs hallway weren’t carpeted. “Arty?” came a voice from the other side of the door. “You okay in there?” Artemisia cursed silently. He started on another hoof restraint, a complex series of belts and ropes. “I’m fine. Just tired.” “I didn’t upset you, did I?” “No.” He missed a loop and barely held in a snarl. “I don’t drink a lot of cider. I got a headache.” “Want me to get you some ibuprofen or something?” Hot coals simmered on the back of his eye. Half his vision went red, until he could see the infrared shadow of Mercy underneath the door. “I’m fine. Just need some rest.” The shadow lingered a moment before disappearing. Pain smothered him. His septum cracked and widened. His now-canine nose picked out the smell of chicken wafting in from outside. His knees went weak. He lunged for the duct tape on his bedside table. It wasn’t as good as the muzzle, but at this point he needed whatever he could get. Two more chains snapped in the night. The rest held. Artemisia stared at the broken links of metal with a detached frown as the final stages of the reverse transformation finished up. Changing back was no less painful than changing in the first place, but it had its moments. Like when the smell of chicken and the painful gnawing in his stomach subsided. He was thinking about the implications of the two snapped chains when he saw Mercy trudging back from the forest. She looked like a completely different pony. Mud clung to her hooves. Sweat plastered her mane to one side of her face. Artemisia raced to the back door. “Nuh uh.” He pointed at the hose. “Rinse off first.” “I found it,” she said. “You did?” “I saw it just before dawn.” She tried to walk inside, but Artemisia shooed her towards the hose. “Had to have been ten feet tall. Great coloration. I get to keep the hide, by the way. It’s only fair.” A jet of cold water gushed from the hose. Mercy let out a shriek that melted into a laugh. She started with her mane, brushing out the grit and knots. The ground turned soupy beneath her hooves. Keep the hide. That must have been the second werewolf that attacked him a few weeks ago. “What if it’s a cursed pony? Some werewolves–” “Can’t be. Cursed ponies who turn into werewolves have different characteristics. No ridges on the back, different iris shapes.” She turned and ran the hose down her back. The cold water made her shiver. “Constant hunger.” “You couldn’t have known it was hungry.” “Of course I can. I could see it in the eyes. You’ve seen it before, right? Has it ever seen you?” Artemisia gulped. “Yeah.” “Then you know the look.” A sinking feeling sucked Artemisia’s hooves to the ground, like the earth beneath him was turning to inescapable mud. He knew his own strength. In a fair fight, there was no way Mercy would be able to take down a werewolf. But if she could somehow get the drop on it? Distract it with a clever trap and sink an ax into its back? Mercy wasn’t stupid, for all the evidence to the contrary. What if she actually did it? What if she brought back a werewolf pelt? Was there an ending to this that left him alive and broke? No. That couldn’t happen. His chickens weren’t going hungry. If all he did was die, Fluttershy could help relocate the chickens and find new homes for them. If he couldn’t afford to feed them, or had to sell them to feed the bank account and ego of Mercy the monster hunter–that was a fate far worse than death. “When are you going out then?” he asked, trying as best he could to sound innocent. “To kill it.” Mercy smiled. “He knows I’m out there, so I have to play this patiently. Wait a few days.” She lifted the hose to her lips and took a long pull. “Then we bring the ax down.” Waxing GibbousThe night of the hunt, Artemisia made dinner. He spared no expense. A primer of miso soup paved the way for a mountain of fried rice topped with chopped carrots, fresh peas, corn, water chestnuts, and panko-fried tofu, covered with a thick reduction of vinaigrette and soy sauce and, of course, runny fried eggs. For dessert, Artemisia served up guava pastries with ice cream on top. Mercy wept as she ate. He barely touched his plate. In the hours before sunset, when he’d normally start the process of tying himself down for the evening, he strapped on his apron, freshly-bleached and free of blood, and attacked the pile of dishes in the sink. Outside, Mercy sat on a tree stump by the chicken coop, sharpening her ax. He heard it over the sound of the water in the basin, a slow, deliberate scrape. The moon wasn’t completely full that night, but it was getting close. The physical change would hit hard and fast, but as he did the dishes a different kind of pain closed in on him, a psychological panic born from disobeying routine. Hide, it implored him, chain yourself up. You’re running out of time. You can’t help the other werewolf. You can’t even help yourself. All true. But the second werewolf fascinated him. It was dangerously naive to think he could simply waltz into the forest and talk to it. But in all his years of keeping chickens here, they’d never once been attacked by anyone other than himself. If the second werewolf really lived in the Everfree, then it could certainly smell the birds. Why would it wait until now to show itself? Artemisia sighed. It was complicated. Like his family. Like his life. Like everything. He sunk his hooves to the bottom of the sink and let them stew in the sudsy water. The water refracted the light so it looked like his hooves jutted out at an impossible angle. This is me, he thought. It was, and it wasn’t. The ghost of dessert haunted him in the form of a stomach-churning belch. He laughed at himself, and when the laughter died down he realized he could no longer hear any scraping sounds from the backyard. Mercy had already taken off. The smile dropped from Artemisia’s face. His plan to slow her down with a big starchy dinner had failed. The only thing left to do now was fight. He left the house through the front door, circling the neighborhood twice before ducking into a wooded riverbed that led into the forest. He couldn’t overlook the possibility that Mercy, or the other werewolf, was waiting just within the treeline. The transformation took hold just as he reached the forest. One moment he looked up, shocked at how the canopy thickened all at once and blotted out the light. The next, his vision popped into the infrared. Burning convulsions wracked his body. He threw himself beneath a fallen tree, pressing his body against the soft dirt, willing the burning to go away, knowing it wouldn’t. It was over in barely a minute. The first thing that hit his senses was the unmistakable smell of chicken. Panic curled its fingers around his heart like a murderer gripping a knife. He couldn’t lose control. Not now. Not when there was so much to do and so little time to do it. He dragged himself out from beneath the fallen tree and ran through a mental checklist of tasks. Find the werewolf. Or find Mercy. Eat–no. Somehow reason with whoever he found first. Eat–no. Fight Mercy off. He couldn’t hurt her. But he had to stop her. What if she came after him instead? What if the werewolf was hostile to him? EATTTT SO HUNGRY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE– An inarticulate howl escaped his lips. Birds took flight. Something large disturbed the foliage nearby. Artemisia turned tail and barreled through the brush. He thought he was running away, but as he broke through another line of brambles he realized his instincts were taking him towards the forest’s edge. He slowed up for just a moment. That was when he heard the sound of something running towards him. To his right, the forest went on forever into blackness. To his left, faint light from the outside world broke through. That and the smell of chicken. Another branch snapped, closer this time. He went towards the light. Out of the forest, he saw a familiar lonely cottage on the dirt road into town. Nestled between two shire hills sat rows of animal shelters, ranging from miniscule mouse hollows to a bonafide bear cage. In the middle of it all was a single grand chicken coop with a pristine wire pod protecting the precious birds inside. His birds. Artemisia lost it completely. Threats forgotten, he lumbered across the grass and slammed against the chicken wire mesh with all his might. The supports bowed inward. Metal whined and wood moaned under the weight. In a single practiced motion, Artemisia snipped a piece of the wire using his thumb and index claw. Then he dug his paw in, ignoring the bite of metal against his thickened skin. He wrenched back, and the whole side of the wire mesh peeled away like the tin top of a can. Just as he was about to leap into the coop, however, he heard something running up from behind him. He turned around and saw the second werewolf barreling down on him, murder in its eyes. He barely had time to register fear before the beast slammed into him. The two hit the ground hard and tumbled backwards. The second werewolf wound up on top, its claws wrapped around Artemisia’s neck. “If you leave and never come back,” the werewolf snarled, “I’ll let you live.” Every rational part of Artemisia’s mind implored him to speak. But he was trapped inside his own mind. With his nostrils invaded by smells of feathers and blood, with the air in his lungs slowly squeezed out, his cooler head didn’t stand a chance. He wriggled one paw free and swiped the other werewolf in the face. It leapt back, gritting its teeth in pain. Blood weapt from a wound in its cheek, but it seemed like all Artemisia did was make it angrier. “You’ll be my first kill,” the werewolf sneered. “I’ll bet you taste terrible.” It feigned an attack, baiting Artemisia in. While he was off-balance, it dove in for real, tackling him to the ground again. He kicked it in the ribs as hard as he could and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. But it recovered fast and leveraged its larger size to pin his arms. With the full weight of a ten-foot werewolf sitting on his chest, he was completely immobilized. The werewolf leaned down to bite his neck, flashing its razor-sharp teeth. “The chickens,” Artemisia wheezed. “The, the.” He gasped. No more air. The werewolf paused. “The what?” It shifted its weight backwards, alleviating the weight on his chest the slightest bit. “The chickens,” he said. “You can’t have them.” “Why not?” Paternal instinct collided with the urge to devour. “They’re mine.” He tried to throw the werewolf off him, but its weight was too much. Its eyes flashed from Artemisia to the coop. The murderous glint fizzled. “Your chickens?” it asked, pointing to the coop. “Those are your chickens?” Artemisia redoubled his efforts to wriggle out of the werewolf’s grasp. Against all that leverage, though, he was utterly powerless. The werewolf reached for a strand of mangled chicken wire and twisted it off with no more effort than a gardener plucking a flower. It twisted the metal into a complicated loop, then tressed Artemisia up. Ignoring his howls of protest, it dragged him back into the woods, leaving the birds behind in their coop. The beast seemed intent on dragging Artemisia over every tree root, rut, and rock in the Everfree forest. After what felt like hours of rough handling, they broke through the treeline again, this time into Artemisia’s neighborhood. The werewolf made a straight path for his house and went right in the back door like it owned the place, pausing only when Artemisia’s shoulders became lodged in the doorframe. Plates rattled in the cupboard as it lumbered into the living room. The immediate panic subsided, swallowed by the familiar faint rumble of the air conditioner and the lingering smell of neutral oil and fake-lemon cleaner from the kitchen. The werewolf said, “What did you mean, your chickens?” Artemisia strained at the chicken wire restraints, but only managed to cut himself in the process. “Don’t hurt me,” he whimpered. “You’re doing a better job of that yourself. What were you doing out there?” Artemisia said nothing. The dam holding his anxiety at bay was crumbling right before his eyes. “If you want to wait until morning, we can do that.” The werewolf curled up on the floor opposite him. Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He didn’t like standoffs, but he hated staring contests even more. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep or not. Morning, and the familiar burning pain of ten million long hairs retracting into his body, snuck up on him. He leapt upright, but with his limbs bound he fell right back over again. His eyeballs deflated, his vision shifting blue. The restraints fell off his legs. He didn’t try to run away. The other werewolf started to grow smaller. Its bones shrank and snapped into their original pony shape. The paws glued themselves back into hooves. It bore the pain with a hard-set grimace. When the transformation was complete, Mercy ran a hoof through her mane and sighed. “I knew it.” “Surprise,” Artemisia mumbled. “So you were killing your own chickens? That’s sick. Were you trying to bait in other werewolves?” “It was never about you.” Mercy got up and stretched her legs. “I’ve never met another werewolf before. Well, pony-turned werewolf. You know what I mean.” “You said you’d killed five.” “Marketing.” He scoffed. “Some monster hunter you are.” “Hey, I’m the best monster hunter in the world.” Her tone softened. “You and I aren’t monsters.” Artemisia’s eyes turned towards the door. The faint sound of chirping chickens drifted through the screen. “Yes we are.” “No, we’re not. I get hunger pangs too.” He fixated on her teeth as she spoke. Regular, flat pony teeth. “I just found better ways to deal with them.” “Like how?” “Let it out.” He pictured a coop of chickens in Mercy’s yard, the occupants all lined up in a row waiting for their caretaker to gobble them up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I mean, I get outside and run around. What do you—” A lightbulb went off. “Those restraints in your bed. It’s not a sex thing.” Her face went pale. “Oh my gosh, you’ve been chaining yourself up.” “It’s the only way to keep them safe.” “How about you think about yourself for a second!” Genuine anger flashed in her eyes. “Have you ever thought about what all that keeping it bottled up is doing to you? No wonder you’re so cooped up and crazy. You gotta let yourself breathe, Arty.” “Not a chance.” She took his hooves in his. “Please. Just try it. Tomorrow night. I’ll go out with you.” It wasn’t possible. Everything he ever knew told him that this was wrong. That he was wrong. And letting himself go outside was a quick and easy way to wind up with no more chickens and a lot of little grave plots to dig. Every past failure, all the mornings he woke up covered in feathers, came rushing back. Blood memories. As if she could read his mind, Mercy wrapped Artemisia up in a crushing hug. “If you don’t make a change, nothing changes.” Artemisia’s breathing quickened. He needed the chains. He needed to hide. “I can’t.” “You have to.” His stomach churned. Was it hunger? He needed zip ties and boat anchors. “I just can’t.” Mercy took him by the shoulders and looked him square in the eye. She saw through him, all the way down to his carnivorous core. “Then you don’t really care about them.” With no chains to hold him back, he crumpled into Mercy’s arms. “I do,” he sobbed. “I love them so much.” “Prove it.” She stroked his mane, the first comforting touch he’d felt in years. FullThe line at the Ponyville Hardware and Artisanal Sauce store was twenty ponies long when Artemisia walked in. Beauty Blush was at the register, engrossed in conversation with a masonry contractor whose jawline looked like he chewed as many bricks as he laid. She saw Artemisia, waved, then did a double take. Her smile cracked like heated glass. “I’m very, very sorry.” She smiled at the contractor as she slid a small red closed sign onto her conveyor belt. “Could you hang on for just a second?” She turned to the manager, who was about to yell at her, and said, “If you say one word, I’m gonna start a union.” Outside, Blush took Artemisia by the shoulders and half-whispered, half-shouted, “Have you ever wondered why the only things that like spending time with you are chickens?” “Want some coffee?” Artemisia smiled casually. “My treat.” “We’re not going over there, like,” she gestured to his outfit. “This.” “Oh. Well, I was gonna go over there anyway, so you’re welcome to come if you want.” He glanced at the hardware store. Angry customers had already started to spill out the front door, their carts abandoned. “Looks like you’ve got things to do.” Beauty Blush rolled her eyes so hard Artemisia thought they’d pop out. She started off at a rigid clip towards the coffee shop. Inside, a few ponies cast curious glances their way, but otherwise it was business as usual. The barista smiled a little extra wide at Artemisia while he ordered his drink. “I’m not trying to sound obtuse,” she said, forcing a path for her straw through the ice of her frappuccino. “I’m not like the rest of the family. I’m not like your mom or dad. But this is a bit much, don’t you think?” “No,” Artemisia said. Water droplets condensed on the side of his iced americano. He relished the kiss of cool on his hooves. “No? C’mon. It’s kind of a lot.” “I meant no, I think you’re just like my mom and dad.” He absently touched his outfit, traced the slight curve of his hips beneath. “You’re right though, this might be a bit much. Maybe I should go for pastels next time.” “Next time. Listen to yourself.” “You listen to yourself.” “You’re so difficult.” She all but sang the last word. “Listen. I know you.” She leaned across the table. “I know it’s not like that. But other ponies see you and they don’t see what I see.” “You’re right.” “Thank you. They see you go by and they think, oh, there goes Artemisia wearing dresses. That’s not even the weirdest thing he’s done this month. I’ll bet he’s the one eating those chickens, or whatever.” “She.” “What?” Artemisia pushed his drink aside so nothing stood between them. “I want you to call me she from now on.” “Oh.” Beauty Blush was so stunned, her eyes plunged straight into her frappuccino and couldn’t find their way out. “Oh,” she said again, no less stunned than the first time. Artemisia sat back, a faint smile gracing her lips. Let Blush chew on that. Let her come up with something awful to say. She was ready. She’d faced worse. Something about having her chickens back in the yard filled Artemisia with purpose. She woke up earlier, threw herself into the laborious task of fixing the wire and cleaning the coop with a gusto she didn’t know she possessed. She threw all the rear-facing windows open too, so she could hear the chickens chatter while she was inside. And the omelets! When evening came and the full moon rose, Artemisia shut the windows and went upstairs. The restraints had all been relegated to a box in the attic. Her sheets, freshly washed and smelling of fake sage and sandalwood, sat in a folded pile at the foot of the bed. Tomorrow she’d remake it. But tomorrow was still a night away. She laid down on the bare mattress and let the transformation run its course. Outside, she took deep breaths and let the smells of the country wash over her. There was the immediate smell of chicken, the hunger, the urge to rip and cut and inflict pain. But she was stronger than that, she reminded herself. She’d faced worse, and she’d come out the other side. She could acknowledge what it was without letting it overpower her. All those years she’d been under so much stress and pain, but she was never able to dig deeper. It was too difficult. Pain had been her bedrock. Immovable. Not anymore. More deep breaths. A new smell appeared, something like cut grass and chrysanthemum and clear night skies. She caught a hint of watered earth in a garden, and dust clinging to wood siding. There was nectar, and pavement, and wood fires, and barbecue, and the neighbor’s dog, and yes, chickens in their coop. There was a whole world of smells beneath the bedrock. Her werewolf nose could find what her pony nose couldn’t. She leaned in, searching for a familiar animal scent among the chorus. She found it, locked on with hypersensitive precision, and took off at a dead sprint into the Everfree forest. The smells of the forest were a canopy all their own, an invisible forest of fungus and fertilization that slowed Artemisia’s passage. Her ears pivoted at the sound of a branch snapping behind her. She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a full-grown werewolf careening towards her, all four paws off the ground, body extended towards her, equal parts tackle and embrace. The two collided and rolled. Branches snapped. Happy howls echoed through the forest. Their forms split, consumed by the night. Then a flash of fur as they leapt into the light.
Waning GibbousThe hole in the chicken coop’s protective wire mesh was twice as wide as a pony. Artemisia let the bag of feed slide off his back. The anger started slow, a faint nagging feeling like the first moment of wake when he realized he’d slept through his alarm. Except instead of missing breakfast, six of his chickens were dead. Well, three were definitely dead. He counted another twenty survivors strutting around the coop, blissfully unaffected. That meant another three were missing. He didn’t have to think too hard about where they’d gone. He set the bag of feed down and went back upstairs to his bedroom. His thoughts grew darker one stair at a time. Only once the anger was out completely could the grief set in. Things like this needed time. He knew from experience. In his bedroom, mangled chains and leather restraints littered the floor. A few were still attached to the bedpost. The one he’d drilled into the wall last week had been ripped out, along with a large chunk of plaster. So many were broken in so many places, it was impossible to determine where the first failure had occurred. That wasn’t entirely true, though. Failure started with him. Not taking enough precautions. Not sending his chickens away to Fluttershy’s like he usually did. Full moons came once every twenty eight days, like clockwork. He should have been ready. He should have known better. Burying the dead and patching the wire took him the better part of the morning and left him caked in dirt and simmering with self-loathing. By the time he left for the Ponyville Hardware and Artisanal Sauce store to pick up fresh chains and belts for some rudimentary restraints, he’d all but boiled over. The cashier, a distant cousin named Beauty Blush who lived a few blocks down from him, gave him a worried look as he placed his items on the conveyor belt. He set a silver hatchet down a little more forcefully than he meant to, and she flinched. “You, uh.” Blush coughed. “You okay, Arty?” “Fine,” he said automatically. “How’re you.” “Good.” She looked down at the leather belts and padding and chains, and she raised an impeccably-plucked eyebrow, the top of an accusatory question mark. “Heard from the fam lately?” “No.” He’d never seen kindness in her eyes. Only a mixture of distaste and concern, like she was weaving an elaborate conspiracy theory as to why it was his fault she peaked in high school. “Did something happen today?” she asked. “Yeah. Something got into the chicken coop. I lost six hens.” “Ah. So that’s–” she pointed to his chest. “That’s not your blood, then?” Artemisia looked down and noticed several pronounced smears of chicken blood running across his moonlight-silver coat. Heat bloomed in his cheeks. He’d been so caught up in fixing his failures he’d forgotten to clean himself off. After a scalding shower and a series of pills, Artemisia went to work on a new experiment. He strung thin-gauge metal wire at even intervals around the freshly-rewired chicken coop, then affixed the end to an air horn aimed at the house. If something so much as brushed against the wire, it would put stress on the wire and pull the trigger on the air horn. Sound deterrence. But building the trap burned precious daylight. By the time he returned to his bedroom and started rebuilding his restraints, the afternoon sun hung low in the sky, an anvil tied to a fraying string. The restraints Artemisia used on himself were ruggedly practical and devoid of any semblance of aesthetics. Workwear belts looped through heavy chains. A sixty pound boat anchor on a bike lock with open zip ties waiting to rip shut around his leg. Thin-gauge metal wire wrapped around the bedframe and padded with duct tape and kitchen towels. No wall-mounted restraints this time around. Not enough time to fix the hole in the wall. Not enough time to do anything. As twilight loomed, he stepped back to examine his work. The results, frankly, sucked. They’d last ten minutes, twenty tops. No chance they’d last the night. Maybe they will, he forced himself to think. The moon’s not full anymore. Maybe it’ll be enough. That evening, he stepped over his trap and went into the coop to feed his hens. One of them, a shy hen named Shirley, would only eat out of his hoof. Artemisia spread seed on one side of the coop for the rest of the birds, then sat down on the other side to feed Shirley. “There there,” he cooed. Shirley made little clucking sounds back at him as she ate. He couldn’t speak chicken, but he was pretty sure that meant, Thank you. Shirley was getting up there in years. She barely laid eggs anymore. But Artemisia had never put a chicken out to pasture because of a silly little thing like egg production, and he didn’t plan on doing it now. His gaze turned north. In the waning light, he could see the dark blob of the Everfree forest a quarter of a mile away. He couldn’t deny the wilderness had a certain pull. It was part of why he’d moved to Ponyville in the first place. Maybe it was his unusual situation. Maybe it was just a penchant for extremes. No one’s eating chicken tonight, he thought to himself. The sound of the air horn ripped Artemisia from his dreams. He was still in his bed. Still secured. Good. But if he hadn’t triggered the alarm, who had? He lost precious seconds undoing the locks and cutting the zip ties. Hatchet in hoof, flashlight in mouth, he raced towards the coop. His mind whirled with confusion. If not me, who? The rush of running towards an enemy in the dark blinded him, quite literally, and he almost tripped over the deer lying on the ground beside the coop. “What–the heck–was that–” the deer wheezed. His dazed, dark eyes flashed to Artemisia. Then the ax. Artemisia moved the flashlight into the side of his mouth and said, “Why were you trying to break into my coop?” “I wasn’t–oh jeez–do you have any water?” “No. Chicken killers don’t get water.” “Hello? Deer? Herbivore?” The deer took another gasping breath. “You’re the only killer out here. Scaring me half to death with that noise machine.” He snorted. “And what are you doing with that ax?” The adrenaline drained from Artemisia’s blood. An anvil of tiredness dropped on his back. “So you weren’t trying to break into my chicken coop?” “No! I’m training for a marathon. I was just running through your yard.” He propped one leg up, then another. At full height, the deer was a head taller than Artemisia, not counting the impressive rack of antlers on his head. “Some neighbor you are.” “Look, I’m sorry. I’m dealing with something–” “Yeah, you’re dealing with something, alright. When winter comes, I’m scratching my antlers on your trees.” With that, the deer shook the dew off his coat and bounded off into the dark. Artemisia let out a deep breath and sank to his haunches. That had been a bust, but it was at least comforting to know his booby trap actually worked. A tired smile came over his face. Yeah. That was just a proof of concept. A test of the system. So when the real monster came, he knew he could rely on it to work as intended. He turned to go inside only to feel a lance of searing pain fall across his back. He fell to the ground, mouth frozen open in mute agony. The pain came faster than a forest fire and clung like lit tar to his coat. He rolled over as it spread to his face. His fur was turning black, his eyes were on fire, the irises turning red and swelling until he was certain they’d pop. The moon peered out from behind the clouds, so close to full. Artemisia screamed in terror and raced inside. He flung himself up the stairs and desperately started slipping on the restraints. The zipties were all cut. He hadn’t bothered to replace them before his mad dash outside. Stupid. One foreleg split apart as he tried to belt it. The metal buckle snapped. No worries. He could use the clawed fingers now sprouting from his hoof to restrain his legs. He got both legs cinched down, peeling ribbons of fur from his skin in the process. He held his one hooved foreleg down and leaned on the belt with all his weight. A searing seam split his spine into pieces. He arched his back. The leather groaned. His gums boiled. Teeth cracked. In the moments before he lost consciousness, he heard the strangely muffled sound of his own bones breaking inside him. He’d gotten three limbs restrained. That was admirable. But it wasn’t enough. Morning came, another pristine Ponyville summer day. If he’d been in his bed, Artemisia would have felt the sun just barely tickling the tips of his hooves. He could flick his tail so it fell on his belly and feel the warmth locked in the hairs. Instead, he woke up with the light just under his eyes. Pain thrummed from his head all the way down to the base of his back. He felt the scratchy couch cushions beneath him, noticed a few copper-colored stains he’d have to wash out later. He’d really done a number on himself this time. Artemisia stayed on the couch all morning. The sun traced a slow finger down his neck, then to his side. He didn’t bother moving until it touched the bump of his hip bone. He took his hoof out from underneath him and touched a warm sunspot on the couch. An image of a hot skillet crossed his mind. Something wet plopped into it and sizzled. He burst into tears. Outside, something darker than dew glistened in the grass. Mangled chicken wire curled in on itself. Beyond that laid the decapitated head of Shirley the hen. Beauty Blush gawked at the leather lashing and lanterns and metal wire on the conveyor belt without bothering to contain her distaste. “So, uh. Having a party?” “Stop it.” The pleasant muzak coming from the hardware store’s loudspeakers grated on Artemisia’s ears. His tail flicked erratically back and forth. He was painfully aware how the bags under his eyes made him look crazy. But he was going crazy. It was a perfectly natural response to the deaths of his chickens. This was reasonable. But Beauty Blush didn’t seem to think so. Not from the look on her face, anyway. She rang him up without a word, then turned to her supervisor and asked, “Mind if I take my fifteen?” The supervisor nodded, and she undid her apron and walked around to the other side of the conveyor belt. “Let’s get a coffee,” she said. “I got work to do.” “You’ll work better if you have some coffee first.” In truth, coffee sounded good. He hadn’t really slept all that much, so some liquid focus couldn’t do any harm. With a sigh of acceptance, he nodded and let Blush lead him out the door and across the street to one of the town’s new StarBucks locations. Blush took a long, slow sip of her frappuccino, smacking her lips for effect, then said, “Can I be candid with you, Arty? You look like you’re about to snap.” “Sue me. I’m stressed.” He passed an iced americano from hoof to hoof. “My chickens are getting killed.” “But is this really about the chickens?” “Uh. Yeah. It is.” She tilted her head. “Is it?” His crazy eyes must have gotten a little too crazy for comfort, because she backed off almost instantly. “Okay. Okay. Totally just about the chickens.” She took another sip. “I saw your parents the other day.” “Oh.” “They came by the store for a new garden hose. They seem to be doing well. Their flowers are coming in.” He couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Good for them.” “I told them about your chicken problem, and we all–” “You told them?” He jerked his hoof. Coffee sloshed over the rim. “Why’d you do that?” “Cuz it’s so you. We all had a good laugh over it. Just Arty being Arty.” “It’s not funny. Something’s killing my chickens. Half the time, it’s not even eating them. I know what it looks like when a coyote gets in the coop and eats a chicken. I’ve seen it. This is malicious.” Blush reached the bottom of her frappuccino. Silent sips turned to burbles. She tore off the lid and tipped it up. The decorative cherry on top fell into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed. Then she said, “This is why no one from the family talks to you anymore, Arty.” Artemisia flared his nose. “Excuse me?” “I’m telling you this cousin to cousin, because I care about you. I want you to get better. But you get fixated on these little things, and you let them take over your life. You go crazy.” “I’m not crazy. Something’s–” “I know, the chickens. It’s sad.” She paused, something uncertain on the tip of her tongue. Then it tipped. “This isn’t the only unhealthy thing you’re fixating on, Arty.” Artemisia stood up so violently his chair fell backwards. The whole coffee shop turned to watch him storm out.
Waning Crescent“Wow. A real werewolf?” Fluttershy leaned on her shovel, tipping the broad straw sunhat out of her eyes. “Are you sure?” “Very sure.” Artemisia gestured to the pull cart hitched to his withers, where the surviving chickens clucked contentedly in their cages. “I’m down to nineteen.” She nodded slowly, the recognition of someone who knew exactly what kind of death he was talking about. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She set her shovel aside and dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. “Would you like to come inside?” Out of the sun, Artemisia found tea and paperwork in abundance. “So boarding nineteen chickens for fourteen days at one bit per chicken per day, plus a feed fee–” “I brought a fifty pound sack of the feed. If you take off the feed fee, I’ll leave you the rest as a donation.” She smiled. “Thank you. Okay, so minus the feed fee, that comes out to two hundred and twenty four bits.” Artemisia flinched at the price, but he’d already done the math back home. All part of the plan. “And I promise I’ll take care of them like they were my own, but I do have a no-liability clause on page two.” Her smile turned awkward. “For business purposes.” Once the paperwork was signed, the pair set about getting the chickens acquainted with their temporary lodging. “It must have been an awful experience for you,” Fluttershy said as she unloaded the chickens. “Did you see the werewolf?” “Yeah.” “Not to sound uncaring, but I’m amazed to hear there are even werewolves left in this part of the world. They’re exceedingly rare.” “If it wasn’t terrorizing my birds, I’d be amazed too.” “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your plan?” “Honestly? No clue. I don’t think there’s any way for me to fight it. At this point, all I can do is werewolf-proof my chicken coop.” Fluttershy nodded. “I think that’s very prudent of you. Werewolves are as dangerous as they are rare. Have you ever considered seeking out a specialist?” “There are werewolf specialists?” “Oh yes. One actually lives not too far away from here. She’s very professional. She helps me with my cockatrice issue.” “Your, uh.” “They get exceedingly violent during their breeding season, so she helps me keep the compound safe for the other animals.” She motioned him to wait and went inside, returning a moment later with a laminated business card. “She can be a little eccentric, but for the price, there’s no one better.” The name on the card read, Metromesta Mercy. Demon Consultant. PhD. Artemisia studied the tiny embossed logo of a wolf’s head beneath the name. He knew from experience that he could trust Fluttershy. But she didn’t know the deepest parts of him, nor he hers. He was no element of harmony, and she was no Artemisia. The idea of bringing a stranger into a situation this close to home filled him with a sense of anxiety he couldn’t articulate--the same kind of anxiety he got whenever he got close to the Everfree. Fluttershy spoke up again. “You seem to be taking this all in stride. Most ponies would have moved out. Or at least called the sheriff.” Artemisia shrugged. “This is nothing compared to my family Hearth’s Warming parties.” They laughed. He liked hers better. It lingered like the kiss of the sun on his shoulders. He noticed that whenever they were together, he tended to pitch his voice to match hers. He remembered reading somewhere that ponies pitched their voices higher when they were attracted romantically to the pony they were talking to. He wasn’t attracted to Fluttershy. But he loved her voice. He wished he could have something like it. His own voice sounded so rough in comparison. “Does your family live in town?” she asked. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No. They live in Canterburg. It’s about an hour’s walk.” “They must be on the edge of their seats waiting to hear from you.” He paused. “I haven’t told them. It’s complicated.” Fluttershy nodded, ever the graceful conversationalist. “So how do you stay calm when you’re facing down a werewolf?” “Please, you’ve faced down a lot worse.” “It’s different. I face those things with my friends. If I were alone, I’m not sure I’d know what to do.” She smiled encouragingly. “So how do you do it?” Artemisia thought of the mountain of pills and bills cluttering his bedside table back home. “I moved out under some difficult circumstances,” he said finally. “I got those chickens to force myself out of the house. They were all I had for a long time.” He trotted over to the cart and hefted the fifty pound bag of chicken feed, depositing it into a nearby wheelbarrow to make it easier for Fluttershy to move around. “I also really like omelets.” Fluttershy laughed again. If only he could sink into that sound, assimilate it. Metromesta Mercy lived unnervingly close to Artemisia’s parents, a meager four miles from Ponyville. She lived above her shop, a two-story wood-paneled building no doubt responsible for the declining market value of houses Artemisia’s family was so fond of complaining about. Before Artemisia had a chance to knock on the door, a muffled voice came from inside. “Go away.” “Uh. Are you Metromesta Mercy? I got your address from Fluttershy. She said you might be able to–” “Go away.” “She said you could help me with a monster problem.” A pause. “A monster-sized problem? Or a problem that’s a monster?” “A werewolf.” Inside, a floorboard near the door creaked. “If it’s bigger than ten feet tall, I can’t help you.” “It’s eight. I could really use your help.” He got no reply for nearly a full minute. “I don’t need you to hunt it or anything. I just need some consultation. I can pay you for your time.” “Consultation’s expensive,” came the same voice, this time clear as a bell and inches from Artemisia’s ear. Artemisia screamed. He launched himself off the front stoop, landing with a painful thud on the sidewalk. A false section of wall next to the door slid away, and Mercy peeked out. She cradled a speargun in her hooves, not pointed at him, just there. “Please put that away,” Artemisia said. “My consultation fee is a hundred and fifty bits per hour.” She shifted the speargun from one hoof to another. The pointy end of the bolt caught the sun just so. “Don’t point that at me.” “I’m not.” “Just put it away.” “You said you had a werewolf problem?” His ears perked up. “Yes. It’s already killed–” “Don’t wanna know how many ponies it’s killed. That’s just gonna stress me out. And if you wanna kill a werewolf, you gotta be chill.” “I don’t need you to kill it. I just need–” Mercy wriggled back into the hole in the wall and shut it tight behind her. More floorboards creaked from inside. A moment later, Artemisia heard ten locks jangle, one after the other. The door opened. Mercy stepped outside. She was a full head taller than Artemisia, double that if you counted the ego. “Come in. They got satellites in Canterlot aimed at this house.” The interior of the house reeked of stale tobacco and expired milk. Buckets of freeze-dried emergency food gathered dust in one corner. File cabinets stuffed with enough documents to make a tax collector flee in terror lined the walls. “It’s a good thing you came to me,” Mercy said. She led him to what at one point must have been the kitchen. The fridge was a tangle of copper wire guts. The oven looked like she’d chucked a grenade inside. “Werewolves are tricky beasts. Exceptionally rare. Very few ponies know how to deal with them.” “Well, I’m hoping–” “Did it bite you?” “No.” She glanced at his legs. “You’d know if it bit you. Their teeth have a unique bacteria profile, and bite wounds get infected easily. Count yourself lucky.” “Right. I just need–” “I know, you need somepony who can get this dirty job done.” She made a show of smacking her hoof on an outdoor table serving as her dining room table-turned-workspace, rattling the tempered glass surface. Documents and stacks of old silverware shivered. “It’s gonna be tough. They have exceptional night vision and they’re working with the crown to undermine Equestrian values. They have powerful allies.” Well, at least she wasn’t completely crazy. Artemisia knew from experience that his night sight got much better after he transformed. But he couldn’t just come out and say that. For all he knew, she might think he was some kind of undercover agent and jump him. “That’s horrifying,” he said, playing along, “but I don’t actually need you to kill it. I just need some advice on how to werewolf-proof my house and my chicken coop.” “Are they indoor or outdoor chickens?” “Outdoor?” He didn’t think there could be indoor chickens. “Oh! No wonder the beast’s targeted you. You’re dangling a free meal right under its nose.” She shook her head condescendingly. “Ditch the chickens. The attacks will stop. That’s my consultation. I’m gonna charge you for the full hour, by the way.” “That’s not an option.” “Sorry, but this is a rounding up household, and ten minutes is close enough to an hour that–” “No, I mean I’m not getting rid of my chickens.” That finally got Mercy to pause. “Why not?” “Because I like my chickens.” “Do you like getting attacked by werewolves, too?” “Look, if you can’t help, I’ll just go. Thank you for your time.” She bounded past him and blocked the door. “If you really don’t want to get rid of the chickens, it’s gonna be a lot tougher to fight it.” “I know.” “But it will be easier to track it.” She leaned in, waggling her eyebrows. She smelled like keyboard dust and pyrotechnics. “In fact, we won’t have to track him at all. He’ll come to us.” Something about the way she said him set Artemisia on edge. “I just don’t have the bits,” he said again. “So you want your chickens to get eaten?” She gave him a look of such intensity, he swore she could see right through him, right down to his furry, carnivorous core. “Okay,” he said. “One night.”
NewFour oversized bags of weapons and tracking supplies–all essential, according to Mercy–accompanied them to the train station. When it came time for Mercy to pay for her train ticket to Ponyville, she pretended to get distracted with a piece of dirt stuck in her horseshoe. Artemisia rolled his eyes and dug out his coin purse. “You can go anywhere on the first floor,” he said when they arrived back at his house, “but don’t go upstairs.” Mercy’s eyes narrowed. One of the bags on her back swung around and dinged the doorway. “Why not? What’s upstairs?” “Nothing.” “What are you hiding up there?” “I said nothing.” “Are you in cahoots with Canterlot or something? Got any radios up there?” “It’s a sex thing,” he blurted. “There’s leather belts and other things. I’d really prefer it if you stayed downstairs.” She studied him for a moment, her eyes piercing like radiation. Then she let out a barking laugh. “Hey, I’m not a prude. What you do in your house should be your own business.” She wrestled herself and the bags through the doorway and plopped down on the couch. “In the future, you can leave that kind of info out. This is a strictly professional relationship, and I’m a traditional mare.” Steam rose off Artemisia's burning cheeks. “Good to know,” he hissed. “Don’t mention it.” Her eyes turned to the kitchen. “Got anything to eat? I’m famished. No seed oils though. Or soy. Or anything shrink-wrapped.” She paused, then forced out a very artificial, “Please.” “Maybe after I show you the chicken coop? That’s the whole reason you’re here.” “What’s the rush? It’s not even noon.” “It’s twelve twenty four. And I want to start making improvements on the coop as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the more my chickens will be in danger.” Mercy glanced out the back window. “That’s your coop back there?” “Yeah.” “Just put concrete around it.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, put concrete around it. Werewolves hate concrete. Their teeth can’t go through it.” For a long time, Artemisia said nothing. Then he turned on a dime and stormed off into the kitchen. “Hey, do your chickens lay eggs?” Mercy called after him. “Maybe you could make us omelets!” A single plant-based granola bar flew from the kitchen and smacked Mercy squarely upside the head. Fully unpacked, Mercy’s four oversized bags filled the entire living room with a dazzling array of utterly incomprehensible gadgets and electronics. One of them popped when she flipped it on and showered Artemisia’s floor with sparks. His carpet didn’t make it out unscathed, but Mercy was undeterred. “Perfect time for a monster hunt,” she said. With her instruments secured, there was nothing more for her to do but wait for the sun to go down. Mercy sunned herself in the yard by the chicken coop, absently throwing a utility knife into the dirt blade-first. Artemisia split his time between the backyard and his upstairs room. His transformation was inevitable, but the waning moon brought a temporary reprieve from the worst of the curse’s symptoms. He would still look like a vicious monster. But for a few blessed nights, he’d have almost complete bodily autonomy and barely any hunger. This was an opportune time to dust hard-to-reach spaces and spruce the house up. Maybe he’d do some dishes. Just when he was starting to worry Mercy would fall asleep on the porch and force him to hide in his bedroom all night, she leapt out of her chair with a flourish and grabbed her toolbag. “I hear it!” she cried. “It’s running around in the Everfree!” “Really?” Artemisia asked, forcing down a smirk. “Really really. I’ve trained my ears to hear frequencies most ponies can’t. Just one of my many surprises.” She winked. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be back by morning.” With that, she galloped off into the night. Artemisia immediately felt a weight slide off his shoulders. He went inside and shut the blinds. After a moment of thought, he unplugged all her machines too. Just in case. The transformation was hell, but in a few short minutes it was over, and Artemisia could attend to the pile of dishes in the sink. With his favorite pink apron tied around his waist and a faint song drifting in from the radio in the other room, it almost felt like everything was fine. But the pastorality couldn’t last, because of course it couldn’t. Just as he was nearing completion on the dishes, a throaty, drawn-out sound caught his large canine ears. A scream? No. A howl. The same howl he himself made in his weaker moments. His ears pivoted. His nose twitched. Maybe it was just his imagination. A second howl split the air, even louder than the first. Artemisia hit the floor and crawled on all fours to the north-facing window. His breath fogged up the glass. He moved to the next pane and covered his mouth. Ten minutes of unbearable silence went by. Artemisia glanced at the door. Then back to the dishes in the sink. His paw went to the string on his apron. He squeezed the fabric between his hooves, feeling the threads of cheap microfiber linen. He didn’t have to go out there. He could finish the dishes. Forget he ever heard it. Nothing good ever came from answering these kinds of questions. But deep down he already knew he couldn’t stay here. He undid the apron and flung it off in one decisive, dramatic motion. He was out the door before it touched the ground. At a dead sprint, he made it to the treeline in just under twenty seconds. His eyes, attuned as they were to darkness, couldn’t see more than a few yards into the forest. Animal sounds filtered through the foliage. Moss and loam covered the smell of rot and rebirth. He paused. For a single wild moment, he felt the familiar animal impulse pulling him deeping into the dark, like hunger pulling him towards his chickens. Then he regained his composure. This was stupid. All he was going to find out here was trouble, especially if one of his neighbors saw him. A basal part of his brain cried, don’t turn around, but he compartmentalized the thought and started back towards his house. He should have listened to his instincts. From behind him, the snap of a branch made him stop dead in his tracks. Something leapt from the shadows and hit him between the shoulderblades, driving him face first into the dirt. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. He rolled, flailing wildly. One arm caught his attacker in the jaw. The creature staggered backwards. The moon was new, and the skies were cloudy. If he had pony eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see the attacker. But his eyesight was ten times better than a pony’s. He saw the beast that attacked him in perfect clarity. A second werewolf, this one even larger than him. It snarled at him, gnashing a long row of canine teeth. Artemisia saw it was still dazed from the blow, but its sheer size blocked off his only route of escape through the dense foliage. He had to make a move while it was still off-balance. He charged forward, feigning attack. At the last moment, he leapt over the monster. It lunged forwards to meet him, jaws extended, clawed paws reaching for flesh. But it was a hair too slow. The jaws snapped shut a few inches short of his neck. Its paw caught Artemisia on the ribs, but it was a glancing blow. Artemisia hit the ground running and melted into the Everfree forest. There were a few facts Artemisia could infer from his meeting with the monster. It was stronger than him. Smarter than him, at least when it came to stalking. And its senses were just as heightened as his. That’s why, in order to cover his scent trail, he submerged himself in a puddle beneath a fallen tree and covered himself in mud. At dawn, he stole away, taking a circular route back to his house through one of the forest’s less-traveled paths. He returned to find that, mercifully, Mercy was still away on her fruitless hunt. He wondered if she’d seen the beast that attacked him. The thought sent a chill up his spine. A second werewolf. Was it another cursed pony like him? Or was it one of the originals, an eldritch beast with no birthday and no natural mortality who had sniffed him out and deemed him unworthy? He took his time spraying himself down with the garden hose. The contrast of cold water and warm sun shocked him back to life. He remembered the pile of dishes waiting for him in the sink, and he decided another round with the hose was in order. By the time he finally deemed himself clean and made it back into the house, it was almost nine AM. He’d been out all night. Good thing he didn’t need to sleep. Mercy returned half an hour later, her mane plastered against her neck. She took three steps inside, noticed the mud all over her hooves, and let out a tired laugh. “I’ll clean that up. Do you have a hose?” Artemisia nodded outside. “Did you find anything?” “No. Got a lot of great data though.” “Oh?” He turned away so she couldn’t see the nervousness in his eyes. “Incredible finds. Got half a dozen howls, some solid tracks, and this.” She held up a plastic bag with a muddy tuft of fur inside. Artemisia took a closer look and let out a silent sigh of relief. It was dog fur from a neighbor’s collie. “Congrats. Let me know what I owe you, and you can pack up your machines.” “What I–what?” Mercy’s face fell. “Why would I pack up my machines? We know where it lives.” “We know it’s somewhere in a giant impenetrable forest. And if your consultation fee is a hundred and fifty an hour, there’s no way I can afford multiple hunts. So, make a list and let me know what I owe you. I’m guessing you want it in bits.” “Gold is best, actually,” she said, very voice distant. “But wait–we can’t just give up. Not when we’re hot on the trail. This could be the biggest cryptid find of the decade! It’ll be incredible for business.” “Did you hear the part where I can’t afford your business?” Mercy froze, her lips pursed together in a thin pale line. Her eyes shimmered, all fire and frailty. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me use your house as my base of operations until the end of the next full moon. If I bring back its hide, you pay me what you can. If I bring back anything less, don’t pay me anything.” “I’ve already made up my mind.” “You think this monster will stop with your chickens? Once it eats those, it’ll go after pets. It’ll hit Fluttershy’s sanctuary. The Ponyville vet. The dog adoption center. Foals.” Artemisia’s voice rose. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You’d be doing a whole community a big favor if you helped me kill this thing.” Mercy took a step closer. The air between them was ready to combust. “Why don’t you want to help?” That stare again. He swore she could see right through all his careful disguises. That look screamed, I know. She was wrong about so many stupid conspiracies, but as Artemisia returned the stare he reminded himself that her suspicions were not entirely unfounded. Not here, anyway. “Whatever I give you won’t be as much as you want,” he finally said. “I make my money from magazine interviews and podcasts. Whatever you can give is enough.” Artemisia sighed. The fire subsided. The air between them cooled. He had to maintain his cover at all costs. Even if it meant letting Mercy snoop around. Let her. He was good at hiding who he was. He’d been doing it for so long it came naturally. And on the off chance she figured it out and collected her bounty of hide, then he wouldn’t have to worry about paying her. He cleared his throat to speak, but the deep gruffness of his voice shocked him into silence. He nodded, then went back to scrubbing dishes. The apron clung to his wounded side, soaking up blood. Out the corner of his eye, he watched as she unraveled the hose. Her hoof sunk into the damp patch where he’d cleaned himself off not too long ago. She squatted down and touched a clod of black Everfree mud clinging to the grass. Her eyes narrowed.
Waxing Crescent“Over easy in macadamia oil, with toast and avocado and hot chili oil.” Mercy sat back in her chair with a self-satisfactory smile. “It doesn’t get better.” Mercy seemed more intent on hunting down a free breakfast than the werewolf. Last afternoon, she’d helped herself to a chicken egg from the fridge. He hadn’t stopped her. Now she was asking for more. “I don’t know about macadamia oil,” Artemisia said. “I have some wonder bread. And hot sauce.” He looked in his pantry. “Avocados are kinda out of season right now, too.” He trailed off. The huntress deflated. “Seed oil’s really bad for you, y’know. Messes up your GI. It also increases estrogen in stallions.” If you only knew. “Well, canola was on sale.” He raised the pan from the stove, pointing it at her like a sword straight out of the kiln. “There’s a supermarket down the street if you want to go get some macadamia oil.” Mercy sank further into her chair. “Canola’s fine.” In the afternoon, while Mercy napped, Artemisia went to the hardware store, intent on finally fixing the hole in his bedroom wall. He barely made it three steps inside before a buzzing Beauty Blush barreled into him. “Sooo,” she sang, “who’s the new mare?” “What?” “The new mare who’s been staying at your place, silly.” “Oh.” The implication sank in. “Oh. She’s a werewolf hunter from Canterburg. She’s there to help me protect my chickens.” “That’s so adorable. Tell me all about her.” He held up a slip of paper. “I need some stuff.” “Oh, for your room!” She smiled deviously. “Secret’s safe with me.” Before he could explain that he wasn’t buying ropes and restraints for the reason she thought he was, she took his hoof and marched him down the aisle. “She must like animals as much as you do. Knowing you, she’s gotta love animals.” “Yeah, I guess she likes animals. But that’s not–” “I know, it’s early. You don’t have to put a label on it. But she’s already staying at your place, so might as well make it official. Your mom and dad probably wouldn’t approve of that, but they’re so old fashioned. Honestly, the way they talk about you is backwards.” Her words wormed through his defenses. “They talk about me?” “Don’t even worry about it. The important thing is, you’re happy.” She paused in the aisle and wrapped Artemisia up in a monstrous hug. “I’m so happy for you. Really. You can put this phase behind you now.” Artemisia pulled himself away from Beauty Blush. He was so furious he didn’t know what to say. It took him nearly half an hour to find the right retort, and by then Blush had already filled up his basket and checked him out at the register. “Bring her with you next time,” Blush said as she walked him to the door. “I wanna meet her.” The fog in his head lifted, far too late. “I’m not–” The door swung shut in his face. Through the glass, he saw his own red-cheeked reflection. Beyond that, Beauty Blush was already back behind the register, flirting with one of the regulars. The transformation started earlier than usual that night. The moon was barely a quarter full, so the change started slow, but its momentum made it impossible to ignore. Fire fell across his back. Pressure pressed against the back of his eyes. Soon they’d turn red. The hunger would be back, worse than before. Mercy uncorked a bottle of cider with a fizzy pop. “Seems like something’s bothering you.” Artemisia looked up. He’d been scrubbing the floor, working over one troublesome spot of mud somepony had ground into the floor. “Don’t worry about it.” “It’s okay if you’re worried.” She gestured with the bottle in the direction of the Everfree forest. “I’d be worried too, if I lived this close to all that.” Artemisia grunted and scrubbed harder. He guessed he had about five minutes before the changes became noticeable. He’d have to excuse himself gracefully to avoid suspicion. “Want some cider?” “I’m fine.” Mercy shrugged and took a big swig straight from the bottle. “I’m curious, what did Fluttershy tell you about me?” “Not much. Only that you have experience with werewolves.” He paused. “Why? Is there something I should know about you?” “No, not like that. I just have a reputation. It’s all nonsense, but.” She shrugged. “Is it something I should be concerned about?” “It’s old monster hunting stuff. Chupacabras.” Artemisia’s ear twitched. The end grew to a sharp canine point. “Chupacabras are real?” “Just as real as werewolves.” “Okay, fair. So did you have to hunt one or something?” Mercy shifted in her seat. Artemisia noticed her usual bravado was gone. “This is kind of a bar-story. Is there a tavern we could go to?” “I don’t like bars.” “Then lemme at least pour you some cider. It would make me feel a lot better.” Artemisia sighed. So little time. “Can I keep cleaning?” “Sure. It’s your house.” “Then okay.” Mercy hopped around Artemisia and plucked two coffee mugs from the cupboard. Artemisia faked a sip to avoid showing his teeth. He felt them moving in his gums. Three minutes more. Maybe four. That was all he could afford. “So the first thing you gotta know is, I got kicked out of my parents’ place when I was sixteen. Fights, stealing, the whole nine yards. I was a bad foal.” “Huh. I got kicked out too.” “Woah, really? Rock on, Artemisia. I didn’t take you for the lawbreaking type.” He looked down at the floor. “I didn’t break any laws.” It didn’t take a genius to catch the hint. “Oh. Sorry for bringing it up. For me, getting the boot turned out to be a good thing in the long run, cuz by the time I would have graduated high school, I’d already been fishing for river monsters in the Amarezon and chasing buffalo spirits in the prairies. Real life experience. I even got abducted once.” “Oh.” Artemisia blinked. “By who?” “Aliens. Duh.” “Of course.” Artemisia went back to scrubbing, feeling a little lifted from the cider. “But I got into the monster hunting field when I was nineteen. I was working as a ranchhoof in the Guava province of Marexico when one of my co-workers went missing. Big bull named Flan. No one saw Flan for three days, so naturally the other creatures and I went out looking for him, thinking he’d gotten lost and set up camp somewhere. Marexican bulls know how to live off the land. We were worried, but we thought he’d be okay.” “I’m guessing he wasn’t okay.” Mercy shook her head. “I found him on day four. He died. But he had no outward signs of injury, other than a little hole in the side of his neck, like he’d gotten bit by a dog with only one tooth.” “A snake maybe?” “A snake couldn’t suck out all his blood and internal organs.” She peered over the lip of her mug at her reflection in the cider. “He was just skin and bones. Really nasty. Only one thing does that to its victims. Chupacabras.” She took a long sip. Foam lingered on the edge of her lip. “Because I had a criminal history, and because I’d found Flan first, everyone else thought I’d killed him. But I’d never hurt Flan. He was a good bull, and I was just as beat-up about it as the rest of them. They ran me outta town before I could even put up a fight.” A sharp stitch of pain made Artemisia gasp. Muscles rippled under his fur, snapping apart and reconnecting. The skin above burned as new hairs split the pores apart. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said through clenched teeth. Mercy shrugged. “They were scared. I was, too. But I knew what it was gonna take to get justice for Flan. So I let them think they’d run me out for good. Then I snuck back onto the ranchland and set up camp on the spot where that thing got Flan. I used myself as bait. Camped out for three nights straight. And every night, I could feel it getting closer. The thing was smart. It didn’t just jump me the first night. It scouted me out. Then it got a little braver the second night and probed my camp. Then on the third night, it decided to make a move. I was ready. I faked being asleep, had my machete under my blanket and everything. I could smell it. It was ten feet away. And all of a sudden–” She smacked her leg. Artemisia jumped. ‘Those stupid ranchers came back. They saw my fire and rushed me. Scared the chupacabra away. I barely made it out myself.” A single claw popped out of Artemisia’s rear right hoof. He put the mug of cider to his lips to stifle a scream. Two minutes. Max. “Were you close to the bull?” he asked once the pain had subsided. “Flan?” “Not really, but we worked together, and he was my friend. That’s why I want to help you. That werewolf’s not going to stop at your chickens. I failed to stop that monster from killing Flan, but I might be able to save this town. And not to sound weird, but I see a lot of myself in you.” Artemisia’s whole body shivered. “You barely know me.” “True. But I know you dragged me all the way out here, put your whole life on hold, and let a stranger into your house, all because you’re worried about some chickens. That’s dedication. Not a lot of ponies feel that strongly about anything.” She leaned back. “Don’t let that fire go out.” Two symmetrical fangs stabbed through Artemisia’s gums. Another claw popped out of his hoof. Then a third. The color and texture of his fur changed in slow, undulating waves. “I should get to bed,” Artemisia said. “Thanks for the cider.” “Thanks for indulging me.” Mercy tipped her head back to polish off her mug. Artemisia bolted for the stairs and didn’t look back. She’ll be out soon, he thought over and over to himself as he ziptied his rear leg to the boat anchor. This’ll all be over soon. But what about after? Could he really keep doing this forever? Hiding? Stuffing himself down? Strapping himself to anchors and chains? A sound from beyond the bedroom door caught his attention. Hooves on hardwood. Fear froze Artemisia to the spot. Only the kitchen and upstairs hallway weren’t carpeted. “Arty?” came a voice from the other side of the door. “You okay in there?” Artemisia cursed silently. He started on another hoof restraint, a complex series of belts and ropes. “I’m fine. Just tired.” “I didn’t upset you, did I?” “No.” He missed a loop and barely held in a snarl. “I don’t drink a lot of cider. I got a headache.” “Want me to get you some ibuprofen or something?” Hot coals simmered on the back of his eye. Half his vision went red, until he could see the infrared shadow of Mercy underneath the door. “I’m fine. Just need some rest.” The shadow lingered a moment before disappearing. Pain smothered him. His septum cracked and widened. His now-canine nose picked out the smell of chicken wafting in from outside. His knees went weak. He lunged for the duct tape on his bedside table. It wasn’t as good as the muzzle, but at this point he needed whatever he could get. Two more chains snapped in the night. The rest held. Artemisia stared at the broken links of metal with a detached frown as the final stages of the reverse transformation finished up. Changing back was no less painful than changing in the first place, but it had its moments. Like when the smell of chicken and the painful gnawing in his stomach subsided. He was thinking about the implications of the two snapped chains when he saw Mercy trudging back from the forest. She looked like a completely different pony. Mud clung to her hooves. Sweat plastered her mane to one side of her face. Artemisia raced to the back door. “Nuh uh.” He pointed at the hose. “Rinse off first.” “I found it,” she said. “You did?” “I saw it just before dawn.” She tried to walk inside, but Artemisia shooed her towards the hose. “Had to have been ten feet tall. Great coloration. I get to keep the hide, by the way. It’s only fair.” A jet of cold water gushed from the hose. Mercy let out a shriek that melted into a laugh. She started with her mane, brushing out the grit and knots. The ground turned soupy beneath her hooves. Keep the hide. That must have been the second werewolf that attacked him a few weeks ago. “What if it’s a cursed pony? Some werewolves–” “Can’t be. Cursed ponies who turn into werewolves have different characteristics. No ridges on the back, different iris shapes.” She turned and ran the hose down her back. The cold water made her shiver. “Constant hunger.” “You couldn’t have known it was hungry.” “Of course I can. I could see it in the eyes. You’ve seen it before, right? Has it ever seen you?” Artemisia gulped. “Yeah.” “Then you know the look.” A sinking feeling sucked Artemisia’s hooves to the ground, like the earth beneath him was turning to inescapable mud. He knew his own strength. In a fair fight, there was no way Mercy would be able to take down a werewolf. But if she could somehow get the drop on it? Distract it with a clever trap and sink an ax into its back? Mercy wasn’t stupid, for all the evidence to the contrary. What if she actually did it? What if she brought back a werewolf pelt? Was there an ending to this that left him alive and broke? No. That couldn’t happen. His chickens weren’t going hungry. If all he did was die, Fluttershy could help relocate the chickens and find new homes for them. If he couldn’t afford to feed them, or had to sell them to feed the bank account and ego of Mercy the monster hunter–that was a fate far worse than death. “When are you going out then?” he asked, trying as best he could to sound innocent. “To kill it.” Mercy smiled. “He knows I’m out there, so I have to play this patiently. Wait a few days.” She lifted the hose to her lips and took a long pull. “Then we bring the ax down.”
Waxing GibbousThe night of the hunt, Artemisia made dinner. He spared no expense. A primer of miso soup paved the way for a mountain of fried rice topped with chopped carrots, fresh peas, corn, water chestnuts, and panko-fried tofu, covered with a thick reduction of vinaigrette and soy sauce and, of course, runny fried eggs. For dessert, Artemisia served up guava pastries with ice cream on top. Mercy wept as she ate. He barely touched his plate. In the hours before sunset, when he’d normally start the process of tying himself down for the evening, he strapped on his apron, freshly-bleached and free of blood, and attacked the pile of dishes in the sink. Outside, Mercy sat on a tree stump by the chicken coop, sharpening her ax. He heard it over the sound of the water in the basin, a slow, deliberate scrape. The moon wasn’t completely full that night, but it was getting close. The physical change would hit hard and fast, but as he did the dishes a different kind of pain closed in on him, a psychological panic born from disobeying routine. Hide, it implored him, chain yourself up. You’re running out of time. You can’t help the other werewolf. You can’t even help yourself. All true. But the second werewolf fascinated him. It was dangerously naive to think he could simply waltz into the forest and talk to it. But in all his years of keeping chickens here, they’d never once been attacked by anyone other than himself. If the second werewolf really lived in the Everfree, then it could certainly smell the birds. Why would it wait until now to show itself? Artemisia sighed. It was complicated. Like his family. Like his life. Like everything. He sunk his hooves to the bottom of the sink and let them stew in the sudsy water. The water refracted the light so it looked like his hooves jutted out at an impossible angle. This is me, he thought. It was, and it wasn’t. The ghost of dessert haunted him in the form of a stomach-churning belch. He laughed at himself, and when the laughter died down he realized he could no longer hear any scraping sounds from the backyard. Mercy had already taken off. The smile dropped from Artemisia’s face. His plan to slow her down with a big starchy dinner had failed. The only thing left to do now was fight. He left the house through the front door, circling the neighborhood twice before ducking into a wooded riverbed that led into the forest. He couldn’t overlook the possibility that Mercy, or the other werewolf, was waiting just within the treeline. The transformation took hold just as he reached the forest. One moment he looked up, shocked at how the canopy thickened all at once and blotted out the light. The next, his vision popped into the infrared. Burning convulsions wracked his body. He threw himself beneath a fallen tree, pressing his body against the soft dirt, willing the burning to go away, knowing it wouldn’t. It was over in barely a minute. The first thing that hit his senses was the unmistakable smell of chicken. Panic curled its fingers around his heart like a murderer gripping a knife. He couldn’t lose control. Not now. Not when there was so much to do and so little time to do it. He dragged himself out from beneath the fallen tree and ran through a mental checklist of tasks. Find the werewolf. Or find Mercy. Eat–no. Somehow reason with whoever he found first. Eat–no. Fight Mercy off. He couldn’t hurt her. But he had to stop her. What if she came after him instead? What if the werewolf was hostile to him? EATTTT SO HUNGRY PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE– An inarticulate howl escaped his lips. Birds took flight. Something large disturbed the foliage nearby. Artemisia turned tail and barreled through the brush. He thought he was running away, but as he broke through another line of brambles he realized his instincts were taking him towards the forest’s edge. He slowed up for just a moment. That was when he heard the sound of something running towards him. To his right, the forest went on forever into blackness. To his left, faint light from the outside world broke through. That and the smell of chicken. Another branch snapped, closer this time. He went towards the light. Out of the forest, he saw a familiar lonely cottage on the dirt road into town. Nestled between two shire hills sat rows of animal shelters, ranging from miniscule mouse hollows to a bonafide bear cage. In the middle of it all was a single grand chicken coop with a pristine wire pod protecting the precious birds inside. His birds. Artemisia lost it completely. Threats forgotten, he lumbered across the grass and slammed against the chicken wire mesh with all his might. The supports bowed inward. Metal whined and wood moaned under the weight. In a single practiced motion, Artemisia snipped a piece of the wire using his thumb and index claw. Then he dug his paw in, ignoring the bite of metal against his thickened skin. He wrenched back, and the whole side of the wire mesh peeled away like the tin top of a can. Just as he was about to leap into the coop, however, he heard something running up from behind him. He turned around and saw the second werewolf barreling down on him, murder in its eyes. He barely had time to register fear before the beast slammed into him. The two hit the ground hard and tumbled backwards. The second werewolf wound up on top, its claws wrapped around Artemisia’s neck. “If you leave and never come back,” the werewolf snarled, “I’ll let you live.” Every rational part of Artemisia’s mind implored him to speak. But he was trapped inside his own mind. With his nostrils invaded by smells of feathers and blood, with the air in his lungs slowly squeezed out, his cooler head didn’t stand a chance. He wriggled one paw free and swiped the other werewolf in the face. It leapt back, gritting its teeth in pain. Blood weapt from a wound in its cheek, but it seemed like all Artemisia did was make it angrier. “You’ll be my first kill,” the werewolf sneered. “I’ll bet you taste terrible.” It feigned an attack, baiting Artemisia in. While he was off-balance, it dove in for real, tackling him to the ground again. He kicked it in the ribs as hard as he could and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. But it recovered fast and leveraged its larger size to pin his arms. With the full weight of a ten-foot werewolf sitting on his chest, he was completely immobilized. The werewolf leaned down to bite his neck, flashing its razor-sharp teeth. “The chickens,” Artemisia wheezed. “The, the.” He gasped. No more air. The werewolf paused. “The what?” It shifted its weight backwards, alleviating the weight on his chest the slightest bit. “The chickens,” he said. “You can’t have them.” “Why not?” Paternal instinct collided with the urge to devour. “They’re mine.” He tried to throw the werewolf off him, but its weight was too much. Its eyes flashed from Artemisia to the coop. The murderous glint fizzled. “Your chickens?” it asked, pointing to the coop. “Those are your chickens?” Artemisia redoubled his efforts to wriggle out of the werewolf’s grasp. Against all that leverage, though, he was utterly powerless. The werewolf reached for a strand of mangled chicken wire and twisted it off with no more effort than a gardener plucking a flower. It twisted the metal into a complicated loop, then tressed Artemisia up. Ignoring his howls of protest, it dragged him back into the woods, leaving the birds behind in their coop. The beast seemed intent on dragging Artemisia over every tree root, rut, and rock in the Everfree forest. After what felt like hours of rough handling, they broke through the treeline again, this time into Artemisia’s neighborhood. The werewolf made a straight path for his house and went right in the back door like it owned the place, pausing only when Artemisia’s shoulders became lodged in the doorframe. Plates rattled in the cupboard as it lumbered into the living room. The immediate panic subsided, swallowed by the familiar faint rumble of the air conditioner and the lingering smell of neutral oil and fake-lemon cleaner from the kitchen. The werewolf said, “What did you mean, your chickens?” Artemisia strained at the chicken wire restraints, but only managed to cut himself in the process. “Don’t hurt me,” he whimpered. “You’re doing a better job of that yourself. What were you doing out there?” Artemisia said nothing. The dam holding his anxiety at bay was crumbling right before his eyes. “If you want to wait until morning, we can do that.” The werewolf curled up on the floor opposite him. Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He didn’t like standoffs, but he hated staring contests even more. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep or not. Morning, and the familiar burning pain of ten million long hairs retracting into his body, snuck up on him. He leapt upright, but with his limbs bound he fell right back over again. His eyeballs deflated, his vision shifting blue. The restraints fell off his legs. He didn’t try to run away. The other werewolf started to grow smaller. Its bones shrank and snapped into their original pony shape. The paws glued themselves back into hooves. It bore the pain with a hard-set grimace. When the transformation was complete, Mercy ran a hoof through her mane and sighed. “I knew it.” “Surprise,” Artemisia mumbled. “So you were killing your own chickens? That’s sick. Were you trying to bait in other werewolves?” “It was never about you.” Mercy got up and stretched her legs. “I’ve never met another werewolf before. Well, pony-turned werewolf. You know what I mean.” “You said you’d killed five.” “Marketing.” He scoffed. “Some monster hunter you are.” “Hey, I’m the best monster hunter in the world.” Her tone softened. “You and I aren’t monsters.” Artemisia’s eyes turned towards the door. The faint sound of chirping chickens drifted through the screen. “Yes we are.” “No, we’re not. I get hunger pangs too.” He fixated on her teeth as she spoke. Regular, flat pony teeth. “I just found better ways to deal with them.” “Like how?” “Let it out.” He pictured a coop of chickens in Mercy’s yard, the occupants all lined up in a row waiting for their caretaker to gobble them up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I mean, I get outside and run around. What do you—” A lightbulb went off. “Those restraints in your bed. It’s not a sex thing.” Her face went pale. “Oh my gosh, you’ve been chaining yourself up.” “It’s the only way to keep them safe.” “How about you think about yourself for a second!” Genuine anger flashed in her eyes. “Have you ever thought about what all that keeping it bottled up is doing to you? No wonder you’re so cooped up and crazy. You gotta let yourself breathe, Arty.” “Not a chance.” She took his hooves in his. “Please. Just try it. Tomorrow night. I’ll go out with you.” It wasn’t possible. Everything he ever knew told him that this was wrong. That he was wrong. And letting himself go outside was a quick and easy way to wind up with no more chickens and a lot of little grave plots to dig. Every past failure, all the mornings he woke up covered in feathers, came rushing back. Blood memories. As if she could read his mind, Mercy wrapped Artemisia up in a crushing hug. “If you don’t make a change, nothing changes.” Artemisia’s breathing quickened. He needed the chains. He needed to hide. “I can’t.” “You have to.” His stomach churned. Was it hunger? He needed zip ties and boat anchors. “I just can’t.” Mercy took him by the shoulders and looked him square in the eye. She saw through him, all the way down to his carnivorous core. “Then you don’t really care about them.” With no chains to hold him back, he crumpled into Mercy’s arms. “I do,” he sobbed. “I love them so much.” “Prove it.” She stroked his mane, the first comforting touch he’d felt in years.
FullThe line at the Ponyville Hardware and Artisanal Sauce store was twenty ponies long when Artemisia walked in. Beauty Blush was at the register, engrossed in conversation with a masonry contractor whose jawline looked like he chewed as many bricks as he laid. She saw Artemisia, waved, then did a double take. Her smile cracked like heated glass. “I’m very, very sorry.” She smiled at the contractor as she slid a small red closed sign onto her conveyor belt. “Could you hang on for just a second?” She turned to the manager, who was about to yell at her, and said, “If you say one word, I’m gonna start a union.” Outside, Blush took Artemisia by the shoulders and half-whispered, half-shouted, “Have you ever wondered why the only things that like spending time with you are chickens?” “Want some coffee?” Artemisia smiled casually. “My treat.” “We’re not going over there, like,” she gestured to his outfit. “This.” “Oh. Well, I was gonna go over there anyway, so you’re welcome to come if you want.” He glanced at the hardware store. Angry customers had already started to spill out the front door, their carts abandoned. “Looks like you’ve got things to do.” Beauty Blush rolled her eyes so hard Artemisia thought they’d pop out. She started off at a rigid clip towards the coffee shop. Inside, a few ponies cast curious glances their way, but otherwise it was business as usual. The barista smiled a little extra wide at Artemisia while he ordered his drink. “I’m not trying to sound obtuse,” she said, forcing a path for her straw through the ice of her frappuccino. “I’m not like the rest of the family. I’m not like your mom or dad. But this is a bit much, don’t you think?” “No,” Artemisia said. Water droplets condensed on the side of his iced americano. He relished the kiss of cool on his hooves. “No? C’mon. It’s kind of a lot.” “I meant no, I think you’re just like my mom and dad.” He absently touched his outfit, traced the slight curve of his hips beneath. “You’re right though, this might be a bit much. Maybe I should go for pastels next time.” “Next time. Listen to yourself.” “You listen to yourself.” “You’re so difficult.” She all but sang the last word. “Listen. I know you.” She leaned across the table. “I know it’s not like that. But other ponies see you and they don’t see what I see.” “You’re right.” “Thank you. They see you go by and they think, oh, there goes Artemisia wearing dresses. That’s not even the weirdest thing he’s done this month. I’ll bet he’s the one eating those chickens, or whatever.” “She.” “What?” Artemisia pushed his drink aside so nothing stood between them. “I want you to call me she from now on.” “Oh.” Beauty Blush was so stunned, her eyes plunged straight into her frappuccino and couldn’t find their way out. “Oh,” she said again, no less stunned than the first time. Artemisia sat back, a faint smile gracing her lips. Let Blush chew on that. Let her come up with something awful to say. She was ready. She’d faced worse. Something about having her chickens back in the yard filled Artemisia with purpose. She woke up earlier, threw herself into the laborious task of fixing the wire and cleaning the coop with a gusto she didn’t know she possessed. She threw all the rear-facing windows open too, so she could hear the chickens chatter while she was inside. And the omelets! When evening came and the full moon rose, Artemisia shut the windows and went upstairs. The restraints had all been relegated to a box in the attic. Her sheets, freshly washed and smelling of fake sage and sandalwood, sat in a folded pile at the foot of the bed. Tomorrow she’d remake it. But tomorrow was still a night away. She laid down on the bare mattress and let the transformation run its course. Outside, she took deep breaths and let the smells of the country wash over her. There was the immediate smell of chicken, the hunger, the urge to rip and cut and inflict pain. But she was stronger than that, she reminded herself. She’d faced worse, and she’d come out the other side. She could acknowledge what it was without letting it overpower her. All those years she’d been under so much stress and pain, but she was never able to dig deeper. It was too difficult. Pain had been her bedrock. Immovable. Not anymore. More deep breaths. A new smell appeared, something like cut grass and chrysanthemum and clear night skies. She caught a hint of watered earth in a garden, and dust clinging to wood siding. There was nectar, and pavement, and wood fires, and barbecue, and the neighbor’s dog, and yes, chickens in their coop. There was a whole world of smells beneath the bedrock. Her werewolf nose could find what her pony nose couldn’t. She leaned in, searching for a familiar animal scent among the chorus. She found it, locked on with hypersensitive precision, and took off at a dead sprint into the Everfree forest. The smells of the forest were a canopy all their own, an invisible forest of fungus and fertilization that slowed Artemisia’s passage. Her ears pivoted at the sound of a branch snapping behind her. She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a full-grown werewolf careening towards her, all four paws off the ground, body extended towards her, equal parts tackle and embrace. The two collided and rolled. Branches snapped. Happy howls echoed through the forest. Their forms split, consumed by the night. Then a flash of fur as they leapt into the light.
