MOON'S RECKONING

Moon's Reckoning - Chapter 1: The Scent of Blood The forest held its breath as the moon hung low, a silver disc scarred by wisps of cloud. Elara Kane knelt in the damp undergrowth, her fingers brushing the delicate petals of a Lupinus nocturna, its pale blooms glowing faintly under the lunar light. She scribbled notes in her weathered journal, her breath fogging in the crisp autumn air. The night was quiet—too quiet. No owls hooted, no crickets sang. Her pulse quickened, though she couldn’t place why. She adjusted her glasses, tucking a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. The plant was a rare find, blooming only under a waxing gibbous, and she’d spent weeks tracking it through the dense woods surrounding Blackthorn Hollow. Her flashlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the ferns. She cursed under her breath and tapped it against her palm. The beam steadied, but the unease in her gut didn’t. A faint metallic tang hit her nose, sharp and unmistakable. Blood. Elara froze, her senses sharpening. She wasn’t alone. Her skin prickled, the familiar itch of the change stirring deep within her bones, though the full moon was still three nights away. She fought it down, clenching her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Not now. Not here. She stood slowly, scanning the darkness. The scent grew stronger, pulling her north toward a clearing she knew too well—a place where the townsfolk whispered of old rituals and older fears. Her boots crunched on pine needles as she moved, silent as the predator she was. The journal slipped into her satchel, forgotten. Her heart pounded, not from fear but from something primal, something that relished the hunt. The clearing came into view, bathed in moonlight. At its center lay a crumpled form, human but broken, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Blood pooled beneath, black in the dim light, soaking into the earth. Elara’s breath caught. She recognized the flannel jacket, the worn boots. Tom Hargrove, the town’s grizzled mechanic, who’d fixed her truck last month with a gruff smile and a warning to stay out of the woods at night. She stepped closer, her eyes catching the claw marks raked across his chest, deep and deliberate. Not a bear. Not a cougar. Something worse. Her stomach twisted as she crouched, scanning the wounds. The cuts were too clean, too precise, like a signature. She’d seen marks like these before—years ago, before she’d learned to chain herself in the old cellar on full moon nights. A twig snapped behind her. Elara spun, her hand instinctively reaching for the knife strapped to her thigh. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, his face half-hidden under a hood. The glint of a rifle barrel caught the moonlight. “Step away from the body,” he said, voice low and steady. “Now.” Elara’s eyes narrowed. She knew that voice—Jace Colton, the hunter who’d rolled into town last spring, asking too many questions about missing hikers. His gray eyes locked on hers, unyielding, but there was something else in them. Not fear. Curiosity. “I didn’t do this,” she said, her voice calm despite the beast clawing at her insides. “You know that.” “Do I?” He stepped closer, the rifle still raised but not aimed. “You’re out here alone, Kane. Middle of the night. Smells like trouble.” She straightened, meeting his gaze. “You’re not wrong about the trouble. But it’s not me you should be pointing that at.” A low growl rumbled from the trees, not hers but close. Too close. Jace’s head snapped toward the sound, his grip tightening on the rifle. Elara’s senses screamed—another wolf, and not one of hers. The air thickened with the scent of musk and menace. “Get down,” she hissed, dropping to a crouch. Jace hesitated, then followed, his eyes never leaving the tree line. The growl grew louder, and twin amber eyes gleamed from the darkness. Whatever was out there wasn’t here to talk. Elara’s blood sang with the urge to shift, to meet fang with fang, but she held it back. She had to. For Tom. For herself. For the secrets Blackthorn Hollow buried under its roots. The moon watched, cold and silent, as the night prepared to bare its teeth.