You were raised by your mother, in her pack. Those memories are vivid to you, and bright — some happy, others confusing, a few even sad — but all of them clear.
When they died everything became dark, echoing, and fuzzy.
The moon called to you every night, sometimes with a whisper, and sometimes with a deafening scream.
But you held onto yourself. You found another pack, small, poor, but willing to take you in. You've been with them for just over a year now. Things are starting to feel normal again. You can think again, and reflect.
Those months of isolation took a lot from you, but they also taught you the most important thing about being a werewolf...
Though sometimes you wonder if that's what you truly believe... or just what you tell yourself to justify your actions.
[b]Chapter One[/b]
It's night.
It's the kind of night Edgar Allan Poe would enjoy, aka spooky as hell. Not to mention fucking cold.
You're standing on the side of the road under the eaves of an all-hours coffee shop, wearing a cheap coat that's doing absolutely nothing against the biting chill. Around you, the city is sleeping.
Or as much as a city this size ever sleeps. There are lights on in the nearby apartment building, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear a siren. But there are no people on the streets. No scent in the wind. No—
"Octopuses."
Next