The veil of the lycan

Chapter 2

Clara's boots crunched softly through the underbrush as she made her way to camp, her mind racing faster than her legs could carry her. The distant howl of the werewolf still echoed in her ears, the haunted tone long surviving the actual sound that had faded into night. She could feel the weight of the encounter press upon her chest as her body shook from the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Why had the creature spared her?

It was a question that plagued her, her teeth sank deep into the meat of thought. It was close enough to kill her, close enough it's hot breath danced against its skin. Yet it had hesitated, letting her live. No, Clara thought it hadn't let her live; it chose not to kill her. There was a difference in that, and Clara knew it was an important one.

Her campfire flickered far away, a beacon of warmth and light against the oppressive darkness of the forest. Clara quickened her pace, wincing at every step with the deep gash in her arm that seemed to throb with each step. Blood seeped through the bandage she had hastily wrapped around it, but she ignored the pain. There were more pressing matters at hand.

The werewolf's eyes seemed to have told her something, something for which she did not have the words. That was not just a beast driven by its hunger or instinct. There was intelligence there, and beyond that, the vague sense of recognition. Clara had an inescapable suspicion that the creature saw her, properly saw her, and consciously came to the conclusion that she was important.

She shook her head, trying to clear the thought. Werewolves didn't care about humans beyond their usefulness as prey, and they weren't even capable of complex thought, never mind emotions. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of that, the image of the wolf's glowing eyes remained behind her mental eyes, burning in the back of her mind.

The only sound of the crackling fire did little for Clara's frayed nerves as she approached the fire. Dropping onto a log beside the fire, she yanked off her gloves and spread her fingers wide to work the stiffness out. Her arm ached abominably, but she clenched her teeth and set about cleaning the wound. It would require stitches, but that could wait until she'd managed to sort through the events of the last few moments.

The silence surrounding her from the forest was uncanny, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath in anticipation of some imminent event. Clara's gaze slipped to the silver dagger that lay beside her on the log. The blade glinted in the firelight-a stark reminder of how close she had come to death. It was strange to think that something so small might have been the only thing that'd saved her from such a large predator. Even with the Blade, she wasn't able to finish the fight.

Why hadn’t the wolf finished her off?

It was one of those questions that had nibbled at her, like an open wound that would not let go. Clara huddled her coat tighter over her shoulders, as the chill of the night ate into her bones. The werewolf was different from the others she had hunted-larger, more aggressive, but also more aware. It had to mean something. It could not be a coincidence.

As she sat there staring into the flames, her mind began to wander and hold the memories of her father's voice, as he always said that werewolves were something more than the typical mindless beasts. They were cursed, enchained with the cycles of the moon, but beneath the curse lay a human being, caught between two worlds, half human, half monster.

“Always remember,” he had said, his voice grave, that every werewolf was once a man. And some of them remember.

Clara shivered; the silence after the words of her father echoed in her mind. Could that be it? Whether the werewolf she'd faced tonight remembered its humanity. Could that really be the case? Was that why it hadn't killed her? Impossible and yet. She couldn't wholly rule out the possibility. There had been something in its eyes, something akin to familiarity.

But before the thought could be entertained any longer, a rustling noise sounded through the silence. Clara's hand instinctively went to the hilt of her dagger as she sprang to her feet, peering into the darkness beyond the firelight. The rustling grew louder, closer, and instantly her heart was racing. Was the werewolf returning to finish what it had begun?

Her fingers closed on the dagger as she took a cautious step back from the fire. The woods were silent except for the soft rustling sound in the underbrush. Clara's pulse quickened as her senses heightened, straining to hear anything that gave her an idea of what-or who-approached.

A form emerged from the darkness, its movements almost ghostly in their quiet grace. Clara tensed, her blow ready, but when the figure stepped into the firelight, she stilled, appalled.

It wasn’t the werewolf.

It was a man.

"I didn't come to harm you," he said finally, his voice low and rough, as if he hadn't spoken in days.

Clara stared at him, her mind whirling as she tried to connect together everything that stood before her. "You…" She faltered, not quite knowing how exactly to shape a thought. "You're the werewolf."

He didn't deny it. He only stood there, watching her with those unnerving eyes. "Yes."

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t possible. Werewolves didn’t just turn back into humans after an attack, especially not ones as powerful as the creature she had faced. But here he was, standing in front of her like some impossible specter, as if the line between man and monster had blurred beyond recognition.

“You’re not supposed to be able to control it,” Clara said, her voice shaking slightly. “The transformation it’s not.”

“Normal?” The man’s lips twitched into a bitter smile. “No, it’s not. I’m not like the others.”

Clara’s mind raced. This man, this creature, was something she had never encountered before. In all her years as a hunter, she had learned the patterns of the beasts, understood the rules that governed their existence. But this man was breaking every rule she knew.

“How?” she whispered, her grip loosening on the dagger as she stared at him. “How are you?”

The man’s gaze flickered, a shadow passing over his features. I don’t know. I wasn’t always like this. I was changed.

“Changed?” Clara repeated, her heart pounding in her chest. “By what?”

The man hesitated, his eyes darkening. “By the blood moon.”

The words sent a chill down Clara’s spine. The blood moon was a rare event, one that only occurred once every few decades. Her father had told her stories of it, tales of werewolves becoming more powerful, more dangerous, under its crimson glow. But he had never mentioned anything about them gaining control over their transformations.

Clara took a step back, her mind struggling to process what she was hearing. “You’re saying the blood moon gave you this ability?”

The man nodded slowly. “It did more than that. It cursed me.”

Clara felt his words settle over her like a heavy fog. Cursed. The word hung in the air between them, swollen with meaning she couldn't yet understand. She had always known werewolves were cursed, but this was another thing altogether.

"What kind of curse?" she asked, the words barely escaping.

His eyes met hers, and for the first time Clara saw the depth of pain that he carried. "I cannot die."

The sentence hit her with the force of a kick to the diaphragm. Clara stared at him, trying to wrap her brain around what he had just said. What?

"I've tried," he continued, his tone full of quiet resignation. A thousand times over. But no matter what I do, no matter how many times I've been killed, I always come back.

Clara's breath caught in her throat. This man, this creature, was immortal. An immortal werewolf.

“But that’s not possible,” she stammered, shaking her head. “No one.”

Nothing is impossible under the influence of the blood moon, he said, his tone serious. The powers of the moon are beyond anything we can imagine. And now, I'm stuck in this existence: half man, half beast, with no means of escaping.

A chill crawled its way up Clara's spine. It was a bit more than she had bargained for, an immortal werewolf, cursed by the blood moon, shifting at will from human to wolf. Suddenly, the reality of the creature she thought she hunted made her clutch at the extremity of danger: not just any beast but something really, ancient.

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asked out of the blue, surprised even at her question.

He looked back at her steadily in his gaze. “Because I don't want to be a monster.”

His words tumbled in the air, raw and full of unsaid pain. Clara felt her heart tighten in her chest. She had always seen werewolves as creatures to be hunted, destroyed before they could cause more harm. But standing here now, in this man's eyes, she felt that there was so much more to the story than she had ever known.

He turned to her, his eyes straying out to the darkness beyond the circle of light from the fire. I cannot stay. Others will come for you.

Clara felt her blood chill. "Others?"

"The pack," he growled, his voice dead serious. They are not like me. They have given totally to the curse, and they shall not rest until you are dead.

Clara's hand tightened on the hilt of her dagger. This hunt was far from over; she had been spared once, but now it seemed the true danger was only just beginning.