1 - Misguided Fury

Knives hiss through the air. Breaths come hot and sharp as I slash and swipe and force my offence onto the werewolf. He's darting and weaving between my attacks, trying fervently to grapple back some semblance of an advantage, but I am a storm at sea. I am merciless.

He should've known better than to challenge a hunter.

In a blur of strikes and kicks, the werewolf sprawls in the dirt, sending up a cloud of dust in his wake.

I follow like death itself.

"Stray!" Beau yelps, cutting me a heartbroken look akin to a kicked puppy. "Ow!"

I roll my shoulders and offer the beta a hand to help him up. "Nothing's broken," I dismiss. I didn't hit him hard enough to break bones— and besides, he's got the benefit of fast healing even if I did. "You'll live."

"My pride's pretty bruised," he grumbles in return, accepting my help and dusting himself off to no avail. "Show me how you did that."

I do but, in my demonstration, I must go a little too quick for him to defend himself, because this time it's a blur of twists and slashes and he's on the ground once more.

"Rowan!" he calls sharply, adamantly refusing my offered hand and wince of apology. He crosses his arms and glares up at the cerulean sky. "Tell your fated to be nice to me."

I roll my eyes and set about plucking my throwing blades from where they're landed on the ground. They have avoided Beau only due to an excess of control on my part, and not a lack of one. These ones aren't as good as my silver collection, but given silver doesn't agree with my new family, I've had to adapt. Werewolves — at least these ones — are not my enemies anymore.

"He hasn't broken any of your bones— he is being nice to you," Rowan returns distractedly. He's sat on the porch steps of the pack house nearby, reading through the latest draft of a contract between the pack and the police, checking for loopholes.

Lance — the officer who fancied himself an ally to hunters — has been surprisingly helpful in his attempts to win back favour after aligning with my relatives to take down Rowan's pack a month earlier. The fallout from the pack rivalry — all those deaths — has been swept under the rug. With any luck, it will be the last brush with death this pack will see for the foreseeable future. In any case, Lance's worries have been assuaged and he's offered us support.

I don't trust him. I've made it clear that, if he dares to cross us again, my knives will get very well acquainted with his neck.

Since then, he's taken to sending correspondence by mail to avoid my harsh, suspicious glare.

Beau says I need to work on my resting face.

I've come out to train this morning with the intention of clearing my head after another sleepless night. It has been a week since Rowan told me of his suspicions that a werewolf bite would have no effect on someone like me— a Ferreus hunter with silver in my veins and lichtenberg figures and symbols marring my skin and a Haze lurking just beyond reach. A week since the subsequent realisation that my uncle Orion shot my sister for nothing after a bite that most likely would have healed itself. A week since I decided I need to bring the fight to the rest of my relatives before they catch up to me. Before they rip the rug of peace from beneath my feet.

A shiver of unease scuttles down my spine. I'm on edge and restless and, given Beau is still protesting on the ground, I turn my focus to one of the nearby trees. First, I ensure there's no wolves lurking — they have a habit of watching me train from the shrubs and bushes — and when I'm certain the coast is clear, I send two blades hissing through the air. They burrow into the trunk with dull thuds. Overhead, branches whine and leaves hiss in return.

I will not let my reflexes become rusty, just like I won't let my knives go dull.

"Look at that— you killed a tree. Its reign of terror is at an end," Beau comments, shielding his eyes from the sun and studying me closely. "Maybe we should take a break. A time-out. An indefinite time-out."

"Just tell him you're giving up," Lachlan suggests, looking altogether too pleased with himself as he watches us. He's stood with his arms braced on the porch railing, surveying the fight that has come stuttering to a stop from a slight vantage point.

In return, Beau lifts his middle finger towards the gamma with grace.

"Be nice," Rowan scolds without raising his eyes from the contract.

Beau scowls but drops his hand obediently.

I stalk for the tree and rip the blades free before stuffing them into the belt at my waist with the others. Training with werewolves is nothing like training with Ferreus hunters. Not that long ago, I would be grappling with my twin, Esme, for hours on end; knives slashing, postures fluid, danger prowling behind our silver eyes. We treated every fight like the real thing. There was no such thing as peace. There was always another pack to kill, always another fight to survive. We couldn't let our instincts go dull, or else we would die. Either by the rage of werewolves or the misguided duty of a fellow Ferreus hunter who noticed a fatal bite.

These werewolves train like it's all a big game. Even after the close call with Duskland a month ago, even after the narrow escape with some of my relatives, they're content to be at peace and put all notions of fighting to the back of their minds.

Over the past month, since the mess, I've thrown myself into the role of defender. I've spent my time either sequestered in Rowan's office — which has since become our office — or out patrolling the borders of the territory, checking for weak points that rivals or hunters could use to sneak in and gain some sort of advantage over us. When I'm not planning or patrolling, then I'm right here in the pitiful training circle. Training with whoever dares to face my frustrations. More often than not, I'm fighting air.

My efforts to keep distracted have doubled over the last week. Plans galvanise in my mind; offences and strategies all merging into one incomprehensible mess.

Beau is humouring me, this morning. Now, though, I think he's regretting the choices that have led him here.

It's a deceptively bright day in Crescent Valley, with the sun bearing down on us and not a cloud in sight. I've come to realise the weather changes fast here and, in a few hours, clouds could crest the mountainous borders to my safe haven, bringing rain and darkness with them.

Rowan's pack are making the most of the sun while it lasts. Most of them are shifted and racing one another through the woods, and the air is alive with the swish and sway of leaves, the melody of birdsong, and the howls of distant wolves.

It's a peaceful concert, but I cannot savour it.

Leaving Beau to pick himself up, or else wallow in self-pity, I stalk for Rowan and take a seat at his side. If I cannot fight, then I'll focus on something else. Anything else. Lachlan quips at Beau who rises to the gamma's challenge and they descend into bickering. After a month, it's a sound as natural as the singing birds to me.

As I read the contract over his shoulder, Rowan lifts his gaze to study me.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft as he reaches up to brush a few rogue strands of hair out of my eyes.

For the past week, he has given me the space I need to figure out my plan for the remaining Ferreus hunters. He's letting me decide what is best for my own peace of mind— to put down the weapons and exist in this bubble of security and dedicate my time to hiding here, or to face the shadow lurking on my peripheral.

The problem is, I don't run from fights. It's not in my nature— a nature forced upon me. I know what I need to do, but I also know I cannot face them on my own. And yet, I will not ask him to die for me. I'm caught in a riptide.

Now, as I risk a glance, his brows ripple with concern and his liquid bronze eyes hold a devotion beyond comprehension. Whatever you need, let me help.

"Not really," I admit, turning my focus once more towards the contract in his hands. "I don't know what to do."

"I understand," he returns in a light tone, inviting me to elaborate but not forcing it.

Beau and Lachlan's bickering has fallen quiet, and neither of them interrupt us. In fact, as I catch Lachlan gazing up at the sky and Beau sitting up to tug his hands through his auburn hair, I gather they're doing their best to look busy and disinterested. Upon my request, Rowan hasn't told them what's bothering me, just yet, but they're bound to be curious.

I'm getting better at asking for help when I need it, but the concept is still new to me.

That's why I address the contract when I say, "You can't leave. Not if there's a chance you won't come back. It's reckless and stupid— I know it is, but I... I can't hide."

Rowan's quiet for a moment or two, pondering my words. At last, he says, "It is dangerous, but if it's bothering you, then it isn't stupid. I want you to be happy here. I told you I'm with you, no matter what you choose, and I won't let you face them on your own. This place — this pack — is my home, but I'm not tied down. That's what Beau and Lach are here for— to watch over everyone when I can't."

"Um—" Beau cuts in as he rises and wanders over. "Not to interrupt, but who's going where?"

Rowan catches my gaze meaningfully. I understand at once; whether or not Beau gets his answer is up to me.

"I'm going back," I admit, my eyes snapping up to meet Beau's with grim certainty. "We didn't end the line with Orion, Liliana and my mother. There's more of them, and I want to put a stop to it."

He frowns and crosses his arms, his gaze flickering to Lachlan and Rowan before landing back on me.

"They think you're dead," Lachlan reminds me. "They won't come looking for you."

"No, they'll come looking for you. It's their job to find werewolves and kill them. How long do you think it'll take for their search to lead them here?"

"Let me get this straight," the beta says, his brows pinching. Unease seeps off him in smothering waves. "We've dealt with Duskland and your relatives — some of them, at least — and now everything's peaceful and quiet, you want to go back to your old home? And what, take out the rest of them?"

When he puts it like that, it sounds foolish, but I cannot simply bury my head in the sand. I will not.

He must see some spark in my eyes because he sighs wearily. "Obviously, we're with you. It just sounds like a great way to get yourself killed. You've been fighting all your life, stray. Maybe it's time to learn to simply live and not look so hard for another conflict."

His words strike a chord deep within me. I don't know how to live in peace. I've never known what it feels like. All my life, fights have been a certainty. I wasn't simply taught to walk— I was taught to feign and pivot and dodge blow after blow.

There are younger members of the Ferreus clan being led along that same trail paved with knives and blood. I cannot sit idly by, existing in a bubble of peace, and let it happen. I've broken out of the silver chains of my legacy, but they cannot. Not on their own. Not without help.

"It's a matter of when they catch up, not if. I'd rather take the fight to them and catch them off-guard before they can do the same to us," I insist, eager for him to understand why I cannot hide from this. By the time the rest of the Ferreus hunters make themselves known, it will be too late for us. "They're a threat, Beau. They're teaching kids to hold silver knives just like I was taught. I cannot turn my back on them. I'm going to stop it. I have to."

In symphony, an icy dedication stirs in my blood and the markings on my arms pulse with an echo of light. The mere thought of my relatives and my Haze is ready and willing to face the threat they pose. A month ago, I was drowning in the Haze forced upon me by Orion— a tsunami of instinct and fury dragging me along against my will. A month ago, I'd fallen into a Haze and destroyed a werewolf pack with hardly any effort. A month ago, I was a threat. A hunter cursed to hunt. Free will was a rug ripped from beneath my feet.

I'd almost killed Rowan.

The fight for control was a difficult and bloody one, but I'd managed it.

Beau notices at once. He idly turns to survey the woodland trails, stretching out some of the lingering stiffness from our fight. It might seem an odd thing to do — to turn his back on someone who could snap at any moment — but his retreat and his reckless obliviousness only reinforces the fact he isn't a threat. I've aligned with my hunter nature, and now the Haze isn't a danger towards them. They are my family now, and I will kill to defend them.

I know it like I know my own soul. The Haze is after the hunters, not the wolves. Even still, I take deep, steadying breaths — a swirling fog of Rowan's cinnamon scent draws my focus like a caress — and let the urge fade. If I fall, I don't know how the others would stop me from charging across the country on my own, reckless and desperate.

No, if I'm going to put a stop to the ceaseless, misguided fury of the remaining Ferreus hunters, I need to be smart about it and plan the attack like I used to before my life was turned on its head.

This time, I will be the one catching them by surprise. I am a storm at sea. They won't see me coming until it's too late.