Artemis

The woods are cold—the stars each a glimmering diadem lighting my way on the path with the dogs keeping my head angled, holding the bright orbs above in view. The night, the hunt, the stars and the moon are my lovers. A stag steps into my sightline, its wet nostrils glistening, and I recognize him in another guise; he’d preyed upon girls’ chastity. I bite down drawing blood, stand my ground, unsheath my bow, flex the nock to the string—the shaft spits and flies hitting its mark—the center of the spruce, its branches laden with icicles like tinsel. I see the pulsing artery of the stag’s neck as it bolts, and I slick the blood off my lips shuddering at the taste as I loosen the hounds.

The promise I’d made on Delos has been kept—tonight, only the pedophile must die.