Beneath The Harvest Moon

Prologue

Prologue

Sixteen Years Ago

The moon hung low and golden over the forest.

Mama called it a Harvest Moon.

Willow thought it looked as though someone had dipped the whole sky in warm honey.

She pressed her nose to the cool glass of the carriage window and watched silver light spill between the heavy pine branches. The trees rushed past in dark, endless rows, their shadows stretching across the road like long fingers.

“Willow.”

Her mother’s voice pulled her attention away from the forest.

“Are you listening to me, wild child?”

Willow turned with a grin, her cheeks warm from the small brazier glowing near the carriage floor.

“No.”

Luna Lyra Sapp laughed softly, the sound low and musical.

“At least you are honest.”

Willow scrambled across the velvet seat and curled against her mother’s side, breathing in the familiar scent of crushed mint and sweet rain.

She loved traveling this way.

Her father always had pack meetings, stern warriors, and important Alpha matters to attend to. Her mother, however, never seemed too busy to search for constellations or point out the pale flowers growing beside the dirt roads.

Tonight, Lyra’s slender fingers were weaving a freshly picked moonflower into Willow’s thick curls. The white petals gave off a faint glow beneath the moonlight.

“Tell me about the moon again, Mama.”

“The Harvest Moon?” Lyra smoothed a stray curl from Willow’s forehead. “What would you like to know?”

Willow twisted the hem of her dress around one finger.

“Why does everyone stare at me when they talk about it?”

Her mother’s hand stilled.

“The elders at the borders look at me and whisper,” Willow continued. “They call me Moon-Blessed. It sounds strange.”

The smile faded from Lyra’s face.

Not completely.

Just enough for Willow to notice the sudden shadow in her green eyes.

For a moment, Lyra looked toward the window. Her reflection stared back from the dark glass, pale and troubled.

Then she bent and kissed the top of Willow’s head.

“Sometimes,” she said carefully, “the Moon Goddess chooses a child to carry a little extra starlight in her veins.”

Willow frowned. “Why?”

“No one knows for certain.”

“Is it magic?”

A faint smile returned to Lyra’s lips.

“Perhaps.”

“Can I use it?”

Lyra’s expression tightened again.

“It is a beautiful gift, Willow. But powerful gifts must be protected.”

“Like a secret?”

“Exactly like a secret.”

Willow looked down at her hands.

“Does Papa know?”

“Yes.”

“Does everyone?”

“No.” Lyra tipped Willow’s chin upward until their eyes met. “And you must never tell anyone. Not unless your father or I say it is safe.”

Willow nodded solemnly, though she did not truly understand.

Before she could ask another question, a warrior outside the carriage barked a sudden command.

The horses shrieked.

Their hooves scraped wildly against the gravel, and the carriage lurched hard enough to throw Willow against the padded door.

The moonflower slipped from Lyra’s fingers.

Every trace of warmth vanished from her expression.

In a single heartbeat, the gentle mother disappeared.

In her place stood the Luna—fierce, dangerous, and alert.

The carriage slammed to a dead stop.

“Mama?” Willow whispered.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Lyra reached beneath the folds of her cloak and drew a silver dagger.

For the first time in Willow’s life, her mother’s hand trembled.

It lasted less than a second.

Then Lyra’s fingers tightened around the hilt.

“Stay behind me,” she ordered. “Do not make a sound.”

The command cracked through the carriage like a whip.

Then the screaming began.

Outside, the forest erupted into snarls, splintering wood, and the wet, terrible sounds of bodies striking the ground. Men shouted orders over one another. Horses screamed in panic. Something large crashed into the side of the carriage, cracking the wood panel above Willow’s head.

The smell came next.

Smoke.

Blood.

Fear.

Willow clapped both hands over her mouth.

The carriage door was ripped from its hinges.

A pack warrior stumbled backward into the opening, his uniform shredded and blood spilling over his chest. His eyes found Lyra’s.

“Luna,” he gasped. “They knew the route. Someone inside the Guard—”

A massive wolf lunged from the darkness.

Its jaws closed around the warrior’s throat.

He vanished into the trees before he could finish the warning.

Willow’s breath caught.

She could not scream.

Lyra spun and seized her by the shoulders.

“Willow Lyra. Look at me.”

Willow tried, but tears blurred her vision.

“Look at me.”

Green eyes locked onto green eyes—the same bright shade Willow saw in the mirror every morning.

“Whatever happens next, you must be brave.” Lyra’s voice was steady, but fear lived beneath it now. “You are a daughter of the Crest. You are stronger than you know.”

“No.” Willow shook her head frantically. “Mama, come with me.”

Lyra shoved her into the narrow footwell beneath the seat.

“Stay down.”

“Come into the hiding place with me. Please.”

Lyra did not answer.

Instead, she reached beneath the collar of her gown and pulled a delicate chain over her head.

A pale moonstone hung from it, glowing softly.

Willow had seen her mother wear it every day of her life.

Lyra slipped the chain over Willow’s head.

The instant the moonstone touched her skin, silver light burst through the carriage.

It flooded every corner, bright enough to turn night into day.

Lyra froze.

For one terrible heartbeat, grief and certainty crossed her face.

Then the light vanished.

The moonstone settled cold and heavy against Willow’s collarbone.

“Remember who you are,” Lyra whispered.

Her voice broke.

“I love you, my harvest child.”

Another body slammed into the carriage.

The frame groaned.

Wood splintered overhead.

Lyra kicked open the narrow emergency hatch at the rear of the floor. Cold night air rushed inside, sharp with pine and smoke.

“Go,” she said. “Run north. Do not stop, and do not look back.”

Willow stared at the black opening.

“Mama—”

“Go!”

The carriage shook again.

Lyra did not wait.

Before Willow’s eyes, her mother shifted.

Bone cracked and reformed beneath her skin. Silver fur swept over her body like liquid moonlight. In the span of a breath, a magnificent wolf stood in the wreckage.

She was enormous.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

The silver wolf nudged Willow hard toward the open hatch.

Then she turned and lunged through the shattered doorway.

Willow crawled into the darkness.

Her palms scraped over dirt and stone. She dropped from beneath the carriage and ran.

Branches clawed at her face. Briars tore at her dress. Sharp stones sliced through the thin soles of her slippers.

Behind her, the night filled with snarls and screams.

A howl rose above the chaos.

Her mother’s howl.

Willow nearly turned.

Nearly.

But Lyra’s command echoed in her mind.

Do not look back.

So Willow ran.

She ran until her lungs burned and her legs shook. She ran until the sounds of battle grew faint behind her.

At last, she burst through a wall of thorns and stumbled into a small clearing.

Silence met her.

No wolves.

No warriors.

No screaming horses.

Only the wind moving softly through the trees.

Willow collapsed beside a moss-covered log, gasping for breath. Tears streaked her face. Blood ran from a cut along her knee.

The moonflower slipped from her curls and landed in the dirt.

Its pale petals fluttered once.

Then went still.

Willow pressed both hands over the moonstone.

“Mama?” she whispered.

Nothing answered.

For one beautiful, impossible moment, she believed the silence meant she was safe.

Then the air changed.

The clean scent of pine was swallowed by something thick and suffocating.

Cold slate.

Iron.

Burning sulfur.

It scorched the back of Willow’s throat.

Her inner wolf whimpered and curled into a tight, terrified ball.

Willow rose slowly.

A man stepped from behind a massive spruce.

He was tall and dressed in a dark, tailored coat, as though he had come from a formal dinner rather than a m******e. Not a single strand of his black hair was out of place.

But everything about him felt wrong.

The moonlight seemed reluctant to touch him.

His shadow stretched in the opposite direction from the trees.

His eyes gleamed with a hunger that made Willow’s knees weaken.

She stumbled backward, one hand closing around the moonstone.

“Who are you?”

The man smiled.

The expression did not reach his eyes.

“Alpha Victor Kane,” he said.

Willow had never heard the name, but something inside her recoiled from it.

His gaze dropped to the glowing stone at her throat.

“At last,” he murmured. “The Harvest Child.”

Willow’s blood turned cold.

“How do you know what Mama calls me?”

Victor’s smile sharpened.

“I have been looking for a very long time for a little wolf like you.”

A twig snapped behind her.

Willow spun.

A pair of heavy arms seized her from the shadows and pinned her arms against her sides.

She screamed.

She kicked, twisted, and sank her teeth into the hand covering her mouth.

The man holding her cursed.

Victor only watched.

Calm.

Satisfied.

As though this had all happened exactly as he intended.

A thick cloth was pressed over Willow’s nose and mouth.

The scent was sweet and chemical.

She held her breath and fought harder, clawing at the arms around her, but the world had already begun to tilt.

Trees blurred.

The golden moon stretched across the sky.

Victor stepped closer and touched one finger to the moonstone at her throat.

Its glow dimmed beneath his hand.

“Do not worry,” he whispered. “By the time I am finished, you will not remember any of this.”

Willow tried to call for her mother.

No sound came.

Her eyelids grew heavy as darkness rushed in around her, smothering the scent of rain and mint beneath smoke and sulfur.

The last thing she saw was the low, golden Harvest Moon bleeding through the dense canopy above.

Watching.

Waiting.

Remembering.