*
He was stalking her. His green eyes glowed in the dark as he watched her walk across the street. She could see them reflected in the windows of the store she was walking by. In the darkening light, his eyes weren’t where they were supposed to be; they were much higher up, as if he were much, much taller. She clutched her jacket tighter around her body and quickened her steps. Out the corner of her eye, she saw that the green eyes across the street were keeping pace. She walked faster, her breath coming in short spurts as she started to get winded. She turned the corner and kept walking. Then she felt it. He was behind her now. She started to run.
She spied a house ahead and ran to the door for help. She rang the doorbell, and the door swung open to reveal a younger version of herself. “Don’t hurt my mom,” the young Layla pleaded. “Please, don’t hurt my mom.” Layla could feel his hot breath on her back. It was too late, she had waited too long. Now she was going to die. A heavy hand rested on her shoulders; course, dark hair brushing against her cheek. She watched as a line of blood trickled from the claws imbedded in her shoulder and ran down her arm, leaving drops of crimson on the front porch.
“Please don’t hurt my mom.” Layla screamed as she whirled around and was flung across the room. She looked up, confused. A blonde wolf woman stood over her, hazel eyes full of hunger, fangs exposed in the wide, gaping mouth. She smiled wickedly at Layla.
“Let’s see if you taste as good as your mom,” she said before sucking her blood-covered finger and moaning.
Layla looked around. Her mom lay bleeding a few feet away. She crawled over to the woman who had given her life.
“Layla, you have to run,” her mom pleaded. “You have to run!” Layla held on as her mom was suddenly ripped away and disappeared into a cloud of darkness.
“No!” Layla shouted into the darkness, clawing her way. “No, leave her alone, leave my mom alone!” She jumped onto the back of the blonde, and managed to sink her teeth into the blonde’s shoulder before being thrown off. She opened her eyes to see an old man standing next to her. He was now holding her mom in his arms.
The old man looked at her, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” he said before he ran through the broken back door of her house.
Layla lay among the carnage of her living room, one word reverberating in her brain. Werewolf.
She stood on a wide, open plain surrounded by Native Americans going about their daily living. Women with olive skin and long black hair cooked, talked and laughed, while the children ran around their feet and played. A few of the warriors resplendent in loincloths cleaned and repaired weapons, their sinewy muscles gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Suddenly a horn sounded and the people looked frightened. On the horizon, men on horseback charged the village. The women and children cried soundlessly and the men moved them together and ushered them toward a huge tent. They did not notice Layla. She stood in the midst of a line of warriors about to wage battle. Unexpectedly, the men changed. They were no longer men; but wolves standing on two legs like men. Their long hair streamed behind them, their loincloths still intact. They snapped their massive jaws at the intruders, and then lunged as the first shot was fired. Their powerful legs allowed them an unearthly swiftness, and in what seem like mere moments, one of the wolves pulled an attacker from his horse, before he savagely ripped out the man’s throat.
Layla was embroiled in the melee. All around her, wolves and men met, fought and fell. Shots rang out. Snarls and snaps bombarded her ears. Then she saw him in the distance. A giant wolf. Different from the others. His fur was mostly gray with tufts of black and brown. He stared down at the carnage, his head hung dejectedly. She met his yellow eyes and before she could react, he bounded up a small hill. She followed. He stopped and looked back at her before he turned his head towards the sky. The moon hung low and seemed to almost touch his muzzle. He let out a long howl and the pain Layla heard in his voice threatened to break her heart. She whimpered in sympathy and he whirled around, his fangs glowing against the moonlight as he lunged for her.
She and Brett lay in a darkened room in each other’s arms. His green eyes raked her body and she felt the fire in his intense gaze. She bit her bottom lip as his lips rained kisses over her throat and shoulders. His arms were like steel bands trapping her to his body and the hair of his chest rubbed against her erect nipples. She groaned and pulled his head closer to her body. His lips and hands were everywhere. She was so overwhelmed that she couldn’t think. The only sounds were their labored breathing and the heat of the room made her lightheaded. She ground her hips on his and he growled a response. She arched her back and breathed into his mouth as he covered her lips with his own.
Suddenly she and Brett were no longer in bed. She stood at the foot of the bed as she watched Brett and the gorgeous blonde wolf woman. The woman’s hair was like silk and Brett had it wrapped around his hand as he stroked up and down her amazing body. The blonde growled, a low, throaty rumble, which seemed to spur Brett on even further. His moves became more hurried, almost frantic and Layla felt repulsed as she watched. The blonde reared her head back and for a moment Layla met her eyes. She winked seductively, leaned her head back even further, and invited Brett deeper still. She opened her mouth and her long fangs appeared, glistening wickedly. She pulled Brett’s hair, forcing his head back as she sank her fangs into his throat. Layla shuddered as she watched the blood squirt from the gash in his throat. He soundlessly grabbed at his torn flesh, his eyes pleading with Layla as the blonde laughed.
*
“NO!” Layla bolted upright in bed. Her hair had worked itself loose from her ponytail and a few tendrils were stuck to her drenched skin. The fan had stopped and with the windows closed and locked, her room had become a furnace. The only sound was her harsh breathing in the now unwelcomed darkness of her bedroom broken only by the flashing display of her cell phone. She hurriedly reached over and flicked on the light, frowning as the room remained dark. Her heart pounded as she wiped the sweat off her forehead. She hadn’t had any nightmares since she was eighteen. And this one had bonus material. Inserting Brett into the picture had to be a result of her daydreaming about him. She made a mental note to see her doctor when she had a spare minute. She had to get over this.
She reached up to open the windows, and sighed in relief as a bit of the overly cool night stole into the room. She lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling, the muted light from the phone casting odd shadows around the room. Even though she would have to be up soon, she resigned herself to sleep and snuggled deeper into the bed.
*
Brett combed his fingers through his hair. He sat leaning against the headboard of his bed a few doors down from where Layla lived. The rumpled sheets were tangled around his lower body and his chest lay bare to the cool air of the night. He breathed heavily. He had never been so engrossed in a dream that was so enigmatic. He had followed her. The fledgling. She ran from him and he had attacked her. Before he could wake up, the dream had changed and she was there. Not Layla, Suzette. He had spent years thinking about what he would do to her when he finally found her and now he realized she must be connected to Layla somehow. He thought about how Layla had felt in his arms in the dream. Their embrace had enflamed his senses. His body responded to his thoughts with an ardent salute and he groaned softly as his mind turned to her sexy body and the feel of her beneath his hands.
He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote everything he could remember. In his experience, the dreams were a way for his mind to work out the little details he may not have noticed during the day and he took them seriously. He wasn’t sure why his dreams were connected to Layla; she was just a fledgling, albeit a strong one. He made a mental note to stay close to her, knowing deep inside she may be able to lead him to Suzette.
*
Layla knelt down at the water’s edge and dragged her finger through the clear water in an attempt to relax. She sat back and looked up at the bright morning sky. Her dr
eams last night had been so vivid, it was all she could do to try to go back to sleep. She has never been so affected by a dream before, even when she had nightmares as a kid. Some details of her dream, she didn’t need to think about to recall. The scenes with her and Brett were so hot; they had burned themselves into her mind.
The old man watched her as she moved away from the water. Her dark hair bounced behind her as the sun streamed through the trees glinting off the reddish gold highlights. She was different today. She had an understanding about her, as if she knew more about her past. He nodded to himself. Even though she didn’t know it, she was starting to accept the dreams and her destiny. That would explain it, even though she probably had no idea what they meant. Every fledgling had the dreams. He’d had them once, when he was first about to Transform. Everything was starting to change for her, even her scent. Unfortunately, that was not a good thing.
He sniffed the air. They were safe, for now; no one else was around. He hesitated as he thought of what he would have to do. She would never get the chance to live her life, to grow old. She would never get to experience any more than what she’d experienced up to this point. He shrugged. Theirs was a life of struggle and sacrifice. It wasn’t easy being a Were.
Layla jumped as an old man appeared out of the shadows and sat next to her. She stared at him as his eyes ran over her.
“Um…excuse me?” She asked in bewilderment. She cocked her head. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She looked around for help in case she was attacked, but saw no one.
“This is a private party, no offense,” she said, hoping that he understood to leave.
“None taken,” the old man answered his voice gravelly and still.
Layla leaned back, away from the stranger. “Okay, seriously, this is not cool.” She waved an arm at the empty park, “you really have the whole park to choose from. I just want to be left alone.”
He eyed her silently and Layla tensed, ready to spring if he attacked. “Have you had the dreams yet?” he asked suddenly.
Layla stood up quickly, unnerved. “What?”
The old man stood facing her, his jacket lightly whipping in the wind. “I need to know if you’ve had the dreams yet. It makes things so much easier to explain.”
Layla opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her brows furrowed. How did he know about her weird dreams? It had to be a coincidence, she thought. Everyone had dreams. She shook her head numbly, moving away from him slowly.
The old man watched the panic start behind her eyes and move into her limbs. She was going to rabbit at any time now. He reached for her. “Layla, my name is Martin.”
Layla felt her heart beat faster as her body prepared her to run away from the danger standing in front of her. Hearing her name only heightened her need to get away. “How do you know my name?” She asked. “How do you know my name?”
She was suddenly furious. Was this person stalking her? She walked determinedly towards him, anger overcoming her fear of the unknown. “How. Do. You. Know. My. Name?” She ground out, anger radiating from her and rolling towards him like waves.
Martin smiled lightly at her. Normally, it was easier to talk to a fledgling, they tended to be much younger and more open to the possibility. A fledgling Layla’s age would normally be killed, but he felt almost responsible for her plight.
“I knew your mom.” He said quietly. As he expected, the mention of her mother took some of the wind out of her anger, but she did not drop her guard. Smart, he thought. With the right training, she would make an excellent hunter. He thought briefly of Suzette then back to Layla. With the wrong training—he tried not to think of the consequences.
“Bullshit!” Layla said loudly, anger evident in her voice. “You didn’t know my mom. You’re just some pervert getting off on getting me upset.” Her hands balled onto fists. “Get away from me before I kick your old ass!” She glared menacingly at him.
Martin continued smiling. “Layla. Think. You’ve seen me before. Remember?” He walked slowly toward her. He closed the slight distance between them, and this time, stopped short of touching her. “We don’t have much time. I need you to remember.” He waited patiently for her to calm down, his hands still lightly resting on the cane.
“Layla,” he continued, “You were about ten or so when your mom was attacked. There was a blonde woman, Suzette and then there were…wolf-like animals in the house. I helped you get away. Do you remember? You were so brave the way you fought.”
Layla shook her head. No, according to the police report, thieves had broken into her house and had stabbed her mom. Her mom had stumbled out of the house and was found down the street dead in a pool of her own blood, her throat slit. The police had told her that her mom had distracted the thieves so she could survive.
Layla felt her legs give way as she sank into the neatly trimmed grass at the edge of the lake. She had spent so much time in the hospital telling them that a wolf had killed her mother, but the police had insisted it was thieves and the hospital had insisted it was her imagination. Although, they could never fully explain the jagged marks on her back.
Something about being dragged through broken glass was the only explanation. So years later and thousands of dollars in antipsychotic medication, she recanted her statement, agreed it was thieves and was declared cured. Now this old man stood before her supporting her earlier claims that wolves had killed her mother.
Layla looked up at the old man, who now kneeled beside to her. “No, it was thieves. There were thieves in my house. There were never any wolves.” Tears started to fill her eyes. “There were never any wolves,” she continued, knowing she repeated it more to herself than to him.
Martin felt a slight twinge of compassion for Layla. To have her world destroyed with her mother’s death, restored by a psychiatrist and medication, only to be destroyed again was beyond torture. He didn’t want to cause her any more pain, but he only had a few months before the blue moon. If somehow she convinced him not to kill her, then he needed to make sure she was ready. If Suzette tried to recruit her and she wasn’t ready, she’d be dead. To be honest, he was starting to warm to the idea of having her as a hunter. He sighed. He wanted her to have time to come to terms with her past, but now was not the time to coddle her. She needed to know.
“Layla,” Martin started gently. “I need to know if you have had any strange dreams. Dreams about wolves and fighting? Dreams about Native Americans perhaps?”
Layla shrugged. “Why do you keep asking me about some damn dreams? Everyone dreams. I had dreams last night, but so did half the freaking world!” She felt a little bit hysterical. He had just told her that her mother was killed by wolves and now he was asking about dreams.
“You are so creepy!” she shouted, not able to take any more. “Just leave me alone.”
Martin shook his head, and ran a frustrated hand over his closely cropped hair. “Layla, I can’t. I want to, but the fate of the world rests on what you need to learn. What I need to teach you.”
“What the hell are talking about?”
Martin looked at her without answering. Then he spoke, his voice sad. “Layla, why were you attacked as a kid?”
“I don’t know!” Layla said, frustrated and tired of the conversation. She thought back. The female thing had said all they wanted was Layla. She remembered the carnage and the blonde saying that it could have all been avoided had they given her up. She remembered how hard she and her mom had fought. How hard she had fought and she really didn’t remember much afterwards. Was she special somehow? Why did they want her? Were her parents—her dad—involved in something bad? She closed her eyes to clear her head. “I don’t know.”
“You do know. Stop acting like the child you were nineteen years ago and remember.” Martin huffed.
“I’m not acting like a child!” She snapped back, although she knew full well she was acting like a child. “Just because you were a friend of my mom’s doesn’t give you the ri
ght to talk to me like I’m a moron.”
Martin took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t matter that she didn’t believe him. He could feel her powers brewing at the surface. Sooner or later, she would have to believe him, as she started to get stronger and her powers became more noticeable. Still, she took it better than most. He’d gotten used to the screams for help, the “I’ve got pepper spray” line, one had even called 911 as he talked to her, but he’d heard the sirens long before they arrived. He looked up at the moon barely visible beneath the glare of the sun. Soon.
He looked back at her. “Sometimes when the possible answer does not explain things, then the impossible must.”
Layla took a deep breath and smiled at the serious look in the old man’s eyes. He was right. The impossible answer was the best sometimes. However, right now the possible worked just fine. She had entertained him long enough. He was some random guy who had handed her a line. He was probably about to mention that he had an uncle in some foreign country who would be able to help her if she gave him five thousand dollars.
Or his interest in her could be more sinister. He might try to convince her that he needed help and kidnap her. Or he was simply crazy as hell and needed to update his medication. In her psychology course, she had learned of a case where a guy saw a tragedy in the paper and convinced himself he was a part of it. The guy ended up stalking the lady’s house and eventually attacking her. The same thing could be going on now, she thought. Perhaps, he’d seen her picture in the paper and because she’d never changed her name, he could’ve found her. Although, nineteen years was a long time. And she had never told anyone about the old man who had helped her.
She needed to get out of here. She should have never engaged him in conversation. When he’d sat down, she should have left. Instead, she let him play out his fantasy and had gotten caught up in his story. She’d allowed him to get under her skin by using her mother.
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