ECLIPSE

Episode 2—What My Mother Knew.

By sunrise, the wolves were gone.

I checked three times.

The first time, I told myself they had never been there.

The second time, I wondered if I'd dreamed them.

The third time, I stopped lying to myself.

They had been real.

The flattened grass beyond the trees proved it.

Hundreds of paw prints covered the ground outside the boundary.

Some were so large that I could have placed both of my hands inside them.

I stood at the window, staring.

"You're going to wear a hole through the glass."

I turned.

My brother stood behind me.

"You saw them."

It wasn't a question.

He nodded.

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Why were they here?"

He looked toward the forest.

"I don't know."

I turned back to the window.

"Did you hear someone say my name?"

He went completely still.

"What?"

"Last night."

His expression changed.

"What did you hear?"

I hesitated.

"Luna."

He stared at me.

"Are you sure?"

"I think so."

"Who said it?"

"I don't know."

He didn't answer.

That scared me more than anything else.

"You're hiding something."

"No."

"You are."

He walked toward the window.

"Did you hear anything else?"

"No."

It was a lie.

I hadn't told him about the strange pressure in my chest.

Or the way the Alpha had looked at me.

Or the feeling I'd had when he lowered his head.

I didn't know what it meant.

But I knew it meant something.

My brother reached for the curtain.

"Don't tell Mom."

I frowned.

"Why?"

He looked at me.

"Because she already knows."

---

My mother was waiting downstairs.

She had made breakfast.

Nobody was eating.

She sat at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

When I entered, she looked at me.

Then at my brother.

Then back at me.

"You saw them."

I sat down.

"Yes."

She closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she didn't speak.

"Who were they?"

"Wolves."

"I know that."

"Then what are you asking?"

My mother looked toward the kitchen door.

"Did you see the Alpha?"

"Yes."

Her fingers tightened around the cup.

"Did he come close?"

"No."

"Did he speak to you?"

I frowned.

"No."

Another lie.

Technically, he hadn't spoken.

At least, I didn't think he had.

My mother stood.

"Pack a bag."

I stared at her.

"What?"

"We're leaving."

My brother nearly dropped his cup.

"What?"

"We're leaving the territory."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

My mother didn't answer.

"Mom."

She looked at me.

There was something in her eyes I'd never seen before.

Not fear.

Grief.

"You need to trust me."

"I've been trusting you my entire life."

Her expression broke.

"I know."

"Then tell me what's happening."

She looked away.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because some things are safer when you don't know them."

I laughed bitterly.

"That's what you always say."

She flinched.

I immediately regretted it.

But I couldn't stop.

"Every time I ask about my childhood, you change the subject. Every time I ask why I never shifted, you tell me not to worry. Every time something strange happens around me, you pretend it didn't."

"Luna—"

"I am nineteen years old."

My voice shook.

"I deserve to know what's wrong with me."

Silence.

My mother stared at me.

Then she whispered:

"Nothing is wrong with you."

The words landed harder than I expected.

"Then why are you afraid?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she walked to an old cabinet beside the fireplace.

I'd never seen her open it.

She unlocked it with a small brass key.

Inside was a wooden box.

Old.

Dusty.

Bound with a metal clasp.

She carried it to the table.

My brother moved closer.

"What's that?"

My mother ignored him.

She placed the box in front of me.

Then she opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

I picked it up.

It was old enough that the edges had turned brown.

There were three people standing in front of a stone building.

A man.

A woman.

And a little girl.

I stared at the child.

My hands went cold.

"Mom."

She didn't speak.

I looked closer.

The little girl had my eyes.

My face.

My hair.

Even the small scar above my eyebrow.

It was me.

Except—

The photograph was dated.

Nineteen years before I was born.

I looked at my mother.

"What is this?"

Her lips parted.

But before she could answer, something crashed outside.

We all jumped.

My brother rushed toward the door.

"Don't!"

My mother grabbed his arm.

Then we heard it.

A growl.

Low.

Close.

My mother went pale.

She whispered one word.

"Impossible."

I looked toward the window.

A shadow moved across the glass.

My heart began pounding.

Then came three slow knocks against the front door.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Nobody moved.

My mother stared at the door.

I stared at her.

"Who is it?"

She didn't answer.

The knocking came again.

Three times.

Then a man's voice came from the other side.

"Open the door."

My mother stepped backward.

"Who are you?"

A pause.

Then:

"You know exactly who I am."

I looked at the photograph in my hand.

At the little girl who looked exactly like me.

And for the first time in my life, I wondered whether my mother had been protecting me...

or hiding me.

The door handle slowly began to turn.

And my mother whispered:

"Don't let him see your eyes."

I froze.

"Why?"

She looked at me.

"Because he'll know."

"Know what?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"That you're alive."

The door opened.