“Wait! Slow down!” I call out breathlessly to my strange guide as I struggle through the brush after him. I don’t know how far we’ve gone, but it feels like miles. Whatever I was dosed with may have worn off, but my body still feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. Someone weak and slow. It doesn’t help that I have no shoes, and I’m constantly struggling to keep the cloak my guide gave me tied around me, but it is better than being naked.I nearly topple backward when he doubles back and pops up beside me—he certainly isn’t slow. “Have you seen others like me come from the mountain? Werewolves I mean? Two boys and a girl?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the creeping realization that I’ve now followed a fae creature deep into their wood. I’ve followed the enemy.He answers without hesitation—with an elvish stream of gibberish. I can’t understand him. His tone seems friendly at least. The confused look on my face as I try to puzzle out what he means must be clear because
The cold collision of my skin against rock jars me back into consciousness as the council guards walk away from me, leaving me in the mud with nothing but the echoes of their laughter. I knew this could happen. I just never believed it would.I push up out of the muck, trying to get a sense of where they’ve dumped me. Even that’s a struggle. I’ve never felt so weak, even when I was transitioning. Death hurt less than this. It’s as if a piece of every cell in my body has been violently ripped from me. It’s so quiet, startlingly alone, after feeling so many connections for so long.It’s no wonder there are so few rogue alphas. The few that survive the pack bonds breaking likely end things themselves just to escape the isolation. That won’t be me. I’m stronger than this. I can come back from this.The terrain is rocky here, and there’s a chill on the breeze, but no sounds of civilization. I’m not near a town. Mountain peaks peek over the trees around me. The road the guards brought me he
Showered and in dry, clean clothes I feel much more like myself, albeit a far weaker version of myself. How long will it take to regain my strength I wonder? If I regain it. You certainly don’t hear tales of great rogue alphas in our histories. Is that because there are none, or because rogues don’t write history books? Time will tell.I eye the bed in the corner of the room. It’s strange to feel tired. Sleep has always been more of an optional pleasure for me than a necessity, but right about now, I feel as if I could sleep for a century. That would be one way to pass the time.Making my way over to the bed, I collapse really more than lie down, relieved to be off my feet, but just as I settle in and close my eyes, the door opens. Becca leans against the door frame with her hip. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me with her head cocked to the side. I sit up.“What?” I ask, trying not to let my annoyance show. I am her guest after all.“Just debating joining you in bed
“You can stay in my room!” Anna chirps as we come to a stop in front of a neon pink door. She swings it open to reveal an equally pink room. “I decorated it myself! It was one of the first spells Laumae taught me. She says I have an artist’s heart,” she continues proudly.“My room is next door, and Thomas is across the hall. There’s an empty room next to his for you. I wouldn’t stay in here if I were you. It looks like a pink elephant puked up Pepto,” Eric adds laughing. Anna gives him a death glare. “It does not! You’re just jealous you couldn’t figure out how to change your room!”He goes quiet and kicks a stuffed animal at his feet. Anna continues to show me all her treasures and triumphs oblivious to the nerve she’s struck in her brother. He continues to sulk for a bit before Anna mentions the training grounds, and he perks back up, tales of his newfound prowess with the bow and arrow pouring out of him.I soak up every word they say. Every expression they make. The way the light
I close my eyes. Let the sun fade my field of vision to a warm, red glow. Feel the heat on my skin. It's a perfect day. Not too warm, not too cold. The birds are singing a song of spring. A gentle breeze wafts campfire smoke, pollen kisses, and promises of tomorrow my way while the swaying of the trees lulls me into a sense of calm. If I focus on it, it almost drowns out the crowd's cheers and taunts, excited for my hanging. It's a perfect day to die. "Amalea Ann Whitehouse, you stand here before the eyes of your alpha and pack condemned to hang on the charges of treason, murder, and arson. Would you like to speak your peace?" The jailer drones on. There are a lot of things I'd like to say to these bastards, but they don't deserve it. They're not worth it. "I am at peace." That's all they get. I open my eyes. Look at the town I once called home. The pack I once called family. The man I thought I might have loved. How did I get here? Standing on the edge of a platform in rags, covere
"Anna, the garden is not going to weed itself." Ah, my sweet girl. She's sitting on the porch braiding a dandelion chain, shirking her chores as usual. My mate and I, we always wanted a girl, and third time's the charm. I wish he'd gotten to see her. At all of 8 years old, she's everything we'd hope she'd be. Smart and sweet, but also stubborn and strong. All red golden curls, just like me, but with more dimples. She's sunshine in a werewolf body. Sometimes I wonder if there's not a wee bit of fae in there somewhere. "Momma, momma, look what I made you." She skips over to me, looping her finished creation around my neck. I hug her tight, tickling her sides. "I love it! Now see to the garden. We're housing warriors tonight." "Again!" She pouts momentarily before some likely mischievous thought seems to occur to her, and off she goes. I'd bet a week's chores she's about to con her older brothers into helping, or more likely, doing her job, but no matter, there's much to do. Always is
As the front rig comes to a full stop, the man driving hops out, slamming his door as he does. He's every bit of the average warrior. Tall, muscular, with dark hair and eyes—nothing stand-out. Nothing that would make you look twice at him, at least if you're a werewolf, but his aura is imposing enough that it's obvious this is the gamma, and you can tell he's proud of that. He stands stark straight, perfect posture, head held high. None of the packs use uniforms so as not to draw the attention of humans, but you can tell he imposes one of sorts anyway. I watch as his men begin to file out of the increasing number of vehicles arriving. They are all dressed similarly. Dark slacks, black shoes shined to perfection, plain dark t-shirts. The only difference is in the shirt color and the slight variance of their facial features, and more just keep coming. I try to appraise my new guests. We've housed warriors from nearly every pack now, but never Blood Moon. Their pack is reclusive. Member
Dinner was served by 9 as requested and went smoothly. The Blood Moon warriors were strictly regulated indeed. Like clockwork men, they marched to the mechanisms of their routine, which I learned was dinner at 9, practice from 10 to 12, cleanup, drinks, then it was lights out. They barely spoke to one another, let alone me or my children, not even a thank you for the lodging or food. They've been here half a day, and the gamma is the only one I've spoken more than three words to. It's unnatural. We're pack animals, after all. There seems to be no comradery, no warmth in their ranks. Even over the drinks—which they brought—there was no idle chitchat between them, stories, or songs. They just recited oaths to their alpha, who isn't even here. It's just another ritual, a mark in their routine. This is no normal camp. 1:05 AM, and I find myself in bed listening to nothing but eerie silence, trying to process this situation. I can't just let them leave with the girls, can I? I'm not stupi