by J. C. Runolfson
The wolf meets a woman in the wood. The woman is red, from her hair to her lips to her dress to her long, sharp nails. Only her skin is pale and her eyes are dark, dark, dark. She lounges on the edge of a blanket, and spread out before her is a feast of the sort one doesn't bring to Grandmother: hunks of raw, bloody meat, long bones hacked up so that the marrow glistens inside, sweet, steaming organs and viscera.
Slavering, the wolf somehow manages to say, "Hello, Red."
"Hello, wolf." She offers him a close-mouthed smile and gestures with one languid, full-fleshed arm. "Help yourself."
He holds back long enough to consider the scale of the bones and the organs and asks, "Are you using me to get rid of evidence?"
The woman in red laughs throatily, but says only, "Are you refusing the offer?"