Moonlight gouges silver wounds into the pine-needle carpet. Luna Blackwood claws at the earth, lips peeled back, every tendon in her neck rigid with the effort to swallow her own scream. In the space between two heartbeats, she is ripped apart and reassembled—muscle grinds over bone, ligaments snap, fingers fracture and extend like a grotesque origami. The pain is the only constant, outpacing even the lunar pull that promises release.
Her body refuses the mercy of completion. The shift stutters, catches, stalls; it is never the elegant, predatory blooming her Alpha demonstrates at every Pack gathering. Luna's own transformation is a back-alley surgery, imprecise and without anesthetic. Her canines push through gums but never quite meet at a true wolf's snout. The cartilage in her ears stretches taut, almost points, then sags defeated. Every nerve-ending is electric, every heartbeat an overload.
She doesn't black out—she never blacks out. Her mind, stubbornly, horrifically lucid, keeps a running tally of every molecular betrayal. Sensations come in waves: the stink of her own sweat, laced with something wild and faintly metallic; the crash of wind in the treetops, louder than the music at any human club; the twin heartbeats of a rabbit cowering meters away, its terror vibrating the air like a plucked string.
She scrabbles through the undergrowth, dragging half-shifted limbs behind her. The forest floor is a cold, indifferent stage. Her bare foot lands on a patch of lichen, toes splayed and lengthened, toenails darkening to keratin points. She tries to curl her foot in pain and marvels at the anatomical mutiny—her body's refusal to obey even that simple order.
A low growl escapes her throat, unbidden, involuntary. It frightens her. The noise is hers but not hers, an animal warning fused with human anguish. Her vision flickers; pupils bloom wide, soaking up the moonlight until every fern and mossy stone pulses with edges of ultraviolet. Every shadow has a secret. Every breeze carries an accusation.
She can't stay still. Not here, not like this. She presses forward, half-crawling, half-lurching through the pines. Her shoulder clips a branch; the bark sloughs away, leaving a raw wound that oozes sap. The scent of it—a sweet, sticky resin—overpowers the blood leaking down her own forearm. She tastes everything. She remembers everything.
And the memories start to flood.
She's six years old and racing her father through the switchback trails, feet thudding over the duff, lungs hot with effort. He pretends to let her win, but she sees the pride in his eyes when she beats him to the old willow stump. The air smells different that day—sunlit and clean, safe. She wants to freeze that memory, keep it preserved, but it's always contaminated by what comes later.
Thirteen. The night she finds the bodies. The air tastes of rot and fear, so much of it that the scent rewires her brain forever. She can never explain this to the therapists or the Integration counselors, never untangle the chemical signature of loss from the simple, perfect recall of a parent's embrace. Her tongue is made for both, and so is her heart.
Present: the here and now, the agony of not transforming and not remaining. Her mind slams against the glass of her own skull, seeking exit. She bites down, feels the skin give, the hot-copper bloom of blood on her tongue. This isn't her favorite way to get memories, but it's better than the alternative.
Time passes in micro-epochs. A cloud slides over the moon and the pain ebbs just enough for her to roll onto her side. She watches her breath plume in the chill air, the condensation mixing with a thin thread of blood leaking from her mouth. Her fingers twitch—still too long, not quite right. She flexes them experimentally, wonders if they will ever return to normal, if the next shift will be the one that finally completes her.
When the cloud passes and moonlight slashes the clearing anew, the worst of it is over. The change recedes—not a return to baseline, but a sick compromise. Her joints throb, her spine curves in unfamiliar ways, and her hearing is tuned to an impossible frequency. But she is herself, or close enough to fake it for another day.
Luna lies on her back, feeling the world rotate above her. The stars are sharp as shattered bone. The night is losing its grip, the air softening with the promise of morning.
The forest begins to thaw.
First, the birds. One by one, cautious at first, then all at once as the moon dips and the eastern sky hemorrhages pale light. Robins, finches, even the crows—each call slices into the quiet, a symphony of territory and desire. Luna's ears can pick out every wingbeat, every territorial squabble. The sounds are so vivid she wants to weep.
Then the underbrush stirs. A chipmunk, its heart still thudding from her earlier outburst, emerges near a fallen log. It freezes when it spots her, nose twitching, then dashes for cover with a desperate, hopeful energy. She envies its binary existence: predator or prey, fight or flight, nothing in between.
A damp wind kicks up, carrying the smell of dew, moss, and new green shoots. The stink of her own blood is fading, replaced by the living breath of the forest. Luna tries to savor it, but her mouth is raw, tongue bitten through, and she can still taste the iron edge of her own weakness.
She pushes herself upright, every movement a negotiation with pain. The pine needles cling to her skin, some embedded deep enough to bleed. She rakes her hair back—half expecting it to come away in clumps, but it holds. Her hands shake as she presses them to her knees. It takes three tries to stand.
She does, eventually. She always does.
The sun is threatening to rise. If she waits any longer, someone might find her—Pack, human, or worse, the Integration patrols. The idea of being discovered like this, a freakish artifact of both worlds and neither, is more terrifying than any memory she's ever tasted.
She staggers toward the edge of the clearing, limbs half-numb but functional. The world is crystalline now: every tree trunk, every needle, every grain of soil rendered in obscene clarity. She files it all away in her mind, categorizing the scents and shapes for later retrieval.
She's alive. It's not enough, but it will have to do.
By the time she limps into the shadow of the pines, the forest is fully awake. The night creatures have retreated. The birds are at war, the mammals busy with their hunger and their routines. Only Luna remains out of place, the leftover dream of a moon that has already moved on.
The taste of her own blood never lingers; it's the hunger for something else that gnaws at Luna as she stumbles through the understory. She follows the residual footprints—her own, gouged deep by spasms—and senses the living pulse of another werewolf long before she sees him. Not pack patrol. Not a threat.
Theo waits at the treeline, perched on a toppled cedar. He looks like he hasn't moved in hours, eyes unfocused, hands folded in his lap. Luna recognizes the stillness: it's the kind that comes only from surviving a hundred full moons, from outlasting pain with sheer patience. His jacket is zipped up to the throat, but the sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms marbled with old bite scars and newer, faintly pink punctures. It's a map of his loyalty, or his resignation.
She approaches. The world around them is sharp with post-moon clarity. Every flake of moss, every fragment of bark is rendered in high definition. She doesn't need to speak—Theo already knows what she needs. He never flinches from it.
He slides from the log and stands, taller than she remembers but always careful not to loom. He watches her with a professional neutrality, equal parts medic and mourner.
"You made it through." he says. It isn't a question.
She nods. The hunger scrapes at her throat, more memory than appetite.
Theo extends his right arm. No hesitation. The wrist is offered as plainly as a handshake. "Take what you need."
Luna glances at his eyes, searching for the telltale microexpressions: revulsion, pity, fear. She finds only calm, which makes her both grateful and furious.
She brings his wrist to her lips, careful. The transformation leaves her fangs halfway in, barely protruding, but she knows how to use them. She bites at the pulse, a precise incision, and warm blood wells up instantly. She drinks, slow, the metallic tang almost sweet after a night of agony.
The memory is immediate, unavoidable.
Sun. Fields. Child-Theo sprinting through waist-high rye, arms flung wide, mouth open in a laugh that echoes across a mile of grass. There is no moon in this memory, only the pure, feral joy of running without fear. His mother calls from a distance, her voice a song. He ignores it, running until his lungs burn, drunk on freedom and alive in every cell.
It's gone almost as soon as it comes. The afterimage floats in Luna's mind, soothing and bitter all at once. She takes another swallow, but the next memory is fainter—painful, best left buried. She draws back, tongue pressed tight to her hard palate, and licks the wound closed with the clotting enzymes her kind evolved for this exact transaction.
Theo wipes his arm on the hem of his jacket, then hands her a small, folded square of paper towel. It's a practiced ritual; he always brings some, so she doesn't have to wear her shame home on her mouth.
She dabs her lips, swallows thickly. "Thank you."
He shrugs, rebuttoning his sleeve. "If you need more—"
"I don't." she interrupts, sharper than she means. Her nerves are still close to the surface. "That's enough."
He studies her, searching for cracks she hasn't patched yet. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"
Luna looks past him, up through the skeletal trees. The moon is retreating, the sky bruised purple and gold. "It never gets better."
Theo steps closer, just enough to lower his voice. "The Council wants to test you again. Integration sent new protocols. They think they can reverse the block if—"
"I'm not a lab rat." She feels the growl under her words, barely contained. "I'll manage."
Theo sighs. There's an old wound in that sound, one she recognizes. "We're not going to let them hurt you. You know that, right?"
Luna folds the paper towel, tucks it into her jacket. She can't look him in the face. "They already have."
A robin shrieks nearby, startled by nothing. Theo glances toward the sound, then back at her. "You should get home. You've got school in, what, two hours?"
She can't help a tiny smile at that. "I'll pretend to be awake."
"You'll pretend better if you take the long way back." he says, nodding toward the river. "There's a patrol near the main trail."
"Thanks for the warning." She moves to go, then pauses. "Theo?"
"Yeah?"
She wants to tell him what she saw—him as a child, unburdened, perfect. Instead she says, "It doesn't hurt. When you let me. It's the only time it doesn't."
He nods, accepting the gift of her honesty as if it were nothing. "Then I'll always let you."
The moment holds, charged and awkward, before Luna turns away. She feels the borrowed memory humming in her bloodstream, a ballast against the cold and the loneliness. Her own feet carry her down the slope, across the river, and out of Theo's sightline.
At the crest of the next ridge, she risks a glance back. Theo is still there, one hand covering the spot where her teeth met his skin. He doesn't wave. He doesn't have to.
She licks the last of the blood from her teeth and keeps moving, grateful and mortified in equal measure.
The cabin stands at the threshold between wilderness and civilization, ringed with rusted barbed wire and a polite sign that says PRIVATE in three languages. Its front porch sags, more from years of snow than neglect, and Luna likes it that way. The further she can get from the main Pack House, the easier it is to pretend she has no legacy to live up to. That she can be a node, not a link in some broken chain.
Inside, the air is stale with the residue of old incense and burnt coffee. She toes off her shoes and slides the deadbolt on the door—an ancient, superstitious habit. The first order of business is the shower: she sheds her shredded clothes, drops them in the sink, and steps under a spray so hot it blisters her skin. The burn is preferable to the ache that sets in once the moon lets go; it distracts, drowns, even if just for five minutes.
She scrubs with the bar soap until the water at her feet runs red, then pink, then clear. The scabbed gash on her tongue throbs with each swallow. She could heal it in minutes by biting someone else, but she can't afford the indulgence. Not today.
After the shower, she wraps herself in a towel and surveys the battlefield of her living room. The couch is a hand-me-down, its cushions patched with duct tape and old T-shirts. The TV is a relic, screen stuck on permanent grayscale, and she hasn't plugged it in for months. On the far wall, a shelf holds three framed photos, all turned face-down. Next to the shelf is a lockbox, battered and cheap, with a sticky note that says DO NOT OPEN under any circumstances.
She hasn't opened it in years.
She gets dressed: black jeans, band tee, zip-up hoodie with thumb holes. The clothes hang a little loose, like she's borrowed someone else's skin. She pulls her hair back tight, scraping every last strand into a severe ponytail. Anything to hide the way her ears still try to push out, even after the change recedes.
In the kitchen, she chokes down a packet of protein shake and two aspirin. Her phone buzzes, vibrating across the counter in fits and starts. She ignores the texts—probably Pack business, or Integration reminders—and focuses on the only ritual that matters: erasing the evidence.
She bundles the soiled clothes, the paper towel from Theo, and her own bloodied bandages into a garbage bag. Double knots it. Sets it by the door. Then, armed with a sharpie, she scribbles "PAINT RAGS" on the outside. Janitorial staff won't look twice.
When the house is clean and her heartbeat has returned to something human, Luna opens the heavy curtains just enough to check the sky. Dawn has smothered the last of the stars, but the moon's afterimage lingers, a bruised coin above the treeline. She draws the curtains tight again, makes a mental note to buy blackout liners. Or better yet, board the windows.
She shoulders her backpack, checks the contents out of muscle memory: textbooks, folders, a fountain pen with a silver nib, a tiny black notebook for field notes. A single memory vial, unmarked, in a shockproof case. She doesn't remember packing it, but she's not surprised. Some habits are hardwired.
As she moves toward the door, her foot brushes the corner of the coffee table. There's a drawer she keeps there, locked but easy to jimmy open. For a minute, she stands frozen, staring at it. Then, against all sense, she kneels down and slides the key from its hiding spot in the vent.
The drawer sticks, swollen from humidity. She yanks it open and there they are: a half-dozen newspaper clippings, yellowed and curling, each with her parents' names in the headline. BLACKWOOD TRAGEDY: HIKING ACCIDENT CLAIMS TWO. The words are as sharp as the day she first read them. Underneath the clippings, a plastic baggie with two hospital bracelets. Mother's, father's, each labeled with the date of death.
Her fingers hover over the top clipping, nails white from pressure. She wants to tear it up, wants to burn it, but she can't. The memory is not in the paper; it's in her blood.
She blinks, and the living room is gone. She is thirteen, standing at the edge of the creek, the air rotten-sweet and thick with flies. The bodies are hidden under a blue tarp, but she can see her mother's hand sticking out, wedding band glinting in the morning sun. The sheriff tries to keep her back, but she's already catalogued everything: the position of the bodies, the angles, the way the blood dried black on the stones. She tastes every detail, can summon it at will, but never on purpose.
The flashback fades, abrupt as a seizure. Luna slams the drawer shut and locks it, double-checks the seal. She's sweating, breath coming in short huffs. She wipes her face with her sleeve and stands, refusing to let the memory chase her out the door.
As she steps onto the porch, the morning stings her eyes. The Pack's cars are gone, already off to patrol the boundaries or sniff out Integration spies. The only movement is a deer in the yard, picking at frostbitten weeds. It looks up, ears alert, and Luna meets its gaze. For a second, she envies its simplicity.
She starts down the gravel drive, muscles sore but compliant. Her mind is already reciting the day's schedule, partitioning her grief into manageable silos. She has forty-eight minutes to make it to Pinewood High, fifteen to blend in, and an entire lifetime to forget everything else.
She squares her shoulders and walks faster.
Pinewood High is a monument to compromise, its hallways split by invisible barricades more effective than any wall. The building's architecture—once a 1970s maze of cinderblock and linoleum—has been retrofitted for "integration." But the student body knows better. Wolves cluster in the dim alcoves and the corners nearest the doors, where they can watch for an ambush or an opportunity. Humans occupy the sunlit corridors, peacock-bright under the fluorescents, their laughter buoyant and calculated. The boundary is clear and unspoken. Luna traces it with every step.
Her entrance is low-key by design. She waits for the first bell to scatter the crowds, then blends into the late arrivals. Her backpack weighs nothing, but every glance and sniff in her direction is a fresh load to carry. She ignores it. She's had practice.
First period is Chemistry, down in the sublevel where the HVAC fails half the year and the damp settles in her bones. Luna slips into her seat at the far left, nearest the emergency exit. Mr. Samson, the teacher, is already at the board, drawing molecular diagrams that sprawl like constellations. He smells like antiseptic and stress. When the door opens and three more wolves shuffle in, his heart rate ratchets up, a double thump-thump-thump that Luna can hear from twenty feet away. He doesn't look at her, not directly, but his body language reads defensive: closed stance, hands gripping the desk, feet angled toward the hallway.
Behind Luna, someone mutters, "Shouldn't they be in Special Ed?" The words are soft, but meant to be caught. She glances back—two humans in letter jackets, one already twisting a lanyard around his fingers like a garrote. She knows the faces, knows their parents' political yard signs and their history of never getting disciplined for shit like this.
She ignores it. Or tries to.
As Samson launches into the day's lecture, Luna scans the room for new threats. The girl to her right is scribbling in a planner, oblivious to the low-grade hostilities. The twins in the next row are wolves from a different pack, rumored to have ties to the Erasers, but their posture is all boredom and lazy confidence. Luna catalogues their scents, their tells, her mind mapping the social dynamics like a military grid.
When Samson calls on her to answer a question about valence electrons, she rattles off the correct response, not bothering to hide her disdain. The teacher nods, relieved she's not a problem today. She wonders if he keeps a chart in the teacher's lounge: "Days Without Incident." If so, her name is probably in bold.
The next period is Gym, a mandated "Coexistence Curriculum" where humans and wolves are forced into team-building exercises. The locker rooms are a nightmare, the odor of sweat and insecurity thick enough to choke. Luna changes fast, eyes on the floor, ignoring the whispered "she's not even a real wolf" and the way the other girls edge away from her like she's contagious.
The gymnasium is worse: echoing, overbright, and monitored by cameras newly mounted at every exit. The principal claims it's for "everyone's safety." Luna knows better. The lenses are all pointed at the corners where the wolves loiter, blinking red every time one of them so much as raises a voice.
Halfway through dodgeball, she takes a rubber ball to the face. The human who threw it laughs, a sharp burst of sound that's half relief, half cruelty. Luna tastes blood, but only a little. She wipes her nose on her sleeve and throws the next ball hard enough to leave a welt.
Third period is English. The teacher, Ms. Hale, is the rare adult who treats wolves and humans the same: with total apathy. Luna likes her for that, even as she resents the way Ms. Hale can look right through her. Today, the class is reading about unreliable narrators—how memory can be a weapon, how the truth is always up for grabs. The irony isn't lost on Luna. She wonders if the Integration Council picked this curriculum on purpose, or if it's just a happy accident.
As the hour drags, Luna studies the classroom: the security camera hidden in the clock, the new metal detector at the door, the way the ceiling tiles don't quite line up where the wiring was recently replaced. She notes it all, files it away. There's comfort in data, in patterns. Even if you can't trust your own mind, you can trust your senses.
Passing period brings the worst of it. The halls fill with the stink of cologne and cafeteria food, a hundred conversations layered on top of each other like noise pollution. Luna keeps her head down, but her ears catch every slur, every dog-whistle joke. "Mongrel." "Mutant." "Defective."
It's worse from the wolves. "She's broken." someone sneers as she slips past the auditorium doors. "Not even worth biting." A packmate—she recognizes the voice—says it softly, but with venom. The word stings more than any human insult. Luna pretends not to hear. She's a professional at that.
At lunch, she sits alone at a table near the exit. She doesn't eat—doesn't trust the cafeteria not to dose her food with silver, or worse. Instead, she works through her field notes, mapping out the social landscape of the day. There are new alliances forming, old feuds resurfacing. The football team has started wearing matching silver chains, a not-so-subtle threat. The wolf twins are running some kind of racket with memory vials, though they're careful to make the exchanges look like casual handshakes.
She sketches it all out in her notebook, mind racing ahead to the next conflict. It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you.
At the end of lunch, Luna catches sight of the football player from Chemistry—tall, mean, eyes like river stones. He's leaning against the wall, hand curled around a silver pendant. When she walks past, he squeezes it, just hard enough for her to smell the faint burn on his skin.
"Careful!" she says, not breaking stride. "Silver's addictive."
He scowls, startled that she'd speak. "Better than rabies."
She almost laughs. "If I bite you, you'll beg for more."
The other humans at his table go quiet, but their eyes are all on her. Judging, weighing, waiting for the moment she snaps.
Luna keeps moving, shoulders set. It's just another day. Another set of boundaries to walk. By the time last bell rings, her hands are steady and her mind is clear. She's survived worse.
In the crowded hallway, she stops to look at her reflection in a trophy case. The glass throws her face back at her: too sharp, too pale, a trace of fang where her canine never quite retracted. She bares her teeth, just for a second. Then she smooths her hair, adjusts her backpack, and walks on.
The world is split, and she's the only one willing to stand at the fault line.