ELENA
My head pounds in time with the music thumping through the house, a steady, rhythmic pulse that’s been my companion all day. It’s the sound of pre-ceremony jitters, the nervous energy of a dozen single women getting ready for the Mating Blood Moon.
There’s an opened book on my lap but it’s hard to focus when the scent of a dozen different perfumes and hairsprays wafts up the stairs and into the quiet of my world.
It’s an annual tradition in the Warren household. Mom Warren, a woman with a heart as big as her mansion, always gives the un-mated women the day off. She even pays for our dresses, our makeup artists, our fancy updos.
I’m the odd one out. My wolf-age came and went a few months ago, and with it, a new layer of dread. A blood moon ceremony? Me? I always refused to go. Fi
