The Scent of Pine and Blood

The howl faded into the heavy stillness of the night, but the sound was seared into my brain. It was a chord of raw, unbridled wilderness that could have no place on a college campus. My heart pounded against the cage of my ribs, a wild captive searching for freedom. I clamped my eyes closed, informing myself it was a coyote, or some large dog from one of the farmhouses far out. Sound traveled weirdly at night. It was a crazy, thin line of reasoning, and it snapped as soon as I cracked my eyes open and looked at Adrian's neat, vacant bed. He was out there, in the direction of that noise. It was not a guess in my mind. It was a hard, cold certainty that settled in the depths of my stomach. My breath caught. The confident, charming boy who had been my best friend for more than ten years was suddenly a stranger, a puzzle whose pieces were sharp and menacing. I stepped back from the window, folding my arms over my body as a shiver that had nothing to do with room temperature spread over me. I went over the fight in the quad, the forced calm of Adrian's tones, the barely-discernible golden flicker in his eyes, the nauseating snap of Josh's wrist. I remembered all the late-night "runs," the mysterious bruises, the forest smell that lingered on him when he came back home. They were not random events; they were hints, and they were all leading to a conclusion my logical mind did not want to make.

A minute ticked by, then another. The digital clock on my nightstand glowed 1:47 AM, every second dragging on like an eternity. I attempted to read, but the letters danced before my eyes. Each groan of the old dorm building, each muffled scream from a late-night party, made me leap with fear. I was afraid he wouldn't return, and still more afraid of what it would be if he did. What could I say? How was I able to look at him and not notice the shadow of that untamed, predatory noise? My mind went wild, imagining him getting hurt in the woods, or worse, imagining him being the one who did the harming. The door to our room was left open, as it always had been. A reflection of a faith now that seemed frighteningly foolish. At last, around 2 AM, I heard it: a gentle click as the handle was turned. The door opened, and Adrian slipped in, gliding with a silent stealth that was almost creepy. He closed the door softly behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, his back to me, his shoulders bowed as if burdened with a heavy weight.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was powerfully overwhelming—the clean, sharp smell of pine needles and wet ground, but beneath that something else. Something metallic and coppery. The scent of blood. "Adrian?" I breathed, my voice a mere whisper. He jumped, not knowing I was awake. Slowly, he turned, and my breath was frozen in my throat. The moonlight coming through the window lit him up, and he appeared devastated. His face was pale and smeared with dirt, his go-to grey hoodie torn at the shoulder, and a dark, wet stain spreading across the material. His eyes, once so bright and alive, were shadowed with an exhaustion so deep it seemed to age him by years. But under the tiredness, there was something else burning in their depths—a crazed, haunted glance I'd never seen before. He noticed me looking at the dark smudge on his shoulder, and he automatically attempted to conceal it, yanking the collar of his jacket further across his chest. "Ethan," he croaked, his voice hoarse. "You're still awake." It wasn't a query.

I levered myself up from my bed, my legs shaky. "You're injured," I told him, disregarding his words. My fear was giving way to a rush of protective concern. It was something I couldn't prevent. He was my Adrian, and he was injured. "What did you do? Did you fight someone?" He laughed weakly, unconvincingly. "Something like that. Tripped and fell on a branch. I'm okay, really." A branch? That wasn't a scratch from a branch. It was too big, too deep. The blood continued to well up, seeping through the thick fabric of his hoodie. I went into the shared bathroom and retrieved our small first-aid kit, my hands trembling a little. By the time I returned, he was sitting at the edge of his bed, head in hands. He glanced up as I came over to him, a combination of gratitude and something I couldn't read on his face—fear? Was he in fear of letting me see the injury? "Here," I said quietly, my voice picking up a bit of strength. "Take off your hoodie. Let me clean it." For a moment, he stalled, his tempest-grays regarding mine. It was like a test. I stood my ground, attempting to condense the years of friendship between us into this one, wordless glance, a vow of safety that he was in my care. At last, with a heavy sigh, he nodded and gingerly removed the hoodie.

My gut contracted. It was worse than I had imagined. Inscribed on the hard muscle of his shoulder and chest were three deep, parallel cuts. They were deep, furious gashes, already red at the edges. They didn't resemble anything made by a branch, or a knife. They resembled for all the world like they'd been fashioned by claws. Humongous claws. The cry still lingered in my mind. I tried to push the idea away, making myself concentrate. My hands shook as I ripped open an antiseptic wipe. As I carefully dabbed the wound edges, Adrian winced in pain, every muscle on his body tensing up. "Sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry." His skin was scorching hot to the touch, exuding a feverish heat that was unnatural. I labored in silence, wiping away the blood as best I could, my head a storm of questions that I didn't dare ask. As I pressed a big gauze pad into place, my fingers grazed his chest. A spark, electric and startling, traveled up my arm. His head jerked up, our eyes meeting. The air between us thickened, charged with an instant, smothering intensity. His tiredness receded, replaced by that same crazy energy he'd had before. His eyes were dilated, and in the dimness, his stare was so intense it seemed he could see all the secrets I'd ever held, most especially those that I kept from myself. The moment hung, timelessness and vulnerability, until finally.he broke away, staring off with a closed face.

He murmured his thanks and sprawled back on his bed, exhausted to a finish. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep, but it was not a restful sleep. He thrashed about, saying things I couldn't catch, his fists clenching and relaxing. I sat on my own bed, observing him, the first-aid kit still open in my lap. The fragments were all there, a nightmare mosaic: the strength, the vanishings, the struggle, the claws, the howl. It was all leading up to one, single, unthinkable truth. But it was crazy. Werewolves did not exist, were fairy tales that Kevin had teased me for reading. It wasn't possible. At last, tiredness got the better of me, and I slept fitfully, visions of dark woods and eyes glowing gold in moonlight dancing in my head. I woke up early the next morning. Sunlight poured in through the windows, everything looking as normal, almost taunting the fear of the night before. Adrian was still fast asleep, on his stomach, the covers having slipped off of his hurt shoulder. I glanced over, anticipating seeing the white gauze I had put on. But it was missing. It was on the floor at his bedside, unstuck. I squinted, my own heart starting to thud a slow, heavy drumbeat. His shoulder was bare. I could see the flesh, clear and unmarked in the light of day.

There was no wound. No redness. Not even a scar. The three deep, nasty lacerations that had bled so profusely only hours before had vanished utterly, impossibly, from existence.

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