Hunter's Moon Rising

Chapter 2-2

WARREN STEPPED THROUGH the front door of Luna, immediately enveloped in the smells and sounds of home. The restaurant had been on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Thirteenth Street for decades. It had always been a wolf-owned space.

The place was packed. Most of the customers were supernatural with a smattering of human regulars. Matt tried to tend bar, but mostly failed. He couldn't keep his eyes off the short blonde making a show of bending over to serve a table of eight. He better move on that soon. She-wolf like her didn't stay single for very long.

Warren slid between two couples waiting for tables. He caught Matt's attention. “Dude, I'm here. What's up? I gotta meet the kid in an hour. Can't be late.”

“She's downstairs and she's pissed. Something about full moon prep.”

“Great,” he said with no enthusiasm.

Urban wolves got antsier than country wolves as the full moon approached, but this month had the whole pack on edge. Tensions hadn't been this high since the Incident.

Five years ago, the old Borders Bookstore on Fifty-Seventh Street and Park collapsed, replaced by an acid-spitting creature straight from the bowels of Hell. The official story said some shady company cutting corners on a gut renovation caused the collapse. None of the papers reported the demon, but supernaturals knew better. Rumors ran rampant about why the creature had appeared. He paid no mind to any of them. If anything, life in the city had gotten easier. Humans had fled to the outer boroughs and left most of Manhattan to creatures of fantasy. Angels, demons, wolves and others felt free to be themselves and business at Luna's was booming.

Warren headed toward the kitchen. He passed through the door flap separating the dining room from a chaotic kitchen and breathed in deep. He side-stepped chefs and their minions in the middle of Saturday night dinner rush. Up front and center, the smell of grilled steak au poivre, braised coq au vin, and oven baked pommes dauphine surrounded him in a haze of garlic, rosemary, and cheese. In the next layer, the tang of raw ingredients being prepped, rich sauces simmering in wine and butter, and the bittersweet decadence of chocolate being formed into irresistible desserts. Underneath it all, the scent of his brothers and sisters, his pack.

After zig-zagging through the kitchen, he took a side door down a dark flight of stairs. To the left, a short hallway. He knocked on the door twice, then entered.

Jake paced the tiny space in front of her desk, hands clasped behind her back. Her worried scent filled the small basement office. “Update on preparations?”

“Our neighbors got their monthly reminder to stay inside.”

“Double check them. We're not the only ones celebrating this moon. There cannot be a repeat of last year's Hunter's Moon.”

Warren cringed inside. The pack's relationship with the neighboring Balt demons had improved in the year since they'd captured and ate two pack members, but tensions between them made the Cold War look like a friendly misunderstanding.

On to more pleasant topics. “There's plenty of fish and game at the compound. Guest wolves are already settled in the big house. Arrangements have been made for the ones who can't make it upstate. Don't worry. It's going to be a great Hunter's Moon. The Savannah pack always brings a good time.” Jake tended to dwell on the negative, sometimes until that's all she saw. Even if he didn't believe it, Warren pushed the positive to balance her negativity. Truth? He worried about the Balt as much as Jake did.

“What about this potential? You met with the mother?”

Jake had found another worry, but this one was easily deflected. “Yes. On my way to pick him up now. I have a good feeling about it.”

She stopped pacing and took a seat at her desk. “Too much optimism, Warren. Listen to your gut, your wolf.” She fidgeted with a pen with the end chewed up. “Mine is twitchy as f**k. More than usual.”

He reached into himself until he connected with the beast inside. Wolf was a little jittery, but he always got that way days before a run. “You worry too much, boss.”

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