In the dirt before him, Ira stared at him in horror. He was a man again—barely. Gray-green with moss and lichens, scar and hair speared with white flowers, antlers twined with leaves and rusty with blood. His face had twisted and lengthened into something like a wolf’s and something like a stag’s and something like a raven’s. Blood stained the fur on his right cheek, where Freya’s claws had raked across his face, and spotted his shirt where his shoulder was injured. Though his eyes were human, they had the expression of a wary animal.
Arthur breathed deeply,in for four, hold for four, out for four. He stepped forward, but Ira said, “Don’t.”
“Ira—”
Ira scrambled backward. “Keep away from me.”
Freya mewled pitifully. Arthur scooped her up and held her close.
“It’s all right. I’m fine.”
He said nothing about the woodsmen unrecognizable as mossy mounds growing in the clearing. His stomach twisted.
Ira shook his head. “I could’ve killed you.”
“You didn’t.”
“I wanted to.”
His voice was hoarser than ever. Arthur’s heart sank.
“Not you. The forest. Which I must admit,” he added, hoping to lighten the mood, “rather hurts my feelings after all we’ve been through together.”
Ira didn’t smile.
“It doesn’t matter. The forest, me—it’s all the same.” He scrubbed a paw-like hand over his face. “I have to go back.”
“Back?”
“To the vale.”
“Ira—” Arthur set the cat down and chanced another step toward him. This time, Ira didn’t back away. “We’ve been traveling for two days. I know it’s been... less than ideal—” possibly the greatest understatement he’d ever made “—but I think—Iknowwe can do this. Everything will be all right.”
Ira yanked the acorn off. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled: Like his face, his figure had changed. He was barrel-chested and hunched; his wolf’s paws extended into legs. His knee brace buckled and slid down his right leg, no longer fitting. He swore.
“Nothing about this is all right, Arthur!” he snarled. “I can’t even wear my knee brace.”
He threw the acorn. It bounced off Arthur’s chest and vanished in the leaf litter. Arthur fell to his knees in a panic, searching by touch until his fingers curled around its silver form.
Ira growled, deep and resonant, more animal than ever. “What good did it do? Look at me. It’s so much worse now. I only left the vale because you made me—”
“I didn’tmake—”
“—and now I’mthis.The fucking acorn didn’t do anything.”
Arthur clutched the acorn, getting to his feet cautiously. He’d never seen Ira so angry. Ira was frightened, really, Arthur knew that, but his heart hammered.
“It will. Once we plant it. It’ll make everything better.”
Ira lurched toward him, eyes glittering. “We’ll never make it. I’ll become a beast, all of me, and you’ll die because the forest kills you, or maybe I’ll kill you myself!”
His snarl chased crows from a nearby tree. They burst from the canopy and flew away, cawing, translucent and black-veined.
Ira followed them with his gaze. Chest heaving, he slumped against a stump and ran a hand over his beastly face. Arthur stepped closer, aching to touch him.
“Look at me,” Ira repeated morosely.
Arthur cupped his furred cheek in a hand. Ira had a snout now, and fangs. He was so much more beast than man, and with that growth in his scar, and lichens clinging to the ruff of his neck. But his eyes were the same, one hazel, one milky. His breath was sweet in Arthur’s face.
