RED

The snow crunched under her boots as she slowly moved through the forest, her lithe form dancing around the moonlight. Her black boots stretched up her calves to stop just below her knees, leaving the rest of her legs exposed, until the scarlet red leather armor that covered her torso obscured the parts of her body better left to the imagination. The front of her armor was decorated as though it were a corset, complete with arcane text that appeared as satin black swirls around her waist. Her upper arms were exposed to the cold while her forearms and wrists were covered in black bands that concealed strips of steel. Her thin neck was exposed, though currently covered by the ends of her golden hair that framed her otherwise petite face. She had unnaturally white eyes and ruby red lips that seemed to swallow all of the light that touched her. She had a red hood raised above her, casting shadows over the sharp features of her face, which helped deteriorate her silhouette.
She slowed her pace, though she knew that her presence was already noted, as she saw the remains of the burnt husk hidden among the trees. It gave her pause; that had been the blacksmith shop when she was a child. There was no sign signifying what it had been, no memory except her own to remember the sweet smell of sweat that often wafted from its open window in the dying light of summer. With the edge of the village in sight, she moved in the direction of what would’ve been the village square. She saw the ruins of what had been a simple church, her village’s way of honoring God in the darkest times, and the well that some children had dived into when the flames engulfed their homes. So many innocents had died that night; so many had died because of her.
She had been a girl when it happened, not even passing her twelfth winter. Her sisters, one older and one younger, had both given their own warnings of danger than that she refused to heed. Her older sister had warned of the dangers away from the village and her younger sister, so full of imagination, swore that she had seen a man come into the village when everyone should’ve been sleeping. She hadn’t given it any thought, even after her older sister had died in a hunter’s trap while picking berries just away from the village. But she was adamant that leaving the village was necessary; she wanted to see her grandmother one last time before she departed for Paris and a dream that she had only half imagined when it happened.
She walked into the small cemetery near the back of the burnt church and found, after a few moments of digging through the snow, the marker that signified her young sister’s grave. Her young sister’s death had been the final push for her to leave the village once and for all; it had been illness that took her life but there were other things in the world that could’ve been responsible. Kneeling in the snow, oblivious to the discomfort, she brushed the front of the marker clean so that she could read the words carved permanently into stone.

Charlotte Capot
Fille de Maurice et Anna Capot
Né: L'Année de Notre Seigneur 981
Décédé: L'Année de Notre Seigneur 990
Une belle enfant pleure pas, mais pour la beauté.

It was an unremarkable stone, given its significance. It didn’t even make mention of the sleeping sickness that she had died from. Charlotte Capot, who had lived for just nine years, was a beautiful child. She would be missed though few ever knew she existed. Rumors circulated concerning the mysterious person who had tombs erected for all of the dead of the village; nobody suspected the truth. But there were whispers; whispers that had led to the slaughter of so many innocents and the burning of an otherwise worthless village in the woodlands of France.
“The cold must be uncomfortable.” A man, with the accent of someone from London, said without any warning. The woman kneeling before her sister’s grave said nothing, not even to indicate that she was aware of his presence when she had already smelled him before coming close to the village. Finally, she got to her feet and turned to look at the man. The man was plain, dressed in clothes that he must’ve considered comfortable but lacked any sense of fashion. “This is not a place for a woman like yourself.” He said. That comment shocked her; she wondered what kind of woman he thought she was.
Then, considering the way she was dressed, she shrugged.
“Je ne suis pas une pute.” She smiled.
“Do you speak English?.” He raised his hands in mock self-defense.
“It is a pity that you do not speak French,” she shrugged, “you know not what you are missing.” She paused. “I was saying that I am not a whore, not like you think.”
“I never said that you’re a whore,” he said, “not with those axes strapped to your back.” She had to blush; he had seen the weapons that had been so difficult to get. She had hoped that the red cloak draping from her shoulders would’ve concealed them, but she had no such luck. “In truth, I suspect that we’re here for the same reason.”
“Oh,” she took a step in his direction, “what reason would that be?”
“I know who you are: Gilda Capot.” She remained impassive, her smile gone, as she studied the Englishman. Despite his weak and overall drab appearance, she knew that he hid more. She could see the edges of the tattoo on his neck, ancient text signifying death to vampires.
“I know not who that is.” She said.
“That might not be your name now,” he said, “but it was your name when you lived in this place.” He looked around, at the blackened remains of the village, before looking back at the woman. “What is your name now?”
“I have no name now,” she said, “but some call me la femme en rouge.” She paused. “You can call me ‘Red.’”
“Charles,” he bowed, “I work for the Human-Paranormal Union. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He took his brown hat off with a flourish before standing again and returning to a proper state. “I must say, a werewolf is not what I expected to meet here.”
“Why not? This is the land werewolves came from.” Red was overly proud of the fact, though the theory was not without its share of detractors. While many shape-shifters had been found in France and Germany, people were hesitant to claim that they originated there. “There is even a word, derived from French, to describe us.” Charles sighed, loup-garou was not the basis for the word she was pushing; but he decided to play to her whims.
“Lycanthrope?” He offered.
“That is it!” She beamed. “We werewolves are of grand importance!”
“We?” Charles asked. Red paused; she had said more in her excitement than planned.
“If you know my name,” Red’s voice dropped so that she barely spoke above a whisper, “then you know what I am.”
“You’re over a thousand years old,” Charles said, “born human; changed forever by a fateful bite to your neck. A bite you survived.” Red didn’t display any emotion as she thought back to that dreadful spring of 990 CE. The people of her village were being terrorized by a werewolf, though they didn’t know that it was anything but a wolf at the time, resulting in eight deaths. Red’s sister, she learned later, had been one of the victims though her death was attributed to a hunting accident. When Red ran away, intending to see her grandmother one last time before leaving for Paris, the werewolf attacked her. Red would’ve died had not a hunter come to her aid and forced the werewolf to run off. Red survived the attack and somehow survived the tortuous process of becoming a werewolf. As time passed, Red shed her human identity permanently and became the assassin known as the ‘Woman in Red.’
After a few silent seconds, Red nodded.
“Do you know who attacked you?” Charles asked.
“I was working a job in Moscow when I found a lead; I had given up hope of ever finding my maker. The werewolf returns every year, reliving past glories. Now I am back to find it and cut off its head.”
“Is there no love between your species?”
“Werewolves are loners. We learn what we need too and move on… or kill our makers and seize their territory as our own.”
“If this werewolf moves around so much, he must have an enormous territory.” Charles wondered.
“Not likely,” Red shook her head, “I am willing to bet that it goes into occupied territories but remains far from other werewolves. Il ya plusieurs façons de confondre.”
“I thought werewolves had keen senses of smell.”
“We do, we can smell up to a mile away,” Red grinned, “or more. Of course there are things, like what was in Moscow, that inhibit our ability to smell.”
“What was in Moscow?”
“Vampires,” she smiled, “there was a nest until I eliminated their population.”
“You are an assassin.” Charles nodded.
“That was my last job; it is time I move on and focus.” She looked back at her sister’s grave one last time. “Over the hill and through the woods…”
“To grandmother’s house we go… where do you expect this werewolf to be?”
“Around,” Red sighed as she started walking, a light snow falling around her shoulders, “I will find him.” Charles nodded and followed. “You said that you are with the Human-Paranormal Union, am I correct?”
“That’s right; we’re focused on uniting humans with supernatural beings to achieve a common purpose.”
“You are another loony that believes in peace in the food chain; vous devez être amis avec ce vampire Alucard condamnable,” she grinned, baring her teeth, “what are you? ”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you human or… supernatural?”
“I was human once, much like you; though my change occurred during a trip to Scotland. An axe hit me in the stomach.” He indicated part of his chest that was covered by layers of clothing.
“I have never been to Scotland.”
“The problem with Scotland,” Charles huffed, “is that it’s full of Scots!” He tried to laugh but all that came out was a gasp of air. Red slowed but didn’t stop walking.
“Je suis un imbécile.” She said to herself, thankful that Charles claimed not to speak French.
“What was that?”
“Watch your step,” Red said quickly, “the ground is uneven in places.” The lie was so natural that she nearly believed her own words. After all of the time she’d spent in the world, lying about her identity and deceiving the governments of the world had become easy; there was no reason to think otherwise. But then again, Charles was doing his best to deceive her.
“Thanks for the warning.” He nodded his appreciation.
“Does that make you a zombie?”
“Excuse me?”
“You were killed but you are… how do you say… un corps. You cannot be a ghost.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Charles nodded, “I do have a body.”
“I have never spoken to a zombie,” Red said as her face twisted into a scowl, “but I know something: they have no need to breathe!” Red spun and quickly swung an ax at Charles’ throat but he blocked it with a dagger hidden under his trench coat. “You are no fool, my dear. Tell me, when did you suspect that I was the werewolf you were after? Help me improve my lies so that your impending death has meaning!”
“I knew the werewolf I sought was near, I could smell you; but smelling is not science.” She swung with her opposite blade but Charles easily dodged it. She bared her teeth and tried to cut again but her swings were being stopped. “You referred to the werewolf as he. Then you told me that you had been killed in battle… yet you still breathed… your lies were over.” He grabbed her wrists and fought against her.
“Thanks for the tip,” he smiled as his skin began tearing apart and hairy limbs appeared; “now it’s time to finish what I started!” His words were drowned out by the crackling of his skin and tearing of his clothes. He howled and bent closer to rip out Red’s throat. She pulled away, just free of the clamping jaws, and smiled.
“I am no longer an innocent girl,” she raised her left and pressed it against Charles’ chest, “you made me so much more.” Charles was unaware that Red’s skills as an assassin were due in part to her expanded mind, expanded because of the lycanthropy. He never saw the tiny crossbow hidden in Red’s boot but he felt the burning as the silver bolt tore through his flesh.
Charles released her in pain and stumbled back, crouched down, as Red began to change. Her clothes were specifically designed to break apart as she changed, unlike Charles’ clothes which had become rags, and she was soon a six-foot she-wolf with razor-sharp claws and red hair running down her back like a flowing mane. Charles looked up just before Red’s knee struck him in the face. Charles fell back as Red loomed over him, her foot on his chest near the bloody wound. Her face twisted as she spoke.
“You killed my sister,” Red growled, “now your reign of terror is at an end. Bonne nuit!” She shifted and Charles died as the bones in his chest snapped. She bent down and ripped his beating heart from his chest, blood dripping from her claws, and she swallowed it whole. Charles’ body began to break apart and dissolve like a vampire in the sun. Red stepped away, breathing deeply, and began to change back. The hair fell away to reveal her pale form and she quickly dressed. With the axes back in place, she made sure that the clasps on her armor were secure before she continued down the dirt road. She still wanted to visit her grandmother.