LAGACY OF THE FULL MOON SACRIFICE

Greta Lawson’s boots pounded the asphalt, the echo slicing through the humid July night in Cary Town. Her heart raced, not from the sprint but from the betrayal burning in her chest. The plastic flap of her mother’s kitchen door had barely swung shut behind her when she’d fled, a crumpled note clenched in her fist. Jaden’s words Go to Dayne Wickham seared her mind, a lifeline she didn’t trust but had no choice but to grasp. The dim streetlights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the empty parking lot of Lawson’s Bookshoppe, where she’d locked up just hours ago. Now, she was a fugitive in her own city, a werecat marked for sacrifice. She darted into an alley, her breath sharp, scanning for the telltale glow of vampire eyes or the scent of her tribe’s trackers. The air was thick with diesel and damp brick, the distant hum of traffic a faint reminder of the human world oblivious to her kind. Her skin prickled, senses heightened, as she shifted mid-stride into her sleek black cat form, fur flattening against her body to blend with the darkness. Claws clicked softly as she leaped onto a dumpster, then a low rooftop, her golden eyes darting to the note now tucked in her mouth. Dayne Wickham, the sorcerer who’d slaughtered half her tribe decades ago, was her only hope. The irony wasn’t lost on her. “Move, Greta,” she muttered to herself, voice muffled in her feline throat as she sprang to the next roof. The note’s address led to a secluded cottage on the city’s edge, a place whispered about in fear. She didn’t have time to second-guess Jaden’s cryptic warning: Be discreet . The tribe’s plan to drain her blood on her 28th full moon, just days away, propelled her forward. Born in fur, a rare omen, she was a prize Simon, the tribe leader, wouldn’t let slip. The rooftops ended at a quiet street lined with gnarled oaks, their branches clawing at the sky. She shifted back, human again, her borrowed jeans and cropped shirt tight against her sweat-damp skin. The cottage loomed ahead, stone walls glowing faintly under moonlight, wards pulsing with invisible magic. Her stomach twisted. Dayne wasn’t just a sorcerer; he was a legend of destruction. But with Simon’s witches on her trail, she had no choice. She knocked, the sound sharp against the heavy oak door. Silence. Then another knock, her fist trembling. The door creaked open, revealing a man nothing like the ancient, robed monster she’d imagined. Dayne Wickham was tall, lean, with dark hair falling over sharp gray eyes, his jeans and t-shirt absurdly normal for a man of his reputation. He leaned against the frame, exuding a cold menace that made her want to bolt. “Who’re you?” His voice was low, edged with irritation, like she’d interrupted his evening plans. “Greta Lawson,” she said, squaring her shoulders despite the urge to shrink. “I need your help.” Dayne’s eyes narrowed, scanning her like she was a puzzle he didn’t care to solve. “I don’t take in strays. Beat it.” “Please,” she said, voice cracking. “The tribe’s going to sacrifice me. I have nowhere else to go.” He snorted, stepping back as if to slam the door. “Not my problem, princess. Try the Salvation Army.” Desperation surged. She jammed her boot in the doorframe, wincing as it pinched. “I know you need werecat blood. I’ll give it to you if you let me stay until the full moon passes.” His brow arched, a flicker of interest breaking through his scowl. “You’re offering your blood? Bold move for a kitty.” He paused, then sighed, glancing at a ringing phone inside. “Wait here.” Greta didn’t wait. Heart pounding, she slipped inside as he turned away, her eyes darting over the cozy, deceptive interior crackling fireplace, oak bookshelves, crimson drapes swaying like breathing lungs. She crouched behind a shelf, ears straining as Dayne spoke into the phone. “Mick, don’t do this,” he growled, pacing near a cluttered desk. “I need that blood by the full moon.” A nervous voice crackled through. “Sorry, sir, but our policy and your ethics don’t align. Alistair reported to you.” “Alistair,” Dayne spat, tossing the phone onto the desk with a clatter. “That sanctimonious prick.” Greta’s pulse quickened. His supplier had cut him off. This was her chance, but his next words froze her. “I know you’re in here, cat. Think I can’t sense your magic? Come out before I carve my answer into you.” She stifled a gasp, her gaze flicking to a silver ritual knife gleaming on the desk. She could shift and run, but the wards would trap her in the city. Dayne’s footsteps neared, slow and deliberate. “I don’t play games, Greta.” She stood, hands raised, trying to look defiant despite her shaking knees. “I’m not here to trick you. Jaden sent me. I heard Simon planning my sacrifice. I’m not lying.” Dayne’s eyes locked onto hers, gray and unyielding, like storm clouds ready to strike. “Jaden,” he said, voice dripping venom. “That name doesn’t win you points. Why should I trust a werecat?” “Therian,” she snapped, chin lifting. “And because you’re out of options. No blood, no ritual. I’m your only shot.” He stepped closer, towering over her, his scent of coffee and old books mixing with something sharper, like ozone before a storm. “You’re brave or stupid. I haven’t decided which.” “Call it survival,” she said, holding his gaze. “You need me. I need you. Simple.” “Nothing’s simple with your kind.” He turned, grabbing the knife, and her heart lurched until he set it aside, muttering, “Fine. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.” He crossed to a shelf, pulling down a worn book, its pages crackling with age. “Sit there,” he said, pointing to a painted circle on the floor. “I need a drop of your blood for a truth spell.” Greta hesitated, then sat, the cold stone seeping through her jeans. “You’re not going to bleed me dry, are you?” “Not yet,” he said, a smirk tugging his lips as he pricked her finger with a needle. She hissed, sucking the sting, watching him squeeze drops into the circle. He chanted in Latin, the air humming with power, and a faint glow pulsed around her, warm and invasive. “Well?” she asked, voice tight. “Am I lying?” He closed the book, eyes softening just a fraction. “No. You’re not. But don’t think this makes me your hero. You stay, you follow my rules. Step out of line, and you’re gone.” “Rules?” She stood, hands on hips. “Like what, locking me in a cage?” His jaw tightened, but before he could answer, a low rumble shook the cottage. The drapes fluttered wildly, and a chill crawled up Greta’s spine. Dayne’s head snapped toward the window, his hand already glowing with a spell. “What was that?” she whispered, stepping closer despite herself. “Trouble,” he said, voice grim. “Your tribe’s faster than I thought.” Outside, a shadow moved too fast, too deliberate. Greta’s eyes flashed golden, her claws itching to emerge. Someone was here, and they weren’t alone.