Fenrir's Fang

Prologue

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Fenrir's Fang is an original work and the story and characters therein are the intellectual property of author Margaux Thibodeaux all rights reserved.

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☆Prologue☆

The reflection of myself dressed head to toe in woodland camo and animal pelts had my inner wolf pawing with excitement. We were going hunting and she could barely contain herself at the prospect of sinking her teeth into something or more accurately, someone. My strawberry blonde hair was buzzed short in this form for ease, leaving nothing long enough to grab in a fight and was concealed along with the lower half of my face by the dark hooded cowl I had crafted from a brown bear hide and the dark gray fabric mask I wore to protect my identity.

I was born Kajsa Northman, and in my birth form I was a pretty enough young woman of 17ish with waist length strawberry curls, bright green eyes and a scattering of freckles. I had a notched scar cutting through the thin taper of my right eyebrow and a Veldismagn shaped birthmark on the left side of my chest with added details of a stylized Fenrir design tattooed around it.

The tattoo had been payment from one of my first jobs when I was 14, when I ended up saving a witch from a feral vampire. The young woman was the coven leader's daughter and heir. They were so thankful I had come to her rescue that the coven was happy to create it to work with the shifter magic already thrumming through my veins; even if this particular kind of magic was on the illegal side of things.

The tattoo itself was created around what had originally been a birthmark everyone in my family had been born with on some part of their body. The witches adding runes to bespell it and then added embellishments until it covered the entire left side of my chest, tapering up to a point of Fenrir's howling maul near my shoulder. Tattoos were almost unheard of in the shifter world, it required a special magic imbued ink and a tattoo gun with a silver needle; It was agonizingly painful but it had been worth it. The resulting piece was as stunning as it was functional, allowing me to shift not just between my birth form and wolf form but also to a third, masculine form.

I couldn't change much about the looks of my alternate form as much as I'd love to present as an adult male; but each of my forms matured as naturally as my birth form did. The ability to switch between genders was invaluable and the witches concluded that given the nature of Fenrir's father, Loki the trickster, the wolf god would certainly approve of the mischievous deception. Under the tattoos magic I took the name Torin, my features became a little sharper and more masculine, my eyebrows thicker, my chest a bit wider, my breasts flattening to strong pecs. My curves smoothing out as my hips became more narrow and my all over muscle tone bulkier and more defined by comparison to my female form.

The truly remarkable part, aside from the impressive washboard abs I never had to maintain, was it not only changed my appearance but it also changed my scent to that of a males and altered the corresponding equipment which was to my surprise fully functional. That was a fun twist of events, not that I had ever explored the functionalities with anyone but myself but still it gave me peace of mind that my disguise was that believable. Honestly it had become the form I was most comfortable in and as such stayed in the most.

I slipped my twin daggers into their sheaths on my thighs then attached my quiver of arrows to my belt and slung my short bow over my shoulder. I was just as proficient with modern weapons; the twin sig mk25s I trained with resting in their holsters on my back, loaded and chambered with silver dipped 9mm luger rounds. The guns definitely packed more fire power but I preferred the stealth advantages of weapons that wouldn't echo for miles around.

I stepped out of my little hideaway cabin, deep in the in-between, the land pack wolves dare not to roam. I was a rogue, the stuff of nightmares according to the tales they would tell pack pups to keep them from wandering too close to territory borders. Well I would have been had I been a normal rogue. Rogues were once pack wolves, and pack wolves needed an Alpha to keep their humanity intact. Without an Alpha they would slowly slip away into a feral state within a year, raping and slaughtering anyone incapable of fending them off.

I had been on my own since I was 12 years old, not even old enough to shift. My pack was destroyed by a rival wanting to expand their territory. They gutted my father, our pack alpha, and killed my mother the Alpha female and my two older brothers in front of me. Why they left me alive, I assume had something to do with the way their Alpha leered at the way my body was starting to blossom into womanhood, and the power mating an alpha female could bring to a pack. Nothing good would happen to me if I remained in the safety of that pack.

I was whipped, beaten, and touched in ways I did not consent, the males laughing at my tears as they "prepared" me for their leader all the while telling me the order of which they planned to take me after the Alpha was finished and how I'd breed them all strong alpha-blooded sons until my body couldn't produce anymore. That was the first time I killed another person, the Alpha came into my bedroom after they had made themselves at home in our packhouse the first night.

The Alpha assumed I was too small, too weak, too traumatized, too broken to do anything but comply with his abuse. He noticed the broken mirror as he crept closer to me thinking I had harmed myself, but didn't realize his mistake until he felt the broken glass being shoved through his jugular. I fled the territory afterwards, even unable to shift, I was fast on top of a sizable headstart and the enemy wolves were unable to catch up with me over the terrain I had grown up running with my brothers, knowing exactly how to out maneuver them. I hadn't cried since that night, I hadn't allowed myself to think about my family let alone grieve their loss.