Blood Of The Pack

The Search

The black veins had reached his chest.

Max stood in front of the motel bathroom mirror, shirt off, staring at the dark lines spreading across his ribs like cracks in dry earth. The bite mark on his arm throbbed. The skin around it was hot.

Three days until the full moon. He could feel it—a pull in his chest, like a hook lodged behind his sternum.

He needed help. But who?

He splashed water on his face. The reflection stared back. Pale. Hollow. Not a monster yet. But close.

The Drowned Fox was quiet when he walked in.

Afternoon light slanted through the dirty windows. A few old men at the corner table, nursing beers. The bartender wiping the same glass he'd been wiping for three days.

Ella was at the counter, reading a book. She looked up when Max sat down.

"You look worse," she said.

"I feel worse."

She closed her book. Studied him. Not suspicious—something else. Concern, maybe. "You're not sleeping."

"Not really."

"Nightmares?"

Max hesitated. "Something like that."

Ella nodded slowly. She didn't push. That was one thing he liked about her. She asked questions but didn't dig. She let him leave things unsaid.

"My father used to say nightmares are just memories you haven't faced yet," she said.

"Your father sounds like a smart man."

"He thinks so." She almost smiled. Then her face grew serious. "You need to be careful, Max. OSLARD isn't like other cities. People come here looking for things. Answers. Revenge. Forgiveness. Most don't find what they're looking for."

"What about you? What are you looking for?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Nothing. I was born here. I'm just trying to survive."

Max believed her.

He drank his coffee. Black. Bitter. The veins on his arm itched under his sleeve. He kept his hand flat on the table so she wouldn't see it shake.

"Does your father still know people in the city?" Max asked. "People who might know things?"

Ella's eyes narrowed. "What kind of things?"

"Strange things. Things that don't have explanations."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she leaned closer. Her voice dropped.

"There's an old man. Harlow. Lives on the edge of town, near the woods. He used to be someone. Now he's a recluse. My father said he knows things—about the city, about what lives in the dark." She paused. "But he's dangerous, Max. And he won't help you for free."

"Where can I find him?"

"North end of Thorn Street. Last house before the trees. You can't miss it. It's the only one with a fence."

Max stood. Put cash on the counter. "Thanks, Ella."

She grabbed his wrist. Her grip was firm. "Be careful. Harlow doesn't like strangers. And he doesn't like questions."

"I'm used to that."

She let go. He walked out.

Thorn Street ended where the pavement cracked and the woods began.

The house was old. Wood siding, peeling paint, a fence made of rusted iron spikes. A sign on the gate: NO TRESPASSING. NO SOLICITING. NO QUESTIONS.

Max opened the gate. It squealed.

He knocked on the front door. No answer. Knocked again.

The door cracked open. A face appeared in the gap—old, weathered, eyes like chips of flint. A shotgun barrel followed, pointed at Max's chest.

"You lost, boy?"

"Are you Harlow?"

"Who's asking?"

"Someone who needs answers."

The old man studied him. His eyes moved to Max's arm—the sleeve covering the bite mark. Then back to Max's face. Something flickered.

"Come in. Keep your hands where I can see them."

The inside smelled like old paper, tobacco, and dust. Books stacked on every surface. Taxidermy animals on the walls—a fox, a crow, something that looked like a wolf but wasn't.

Harlow motioned to a chair. Max sat. The shotgun stayed pointed at the floor, but the old man's finger was on the trigger guard.

"You're not from here," Harlow said.

"No."

"You're not a hunter. Too soft."

"No."

"Then what are you? A runaway? A fool looking for trouble?"

Max pulled up his sleeve. Showed Harlow the bite mark. The black veins.

Harlow's face went pale. He stepped back. The shotgun came up again.

"Where did you get that?"

"It got me. In my hometown. Followed me here."

Harlow stared at the wound for a long moment. Then he lowered the g*n. Sat down heavily in a worn armchair.

"You're turning," he said. "You know that, right?"

"I figured."

"How long?"

"Three days until the full moon."

Harlow rubbed his face. "You need to leave OSLARD. Tonight. Get as far away as you can."

"Why?"

"Because the thing that bit you is here. I've seen it. Red eyes. Walks like a man but isn't one. It's been hunting this city for months. Killed people. Good people."

Max's heart raced. "What does it want?"

"I don't know. And you don't want to find out." Harlow leaned forward. His voice dropped. "That mark on your arm—it's a leash. The thing that bit you can feel you. It knows you're here. If you stay, it will come for you."

"Then I'll kill it."

Harlow laughed. Bitter. "You're not even a wolf yet, boy. You're a pup with claws. That thing is an alpha. You can't kill it. Not alone. Not ever."

Max stood. "Thanks for nothing."

Harlow grabbed his arm. His grip was stronger than it looked. "One thing. When the mark burns—when you feel it calling don't fight. Run. Or you'll end up dead like the others."

He let go.

Max walked out. The gate squealed behind him.

Back at the motel, Max sat on the edge of the bed. The veins on his arm throbbed.

He wrote down what Harlow said:

The creature is in OSLARD.

It's killed people.

The bite mark is a leash.

It can feel him.

He didn't understand half of it. But he understood one thing: he couldn't do this alone.

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through old contacts. Stopped at a name he hadn't called in years.

Nico.

His childhood friend. They'd lost touch after the funeral. Last he heard, Nico was in OSLARD running odd jobs, keeping his head down.

Max typed a message: "You in OSLARD? Need to see you. Urgent."

He stared at the screen. Three dots appeared. Then a reply.

"Yeah. Been here a year. Where are you?"

Max sent the motel address.

"Tomorrow. Noon. Don't be dead by then."

Max almost smiled. Almost.

He lay back on the bed. The ceiling stared back. The moon pulled at his chest.

Tomorrow, he'd find Nico.

Tonight, he'd try to survive.