The mountain roads always felt lonelier after midnight, but that night the silence pressed down heavier than usual, as though the forest itself had drawn a breath and was waiting, listening. My old sedan hummed along the narrow stretch of asphalt, its headlights spilling pale light across slick pavement still wet from an evening storm. The trees crowded close, black pines and skeletal oaks leaning inward as though they meant to close the road off entirely. Fog curled low over the ground, disturbed only when the car cut through it, and the wipers squeaked across the glass in a monotonous rhythm that threatened to lull me into half-sleep.
I shouldn't have been driving at this hour, not with my body worn down to aching bone and my eyelids heavy enough to sting. The clock on the dash glowed 12:03 a.m., cold green against the dark. A groan slipped from my throat. Midnight had come and gone, and I was still far from home. If I'd left the clinic earlier, if I'd let someone else finish the paperwork, if I'd ignored the look in old Mrs. Kerrigan's eyes when she asked me to stay with her sick shepherd—if, if, if. I always had excuses for pushing myself past the point of exhaustion. Compassion didn't care for schedules, and it wasn't in me to walk away from someone who needed help, not when they were desperate, not when they were hurting.
The trouble was, compassion didn't refill the gas tank, either. The needle hovered precariously close to empty, and the next station was still fifteen miles out. I pressed the accelerator with cautious precision, coaxing speed without waste. I knew this road, though—every bend and curve etched into my memory. It cut through the mountains like a scar, twisting in on itself, lined with cracked guardrails and steep drop-offs that had claimed more than one reckless driver. It was the fastest way home, but also the most dangerous, especially at night.
I rolled down the window a crack, letting the night air rush in. It carried the sharp scent of pine needles, wet moss, and the faint sweetness of decaying leaves. The wind stung my cheeks awake, but beneath the familiar forest scents was something sharper, metallic, like iron. I wrinkled my nose. Maybe the storm had shaken loose the scent of rusted metal, or maybe it was the tang of my own fatigue, the taste of blood I sometimes imagined when I was too tired to think straight. I shook it off and drummed my fingers against the wheel in time with the wipers.
The further I climbed, the narrower the road became. The trees seemed to lean even closer, their branches skeletal in the beams of my headlights. The fog thickened until it resembled smoke, and I flicked the high beams on for clarity. The result was blinding white, like staring into the heart of a cloud, and I swore under my breath as I dropped them back to low. The darkness surged in around me once again, impenetrable, suffocating. My pulse picked up for no reason I could name, a primal rhythm thudding beneath my skin.
That was when I saw them.
At first, I thought it was just a reflection—two pinpricks of light at the far end of the road. The sort of glimmer you'd expect from a deer's eyes catching the beams. But these weren't golden. They weren't even the pale green of raccoons or the amber of foxes. They were silver. Silver, cold and unnatural, like coins glinting at the bottom of a deep well. They hung suspended in the mist, too still, too steady.
My hands tightened on the wheel. The tires hummed as I pressed the car forward, hoping the lights were only the trick of fatigue, some distortion of fog and reflection. But they grew larger. Closer. The shape that emerged around them was no deer. No fox. No animal I had ever seen outside of dreams or stories whispered at campfires.
A wolf.
The word clawed its way up from my subconscious, shocking in its certainty. But wolves didn't come this far south anymore, hadn't in decades. And none of them—none of them—could be this big. Its shoulders rose higher than the hood of my car. The muscles beneath its coat shifted like shadows come to life. Black fur gleamed wet in the drizzle, but it was the eyes that held me captive, luminous and fixed directly on me.
Instinct kicked in. I gasped and jerked the wheel.
The tires shrieked against wet asphalt. The sedan fishtailed, swinging wildly toward the guardrail. Metal screamed as the bumper clipped steel. My head snapped forward, colliding with the steering wheel. Stars exploded across my vision, blinding and sharp. The airbags burst open with a deafening pop, choking me in white fabric and chemical dust. My chest seized with pain as the seatbelt bit into me.
The world tilted. Spun. Came to rest in a silence so complete I wondered if I'd gone deaf.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. My arms felt pinned, my legs like lead. A warm trickle slid down my temple, sticky against my cheek. Blood. My throat filled with the metallic tang I'd imagined earlier.
Smoke hissed from the hood, acrid and bitter. The windshield was a shattered spiderweb, glass glittering like frost. Through the cracks, through the haze, I saw it again.
The wolf.
It hadn't moved. Or maybe it had, because now it stood closer, framed in the halo of moonlight that pierced the fog. Every detail was sharper. Its chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths, steaming in the cold. The size of it stole my air. No natural wolf was built like this, not even in stories. Its body radiated power, coiled and dangerous, every muscle honed for speed and violence. Yet it stood utterly still, those silver eyes pinned to me as though I were the only thing in the world worth noticing.
My breath caught. My fingers scrambled against the seatbelt buckle, slippery with blood. It wouldn't release. I yanked harder, panic clawing up my throat.
The wolf stepped forward.
Its paws made no sound. One, then another, the mist curling around its legs as if it parted the world with every stride. My heart thundered, syncing with its movements. Something inside me, something ancient and buried, thrummed in recognition, though my mind screamed denial.
"You're not real," I whispered, voice hoarse. The words broke apart, a prayer or a curse. "You can't be real."
The wolf tilted its massive head. The motion was eerily human, too deliberate, too curious. Its eyes caught the fractured light again, and the silver blazed brighter, so bright I thought it might burn through me. For one impossible heartbeat, I swore I saw something more than reflection—intention. Recognition. As though those eyes knew me.
The fog thickened, curling inward, swallowing the road, the trees, the car. My world narrowed to the pounding of my heart, the taste of blood, and those eyes.
Pain radiated from my chest where the seatbelt had caught me, sharp with every breath. My arms grew heavy, my strength ebbing fast. The buckle slipped from my grasp, and my hands fell useless to my sides.
The wolf lowered itself onto its haunches, closer now. Its presence filled every corner of my vision. My body trembled—not only with fear, but with something stranger, deeper. The air vibrated between us, charged like the moment before lightning splits the sky. My pulse stuttered.
The world tilted again. Darkness crept at the edges of my sight. The silver glow remained, unwavering.
And then I felt it.
Not a sound, not a voice carried through air, but something inside me. A thought that wasn't mine brushing against the edges of my mind, curling into me with a certainty that stole my breath.
Mine.
The word resonated through me like a bell tolling in a cavern, undeniable, final. My heart seized. The darkness surged.
The last thing I saw before unconsciousness swallowed me was the wolf's eyes, silver as moonlight on water, burning with a claim I didn't understand, couldn't fight, couldn't escape.
Then nothing.