The Human Alpha

Chapter One. Fine Lines and Wrinkles.

Hannah’s Point of View.

There are times in your life when you look in the mirror and mourn the passing of time. That is me, today. As I look, I realise that I am looking older than my mother right now.

Strange?

Not really. You see my mother is a human, mated to my Alpha Father. Her ageing slowing down exponentially since she met him at 18 years of age. She looks no older than 21 years old, even though she is 43. That is one of the benefits of being mated and marked to a werewolf. Something I am not. So, here I am at 28 years old, looking like her older sister. It is depressing. I am not going to lie. It has been a while since I began to notice the passing of time in the fine lines around my eyes, and the beginning of wrinkles on my forehead, every day. With the women in my family all having perfect skin, bodies and that extra beauty that comes from werewolf genes, I cannot deny I am beginning to notice them more and more.

Yeah, I was born human, taking after my mother. My brother Zan however, was born Alpha, like my Dad, and is doing great things with his human mate Bea running the Silverback pack. My life however has a different destiny. Or so I have been told since the day I was born.

You see, I was named after an old prophetess Hannah, who passed just after I was born. She told my parents that they would build a bridge between the werewolf and the human world. However, the work they would start would be fulfilled by me, and so for as long as I can remember I have been instrumental in building a lasting peace between Humans and Werewolves. To say I have been busy since the awakening, when humans discovered that werewolves were real, and not just the things of nightmares, or romance novels, is an understatement.

I bush out the knots in my long brown hair, which is desperate for a good cut, I have had zero time to get the copious amounts of split ends trimmed. The dark circles under my large hazel eyes tell the story of the many days of waking early, and heading to bed late, attending meeting after meeting with those in government. My skin does not have the youthful glow it once had. I am tired. Tired. I wonder if my dull complexion is because rather than live in the forest, in the highlands of Scotland, I am now in London, where the smog choaks you daily, the air so contaminated, that even your snot turns black. Yes, it is as gross as it sounds. Exercise is a gym rather than running and training to fight with your pack, the only ‘fresh’ air I get is when I manage to scrape an hour to run around Hyde Park.

I miss my crazy family. My loving mother and father. Zan my brother and his mate, and the twins Jonathon and Amalia, who I am missing growing up. They are nearly three now, a happy accident of my parents. Not only that, but I desperately miss my cousins, all but Hamish are mated now. Asher and his mate Alisha are the new King and Queen of werewolves. I say new, but it has been a few years since my Aunt Chloe and Uncle Zander abdicated the throne, to make way for the next generation. I desperately miss Phoenix, who now lives in Spain with Teo her mate, and a gaggle of pups they have. Then there is Becca, she is now a queen in her own right. The queen of Scandinavia, with her mate King Fredrick, and their two pups’. My aunty Stella, who is a year younger than I am, had once been like a sister to me, but again, she is mated, and living in the Lake District. We are all scattered, around the world, busy making this world a safer place for werewolves and human alike.

I remember the days when we were teenagers. We would all be at the Royal Crescent Moon pack, getting into mischief. Pinching Alpha Robin from the Silver Crescent, packs homemade werewolf-proof whiskey, and hiding from our parents drinking the stuff that could strip paint. Those were fun times. Although I am sure Aunt Chloe allowed us to get away with stuff because she has a very strong prophetic gift, but also a mischievous spirit. Asher, Becca and Hamish, and my Aunty Stella, who was a year younger than I am, drinking one mouthful too much and throwing up in the full moon bonfire, as the rest of the packs all danced in fancy dress, to whatever decade of music we were celebrating at the party, which was the tradition started by my Uncle Zander, before I was born. Fun times.

I let out a long sigh, as I decided to pull my hair up into a formal bun, to hide the wispy ends then pull on my black jacket, which matches my black knee-length pencil skirt, teamed with a white silk blouse. Becca would hate this outfit and insist I wore something more fashionable. But fashion in the halls of Westminster is a skill long forgotten.

My body aches from lack of sleep, and I don’t like it one bit. Gone are the days when I had so much energy I would rise early in the morning, and attend training with my pack, at least twice per day. I may be human, but I trained hard like a werewolf. Living and working in London does not give me the chance to spar with anyone to my level, nor do I have the benefit of living in a pack. I miss it. I miss the mountains and lush green trees of Scotland. My view is now a concrete jungle, which I hate. I may be human, but I am still part wolf, even if I do not have one. With a heavy breath, I set off out of the tiny apartment that costs a fortune and make my way to Westminster. Another day, and another meeting, where I repeat the same things to different people, hoping that somebody will understand. So far, the supporters of werewolf inclusion are small, but we still have some powerful people on our side. Non more so than James Clarkson, the Prime Minister, and members of the Royal Family. But the others who hold positions of power, not so much.

I don’t know what James was thinking, putting Albert Bartlet as the new minister of inter-species relations. The guy hates werewolves, with a passion. Yet, here he is, sitting in his office, supposedly working to help my kind. When I say my kind, I mean werewolf, because I may be human, but I am more like my father in my ways, than my loving mother. In this brave new world, where a person can identify as anything they choose. I, Hannah Colton, identify as a werewolf.

I sit looking like I am patiently listening to the ramblings of Albert as he attempts to sound enthusiastic about my proposition, for his office and members of the human royals to visit the packs, showing the human populous that there is nothing to be afraid of, and calming the masses. But my schooled serine countenance hides the depth of my frustration at his attitude to me, and my family. I know the Prince of Wales is up for it, and the Prime Minister loves the idea. But Albert here, is very passive and aggressively finding problems with the plans. I do not need a gift of discernment to know he will never be on board with my plans and ideas and will fight me to the last. So again, I ask. What the hell was James thinking?

God, I cannot wait for this meeting to end, I have a quick lunch appointment with Carlton Wise, one of the civil servants, who has become a friend around here. The tall gangly man, with a different brightly coloured tie every day, and perfectly styled hair, is all for inclusion. Being gay, he hates prejudice of all kinds, and his fun outlook on life is a breath of fresh air around these dusty halls of power. He reminds me of home, with his serious work ethic, but not afraid to live a little, kick back and have fun.

Albert looks at his watch, the man looking even older than his 52 years on this planet. His salt and pepper hair at the front is receding. He has slicked it back in an attempt to cover the bald patch at the back of his head. For a former health minister, he does not look particularly healthy. His skin is dull, and his body has seen better days, the middle age spread, and jowls on his face not helping his look. He wants this meeting over with. Well, he is not the only one, so now he has stopped bashing his gums together about his reasons for not wanting to approve my idea, I stand up from my green leather chair, the sound of it creaking slightly filling the room. Albert gives me a look of disgust, and I go to tell him, that the noise was the chair and not my bum, but what is the point? Just like his attitude towards werewolves, he has made up his mind, so I simply smile, and hold out my hand for him to shake, as he gives me a smile showing his yellowing crooked teeth, which is about as genuine as an email from a Nigerian Prince wanting to give me millions from his wealth, and all I need to do is send my bank details, along with £30.00 to confirm the account is active.

As I leave the office, no further forward than when I arrived, I let out a long low sigh. Only two more weeks and counting, before I head home to bonny Scotland, I cannot wait.