Free FSF, January-February 2010 by Spilogale Authors

aware of the seasoning carcasses of Spike's and Dad's kills, the blood-soaked ground below them, the many scavengers thronged there to take advantage of the feast; his mother and father smelled of campfire smoke, roasted meat, and sex in their double sleeping bag in the next tent. Navin smelled the camping gear, the different woods still smoldering under a layer of ash in the campfire, the scents of trees, night-blooming carnivorous flowers, the massed and active life in the forest all around him, one thing preying on another.
    He heard rustles in the underbrush, the beat of many different sizes of wings, the squeaks and cries of mating or hunting, and he almost knew what each creature was just by the sound.
    I know , whispered something inside him. I know which ones are good to eat. The best one is—
    That smell from Spike's tent. The sour sister scent, a blend of other creatures’ blood, her own sweat, the girl, her youth, and her boyfriend, curled with her, also tasty, tender, sour and sweet. His mouth watered thinking about their muscles and blood and organs.
    He blinked, trying to steer his thoughts away. He glanced around his tent, found his pack, with its old games. It was hard to work the zippers with his new claws, but he taught himself. Should he leave the games behind? No. He could always toss them later. He snuck out of the tent, much more quietly than he'd been able to manage before, and ghosted through the camp, taking two of Spike's best knives, some smoked meat his mother had prepared (though it smelled rancid and greasy to him now), and one of his dad's firestarters. Would he need clothes? His fur wasn't very long, but he wasn't cold. It was spring. He didn't know who he was becoming or where he'd be by winter. He found a microfleece blanket and shoved it into his pack.
    He told himself to run before anyone else woke up, but he couldn't resist parting the tentflap and peering in at Spike and her boyfriend. They were both speckled with the musty-scented blood of their kills, and Spike's fingernails were caked with it. Spike and the boy smelled almost too old to Navin's new senses, not as succulent and inviting as younger kids would smell, yet better than anything else in camp. He stared down at his sister's hands that had hurt him so often, and thought how incapacitated she would be if he ate just one of them. He imagined the little bones crunching between his molars, and saliva dripped from his mouth.
    Spike stirred. Her eyes opened. She stared straight at him.
    She was unarmed, tangled with her boyfriend, naked, and she smelled tastier than anything else within a mile. He took an involuntary step toward her.
    Her hand darted out, came up with a gun. Of course, she wouldn't sleep without a weapon near, especially while she was on a hunt. “Navin?” she said. Her idiot boyfriend finally woke at the word and turned to stare up at him.
    Navin licked his lips—his new tongue was longer than the old one, and seemed able to work around his new teeth without cutting itself—and stared at his sister. Bite her, let her shoot him, what?
    Not let her shoot him. He'd sat still for too much of that.
    His stomach growled. She'd shoot him if he went for her. Anyway, he didn't want to be what she was, a hunter. Did he?
    Claws, sharp teeth, drooling at the thought of fresh meat. He didn't really have much choice. He turned away from Spike and dropped the tent flap, and then, before she could rise, he ran into the forest, his feet quiet, his breathing smooth. He could see well enough to avoid branches, traps, the snares of those who hunted with their own body parts and those who had come here from the city. He climbed a loquat tree, displacing a hive of hornet fairies and three nests of meat-eating crows, and made a place for himself as high up as there were branches to hold him.
    From here he could see stars. Even if we can't eat Spike, he thought, we'll be able to find enough to eat, won't we?
    One of his hands darted