The Ancient Moon

Chapter 9: The Bone in the Moonlight

POV Beatrice

The house felt different in the morning. It wasn’t just the light — soft, pale, spilling across the floors like it belonged there. It was in the air. Like something ancient had sighed in its sleep and settled deeper into the foundation overnight. I didn’t know what time it was when I opened my eyes, but I knew he was already awake.

I could feel it.

The mark on my back pulsed. Not painful, not hot. Just... aware. Like someone had tapped it from inside and whispered: get up.

I dressed without thinking. Hoodie, boots, hair tied back. I walked barefoot until I remembered I wasn’t in my dorm anymore. That thought almost made me laugh. I wasn’t anything from before anymore.

Outside, the morning was still and silver. Fog hung low across the ground. I didn’t see Dorian, but I didn’t need to. I followed the pull. Around the house. Through the gate. Down the path between the trees where no wind blew, but every leaf seemed to listen.

He was waiting in a clearing, arms crossed, face unreadable, the Alpha again.

I stopped a few feet away.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I didn’t realize there was a schedule.”

“There isn’t. But the Moon doesn't like hesitation.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. Because she’s been so communicative.”

He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he nodded to the center of the clearing. “Stand there.”

I hesitated.

He didn’t repeat himself.

I stepped into the circle of flattened grass, the earth still damp beneath my feet.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“We’re not doing anything. You are.”

“Helpful.”

He stepped closer. Not too close. But close enough that I felt it again — the shift in the air, the way everything seemed to lean toward him like gravity had a favorite.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I frowned.

“Bea.”

I closed them.

“Breathe in,” he said. “Slow. Now listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Because you’re listening with the wrong part of you.”

“Then maybe you should explain—”

“Stop talking.”

I bit back a retort.

“Feel the air. Feel the ground. Feel the space between the trees.”

I inhaled again.

And again.

And somewhere between the second and third breath — something clicked.

It was faint. At first. Like an echo underwater.

Emotion.

Not mine.

Not Dorian’s.

Someone else.

Anger.

Bitterness.

Fear.

I gasped and opened my eyes. “What the hell was that?”

He was watching me.

“You felt it.”

I nodded. “It wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

He looked past me.

“They’re out there. Always. Feeling. Speaking. You’ve just been too human to hear it.”

I stepped back. My pulse was fast now. “That’s what this is? I’m just… a radio?”

“You’re a mirror. But you’re made of blood and nerve, not glass. And blood remembers more than you think.”

I shook my head. “No. No, that wasn’t just emotion. It was alive. Like it wanted me to feel it.”

“It did. It always will.”

I turned in a circle, scanning the trees. The fog seemed heavier now. Closer.

“I felt fear,” I said.

“Good. That means you’re still in control.”

“What happens when I’m not?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped behind me and said, “Close your eyes again.”

I tensed.

“I won’t touch you.”

“I didn’t say you would.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I exhaled and closed them again.

This time it came faster.

A wave of cold. Rage. So sharp it made my chest seize.

Then another.

Grief. Raw and sticky, like old wounds ripped open again.

I stumbled back.

“Stop it,” I said. “Make it stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Then someone is.”

“No. You’re open now. And it won’t stop unless you close it.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Then learn.”

The ground trembled beneath my feet.

Literally.

The dirt shook. The leaves lifted. The fog split around me.

And then it snapped.

Something burst out of me — not fire, not sound, but force. A pulse that rippled through the clearing, shook the branches, made the birds scatter like smoke.

I dropped to my knees.

“Bea!” Dorian moved to me instantly.

My hands hit the ground.

“I can’t— I can’t shut it off!”

His hands were on my shoulders. Firm. Centering.

“You have to. Breathe. Now.”

“I don’t— It’s too much—”

“Look at me.”

I did.

His eyes were calm. Fierce. Grounded.

“Feel me. Only me. Nothing else exists.”

I tried.

And something shifted again.

The noise fell back.

The pressure eased.

My breath returned.

I sagged forward.

He caught me.

We stayed there — silent — his arms around me, mine shaking like I’d just crawled out of a storm.

“What was that?” I whispered.

“Your body opening,” he said. “Your mind catching up.”

“It felt like I was drowning in everyone else.”

“You will.”

“Forever?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re stronger than they were.”

I looked at him.

“Who?”

“The ones before you.”

I didn’t ask what happened to them.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

But I understood something now.

This wasn’t just about shifting. Or feeling. Or even power.

This was about surviving your own awakening.

And I wasn’t sure how many more waves I could take.

***

I couldn’t calm down. Not fully. Not really. Even after he walked me back, even after the storm in my blood quieted to a whisper, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had crawled inside me and refused to leave. The mark on my back wasn’t just warm now — it was alive, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Everything around me buzzed with something I couldn’t name: the trees outside, the wooden walls of the room, the cold silver doorknob in my palm. The world felt electric. Too sharp. Like I could cut myself on the air.

Dorian hadn’t said much. Just watched me as I sat on the edge of the bed, then finally said, “Rest. You’ll need it.” And left before I could ask what that meant. I didn’t try to stop him. I was too tired. Too full. Too split.

The room was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. The walls held memories — I could feel them now. Trapped laughter. Screams muffled by old stone. Heat that wasn’t mine. Something whispered behind the floorboards, not words, not ghosts, but emotions, soaked deep into the wood. Love, lust, loneliness. Pain. It was like the room had bled, and now I was tasting the aftermath.

I sat on the floor and tried to ground myself. Deep breath. Eyes closed. Focus on the present. The smell of wax and pine. The cool press of the floorboards against my legs. The weight of my body. The silence. But it wasn’t silence. It was filled. With what, I couldn’t say. But it was louder than noise.

My head dropped forward. I wrapped my arms around my knees. I needed a minute. Just a minute of normal.

That’s when I heard it.

Come.

I jerked up, heart racing.

“Hello?” I called, even though I knew no one was there.

Nothing.

Just stillness.

I waited.

And then, again — not sound. Not voice. But thought. Slid straight into my skull like silk dipped in ice.

Come to me.

A command. Not loud. Not angry. Just... sure. Like it knew I would obey.

I stood too fast, nearly stumbled. My body moved before my mind caught up. I gripped the edge of the dresser, breathing hard.

“No,” I whispered.

The voice didn’t come again.

But the pull remained.

Like an invisible string was tied to my spine, tugging gently toward the door.

I tried to reason with it. Maybe it was a memory. Maybe it was just the echo of Dorian’s presence, leftover and leaking. Maybe I was overtired and making things up. But nothing in me believed that. Because this wasn’t Dorian.

His presence felt like pressure. This one felt like absence. Like a hollow space in the shape of a person, and I was being asked to walk straight into it.

And I did.

I opened the door slowly, stepped into the hallway, expecting cold.

It was warm.

The torches flickered.

I padded barefoot through the corridor, past dark windows and deeper shadows, heart thudding with every step. The house didn’t try to stop me. Neither did my instincts. Which should’ve scared me more.

By the time I reached the back entrance, the voice hadn’t returned. But the pull hadn’t left.

Outside, the sky was a heavy blue, the trees black silhouettes swaying like they were whispering to each other. I crossed the threshold, skin prickling. The cold bit my arms. I didn’t go back for a coat.

I walked through the grass. Barefoot. The damp sank into my skin.

Toward the woods.

Always the woods.

The path narrowed. The light vanished.

My breathing grew louder.

Then I saw it.

Not a shadow.

Not Dorian.

Something else.

Just past the trees.

Tall. Still.

Watching.

My whole body froze.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I recognized it. Somehow.

Not by face. Not by smell. Not by anything physical.

But the same way I’d recognized the forest that first night — in my bones.

Whoever — whatever — it was, it wasn’t Pack.

And it wasn’t human either.

I stepped forward.

Branches cracked under my feet.

The figure didn’t move.

It stood like it had been waiting for centuries.

I blinked.

And it was gone.

Just like that.

I stood alone in the dark, heart pounding, cold sweat sliding down my spine.

I should’ve run.

I didn’t.

Because I knew something then, standing in the shadows.

This wasn’t the end of the voice.

It was only the beginning.