Marlowe
Nobody told me the moon would sound like something, and by the time I understood what I meant by that, it was already too late to unhear it.
Nova grabbed my sleeve an hour before dusk, tugging me toward the tree line without much explanation beyond "you'll want to see this," and I followed her out past the fence to a ridge overlooking club land, half a dozen other prospects already gathered there in various states of nervous silence.
"Moon Rite," she said, like that explained everything. It explained nothing. "Patched wolves only. We watch from here."
"Watch what, exactly?"
She didn't answer, because the answer arrived on its own a few minutes later, and no explanation could have prepared me for it anyway.
They came out of the warehouse in twos and threes, already stripped do
