The Hunt Mistress by Emily Powell

Hush now.

Listen quietly. Huddle close to the fire and say nothing of the wind. It may hear you. It may not like what you have to say. Close your shutters, lock your door, and don't listen to the spirits when they come knocking. If they like you too much they may take you for the Hunt. They might snatch you right up and force you to ride with them; twirling, tumbling, howling through the night sky for the rest of eternity.

Oh, but what a ride it will be. There's a sort of breathless freedom that comes with charging through that sky. There's a comfort with feeling the heat of your fellow riders

and knowing that you were never alone and you never will be again.

Hush now.

Best not to think on it. Best to be afraid.

There's a woman at your door. Be polite. She has broken her carriage over a crossroad,

won't you fix it for her? She smiles so sweetly, it does nothing to hide her teeth; sharp and ready to close over your throat. Oh yes, it is best to be afraid.

Fix up her cart, quick as you can. Ignore the smell of her; like pine, like wind, like blood. Ignore the way her lips graze the shell of your ear and the way her hand fits in your own as she passes you your payment.

You've done wonderfully Lady Blacksmith.

Don't wrinkle your nose at what she's given you, take what was offered and rush back home. Hope it turns to gold in the morning and thank God that the Hunt Mistress has left you unscathed.

Do not think about the warmth of her, or how cold you are now that she is gone. Huddle close to the fire and stave off the chill that way. Winter is dangerous, but the Hunt is worse. You must remember that.

When you go to town the next morning act thankful as the old women fret over you, as the priests bless you, as the men bring you flowers and hover by your side. They're just checking to see that you're alright, you pretty young thing. This wouldn't happen if you had a man about the house. A man would keep you safe from the wild things on the wind.

When you go to church that next Sunday, pray for salvation. Pray that God will have mercy on you and help you to lead a good and righteous life.

Whatever you do, do not pray that she'll come back.

Be frightened when she does. Do not smile when she graces your doorstep the next year, a broken axle between taloned hands. You must not tease her when you realize that she has broken it herself.

Fix the carriage up again, quick as you can. Do not linger this time around, stay silent. Talk only when you must, do not discuss the beauty of the stars. When she laughs, cower.

Do not think that she looks angelic like this, with her head thrown back, haloed silver by the moon.

She thinks you're funny.

That is not a good thing.

Duck your head, and do not make eye contact. Take the payment she offers you. Take the kiss she offers you too, but only because it would be rude to refuse her. When she asks you to join her in her carriage, go back into your house. Refuse to watch as she retreats back to the stars. Scrub your face in hot water to remove the memory of her lips pressed against yours. Be grateful. You have survived your second encounter with the Hunt, that is not a feat many can lay claim to. Thank God for his mercy.

Hush now.

Refuse to have a third. The next year when she comes with the snow and the cold, and the howling ghosts on her heels, do not open the door. Leave her on your doorstep with the remains of her carriage and huddle close to your hearth. Ignore her knocking. Be grateful when it finally dies away. Don't mind that the wind has twisted into broken sobs.

When the morning comes, and she is still there, do not feel relief. Instead, be very afraid of the half-formed riders that swirl upon your doorstep. Be afraid of their sunken eyes and their slavering jaws. They circle their Hunt Mistress, tugging at her riding jacket with long fingers and they snarl at you as you pass through them. You do not know what these things are. Some priests say the riders are devils sent by Satan to hunt down the damned. Some say they are the damned themselves, lured in by the Hunt Mistress herself.

You do not know what these things are.

You do not know if they could harm you. If they could be you. If you could be them should you be forced to join the Hunt.

It should scare you.

It doesn't.

You are staring at the Hunt Mistress. She sits in the center of her Riders, pale as moonlight, the blood of her last kill dried on her cheek. Her carriage is in splinters around her. The hunt cannot continue to ride without the Hunt Mistress and she cannot ride without her carriage.

And so she sits at your doorstep, your own personal fallen angel; beautiful and terrifying all at once.

You shouldn't help her up. You should not produce a handkerchief to help wipe away the blood and the tears. You shouldn't be apologizing;

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Fix up the carriage, quick as you can. You shouldn't be enjoying the heat of the riders pressing in around you, you shouldn't be meeting the Hunt Mistress' gaze. You shouldn't reach for one of her hands and press it to your lips. When she leans in, and shows you her sharp teeth, you shouldn't bare your throat.

When she kisses you it shouldn't feel like coming home.

But it does.

And when she steps into her repaired carriage and reaches out a hand, you take it. She offers you a place by her side and you join the Hunt without question.

The wind turns your laughter into an echoing howl that trails behind you as you ride.