The scent hit me first. Wet earth mixed with rust and something else—something wild that made my teeth ache. I crouched behind a stack of rotting pallets, my breath forming small clouds in the cold March air. Three in the morning was prime hunting time in Los Angeles. The city slept, but monsters didn't.
My target was thirty feet away, picking through garbage behind the old textile factory. Male, maybe mid-twenties, still had that freshly-turned look about him. Probably changed less than a month ago. The Council called them "rogues." I just called them work.
I twisted the silver locket around my wrist. It was an old habit that helped me focus. The metal was warm against my skin, warmer than it should be. My grandmother's locket always heated up before a hunt. Family heirloom, she'd said. More like family curse.
The rogue lifted his head. Even from this distance, I could see his eyes flash yellow. Poor bastard was probably starving. New wolves always were. They burned through energy like race cars burned through gas.
I pulled my silver-lined gloves tighter and checked my weapon. The gun looked normal enough—black metal, standard grip. But the bullets were special. Silver-core, blessed by Council priests, and expensive as hell. Each shot cost the city about three hundred dollars. Good thing I rarely missed.
The rogue moved toward the factory's back entrance. Perfect. I'd cornered him exactly where I wanted him.
I slipped from shadow to shadow, my boots silent on the broken concrete. Eight years of training had taught me how to move like smoke. The Council's instructors had been thorough. Brutal, but thorough.
The factory loomed above us, all broken windows and rust stains. During the day, homeless people camped here. At night, it belonged to things like my target. The air smelled like decay and old motor oil. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
I was ten feet away when he spun around.
His face was gaunt, desperate. Yellow eyes tracked my movements. He was faster than I'd expected, but speed meant nothing without experience. I'd hunted 127 rogues in eight years. This kid barely knew how to use his new claws.
"Easy," I said, keeping my voice level. "This doesn't have to be hard."
He snarled, showing teeth that were too sharp, too white. "Council bitch."
"Language," I said, raising my gun. "Your parents teach you to talk like that?"
That hit home. His face crumpled for just a second. New wolves always missed their families. The change destroyed everything they used to be. Sometimes I felt bad about what came next. Sometimes.
He lunged.
I put three rounds center mass before he'd moved five feet. The silver burned through him like acid through paper. He dropped hard, twitching once before going still. The whole thing took maybe ten seconds.
I walked over and checked his pulse. Nothing. Clean kill. The Council would be pleased.
That's when I heard the slow clap behind me.
"Very impressive." The voice was female, calm. Too calm for someone who'd just watched me kill a person.
I spun, gun raised, but I was already too late. Something hit me in the back—not hard enough to knock me down, but enough to make me stumble. A dart. I could feel the pinprick through my jacket.
"Tranquilizer," the voice said. "Don't worry. It's not lethal. Just makes things easier."
My vision started to blur around the edges. My gun felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. I tried to keep it steady, but my hands were shaking.
"Who are you?" I managed to say.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. Female, about my height, wearing all black. Her face was hidden behind a tactical mask, the kind Council special ops used. But something about her movement was familiar. The way she held her shoulders. The way she tilted her head when she spoke.
"You want to know who I am?" She moved closer. Close enough that I could see her eyes through the mask. They were amber. Just like mine. "I'm a little disappointed, Aria. I thought you'd figure it out by now."
My blood went cold. I hadn't told her my name. My real name wasn't in any Council files—they all called me Agent Seven. Only three people knew my birth name, and one of them was dead.
"How do you—" I started to say, but the tranquilizer was hitting hard now. My knees buckled.
"Sit down before you fall down," she said, almost gently. "We need to talk."
I tried to fight the drug, but it was like fighting quicksand. My vision tunneled. The gun slipped from my fingers and clattered on the concrete.
"You killed my pet rat when you were seven," she said conversationally. "Mr. Whiskers. You cried for three days afterward."
My blood turned to ice. Nobody knew about Mr. Whiskers. Not even the Council.
"Your first kiss was behind the gymnasium with Tommy Martinez. You were fourteen. He tasted like cherry soda and bad decisions."
"Stop," I whispered. My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
"You have a birthmark on your left hip that looks like a crescent moon. You've never shown it to anyone because you think it makes you look weak."
I was on my knees now, struggling to stay upright. The world was spinning like a broken carnival ride. But I could still see her standing over me, calm as death itself.
"The Council told you your parents died in a car accident when you were ten," she continued. "They lied. Your father murdered your mother because she was going to expose them. Then he wiped your memory and made you into his perfect little weapon."
"No." The word came out as barely a breath.
She knelt down beside me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. It was the same brand I wore. White tea and jasmine. My grandmother's favorite.
"I know this is hard to believe," she said. Her voice was softer now, almost sympathetic. "But you need to understand. Everything you think you know about your life is a lie."
I tried to grab her, to make her stop talking, but my arms wouldn't obey me. The tranquilizer had me completely now. I was drowning in my own body.
"The Council isn't protecting anyone," she said. "They're preparing for war. A war that will destroy everything. Every human, every werewolf, everyone you've ever cared about."
My vision was fading fast, but I could still see her reaching for her mask. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately. Like she wanted me to see this moment.
"In thirty-seven days, there's going to be a Blood Moon ritual," she said. "Unless we stop it, both our species die. All of them. Marcus, Dr. Elena, even that bastard Vincent. Everyone."
The mask came off.
I was looking at my own face.
Not similar. Not close. Exactly the same. Same amber eyes, same scar on my left eyebrow from when I was twelve, same stubborn chin that my grandmother used to pinch. But this version of me looked older. Harder. Like she'd seen hell and decided to move in.
"Hello, past me," she said, smiling with my mouth. "We need to talk."
The world went black.
End of Chapter 1