Second Moon

Chapter 1: Dust and Shadows The room was quiet, save for the slow, steady drip from the bathroom tap that had been leaking for years now. Sandy lay still beneath the tattered covers of her narrow bed, her eyes fixed on the worn-out ceiling above her. Faint cracks split across it like veins, jagged and neglected—just like everything else in this house that had anything to do with her. Dawn filtered weakly through her faded curtains, casting grey light over the small, cluttered space. She hated mornings. Not because she was lazy or tired. She was always awake before the alarm anyway. But because every morning reminded her of who she was—and worse, who she wasn’t. She wasn’t a daughter anyone loved. She wasn’t a sister anyone was proud of. And she definitely wasn’t a wolf anyone respected. Sandy Myles had never shifted. She was sixteen, almost seventeen, and unlike the rest of her packmates who had shifted by fourteen or fifteen—some even younger—she remained painfully human. Unchanged. Weak. A disappointment. And no one in the Crescent Ash Pack ever let her forget it. She sat up with a sigh, rubbing her hands over her face before swinging her legs off the bed. The floor was cold beneath her feet, and she winced as she stepped onto it, not because of the chill, but because her big toe hit the edge of a cracked tile. She limped her way to the bathroom, the cold leaking through the thin walls. The mirror above the sink was spotted and chipped in the corners. She leaned forward and stared at her reflection. Her dirty blonde curls framed a narrow face with stormy grey eyes—eyes that once sparkled with curiosity and wonder, now dulled with exhaustion and sadness. There were faint shadows under them—she’d cried again last night, like she did most nights. She brushed her teeth in silence, avoiding eye contact with herself. She didn’t want to see the girl who lived in this room, who wore hand-me-downs and carried invisible scars. Downstairs, voices echoed from the kitchen. “Darren, sweetie, your protein shake is on the counter,” her mother’s voice rang with warmth and pride, a tone Sandy hadn’t heard directed at her in years. She trudged downstairs quietly, adjusting her too-big hoodie—one Darren had outgrown years ago. The kitchen smelled like bacon, toast, and coffee. Her stomach growled, but she knew better. There was always plenty for Darren. Rarely for her. Dr. Adeline Myles, her mother, stood pristine in a white coat, her dark hair pinned up, her posture perfect. She was the pack’s top surgeon and revered by every wolf in Crescent Ash. Her father, Marcus Myles, sat at the table with a clipboard in one hand and a protein bar in the other. Tall, broad-shouldered, and silent, he was also the Beta of the Crescent Ash Pack and second-in-command to Alpha Gideon. Then there was Darren. Golden boy. Future enforcer. Crescent Ash’s pride. At nineteen, he had already shifted into a massive russet wolf, was a top warrior trainee, and had girls fighting for his attention. He was built like a tank and walked like he ruled the earth. He smirked when he saw Sandy. “Still not shifted? Damn, sis, even the Moon Goddess must’ve skipped you.” Sandy lowered her gaze. “Morning,” she mumbled. Her father glanced at her. “Didn’t expect you to be up. You usually drag yourself out of bed when the day’s half gone.” “I was up early,” she said, but it came out small, defensive. Her mother barely looked at her. “There’s cereal on the counter. If there’s milk left.” There wasn’t. Darren slurped down his smoothie dramatically. “I heard Zayne’s planning something big this weekend. Hope you’re ready to be the entertainment again, Sandy.” Her stomach twisted. Zayne Carter—the Alpha’s son and her personal tormentor. He’d been bullying her since they were kids. He and his squad made every school day hell, and he never missed an opportunity to humiliate her. Adeline sighed. “We’ve had this conversation, Sandy. The rest of the pack is starting to ask questions. It’s embarrassing. You’re nearly seventeen and still nothing. No shift. No strength. Not even a scent mark.” Marcus set his clipboard down. “You’ve got one more year of school. After that, you’ll need to figure something out. We can’t carry dead weight.” Her throat closed. “I—I want to study medicine. Like you. I’ve already read through—” “We don’t have time for your fantasies,” Adeline snapped. “You think patients want to be treated by someone who can’t even shift? You’d be a liability.” The words hit her harder than any slap could have. Her mother had said a lot of hurtful things over the years, but this cut deep. Medicine was the one thing that gave her a sense of purpose. The only thing she felt she was good at. She studied late into the night, aced every biology test, and read their old journals in secret. But none of that mattered. They only saw what she wasn’t. Sandy grabbed her worn backpack and left the kitchen without another word. Her breakfast—if you could call it that—would be an energy bar she kept hidden in her drawer. She walked to school in silence, the frost crunching beneath her sneakers. She didn’t mind the cold. Sometimes, it numbed everything else. At Harding High, the other Crescent Ash teens milled about the school yard. Laughter, howls, and scent-marked couples filled the air. She kept to the side, trying to stay invisible. “Hey, Sandy!” a voice called out. She tensed. It was Zayne. He strolled toward her with his usual smirk. Tall, broad-shouldered, and disgustingly handsome, Zayne Carter was Alpha Gideon’s son and walked like the world belonged to him. He was surrounded by his loyal squad—Talia, Mason, and Jax—all dressed in designer clothes and smirking like they’d already decided how today would go. “I heard the Moon Goddess called. Said she lost her mistake,” Zayne jeered. Laughter exploded from his group. Talia added, “Maybe she’s just human. That’d explain the hair.” “Or the scent,” Mason chimed in. “She smells like wet laundry.” Sandy clenched her fists. She kept walking. If she ran, they’d follow. If she snapped, they’d mock her. Zayne stepped in front of her. “Still dreaming of being a healer? Who’s gonna trust a failed wolf with a scalpel?” The words sliced through her. She kept her eyes low. “Move.” Zayne raised an eyebrow. “Feisty. Careful, Half-Wolf. Keep that up, and you might actually impress someone.” He finally moved aside with a mocking bow. She passed them without looking back. In class, she sat in the back corner like always. She didn’t have friends. No one talked to her unless they were mocking her. Still, she listened attentively, took notes, and absorbed every word. It was the only place she felt alive. The topic today: advanced healing abilities in wolves. Miss Durnsley called on her. “Sandy, could you tell us which gland regulates healing in a werewolf’s system?” “The lunar adrenal,” Sandy replied without hesitation. “It releases a regenerative compound during moon cycles.” Miss Durnsley smiled. “Excellent. That’s correct.” For a moment, Sandy felt warmth. A flicker of pride. It never lasted long. A crumpled paper hit the back of her head. “Know-it-all mutt,” it read. At lunch, she ate alone behind the science wing. Her only companions were pigeons and cold wind. She chewed in silence, staring at the clouds. She remembered being a little girl, sitting on the floor of her parents’ office, flipping through anatomy books. Her mother used to stroke her hair then, used to smile when Sandy asked questions. What changed? Was it the failure to shift? The realization that she’d never be a strong wolf? Or had they always loved Darren more, and she’d just been too young to notice? After school, she headed to her part-time job at the Crescent Brew Café, a cozy little spot tucked beside the general store near the pack square. It was owned by an older mated couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lowell. Mr. Lowell was human and made the best hazelnut cappuccino in town. Mrs. Lowell was a soft-spoken she-wolf who always treated Sandy with quiet kindness. They knew she didn’t have much support at home, so when she asked for a job, they gave it to her without hesitation. “Even if your parents help you with college, Sandy,” Mrs. Lowell had said with a knowing smile, “it’s always good to have something of your own.” They paid her fairly, let her study during slow hours, and even saved a drawer in the back office for her books and snacks. In many ways, they were the only adults who treated her like she mattered. After her shift, she returned home to silence. Darren was out. Her parents were working a late shift. Her room greeted her like a broken promise. She threw her bag onto the sagging bed and sat down at her desk, flipping open her textbook. She had a test in molecular biology next week. Her notes were impeccable. Her mind, despite the bullying and hurt, was razor sharp. She studied until the sun dipped below the trees and her room went dim. No one came to check on her. No one ever did. That night, she lay in bed, eyes open, staring out the window. The moon was full and silver, hanging low in the sky like it was watching her. She whispered into the dark, “Why me? Why did you make me this way?” No answer. Just the cold, just the quiet, just the ache in her chest. But in the far distance, deep within the night, something stirred. And a voice—soft, feminine, ancient—whispered on the wind: “Cry no more, my child. Good things are coming.” Sandy’s eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time in weeks, she dreamed.