Chapter 1 - Elias
The scent of jasmine is captivating, enticing my inner wolf to walk through the dense fog surrounding the forest.
One step forward, and I notice that I’m in human form, hearing the crunching sound of the dry, autumn leaves beneath the sole of my booted foot.
The scent grows stronger, disarming me momentarily and keeping me as frozen as the glaciers on the surrounding State Park mountains’ peaks during the Alaskan winter. The only difference is that I’m not as cold as ice; heat rises through me like a wild forest fire.
It spreads through me and fills my nerves with a sense of tingling awareness that lifts my arm as if to reach out for something to quell this burning hunger that envelops my being. It’s when I lift my eyes that I see a curtain of the most luscious golden waves of hair cascading down the back of a shorter figure. My fingers reach out, the tips almost brushing the golden curtain, curiosity stalling my movement when I’m captivated by the luminous gold hues that surround the sweep of hair.
“Who are you?” I call out, my heart pounding as another inhale indicates that the figure is the source of the sweet scent of jasmine. I have the sudden urge to close my eyes and relish in the tooth-achingly sweet scent, bask in all the glorious inebriation that arrests my senses, but my curiosity wins over, and I wouldn’t want to miss the chance of seeing this enchanting creature with my own eyes when a gentle wind passes, strumming the silky, golden locks of hair with a soft melody that whispers my name.
“Elias…”
The lilting sound is so soothing that it lifts my lips into a smile.
“Alpha Elias!”
Without warning, I’m abruptly jolted from the dream, snapping my eyes open just as my beta, Dillon, is about to tap my shoulder. Staring at his outstretched hand in irritable accusation for interrupting my dream on the brink of its climax, I grunt and lift my eyes to him.
“What do you want?” I grumble coldly as I sit upright, my nostrils flaring angrily as I raise a brow at Dillon.
But when I notice the way his brows are knitted in worry, I clear my mind of the regret of not being able to see the face of the figure in my haunting dream.
It’s not the first time I’ve encountered that figure in a mysterious, misty forest with thick fog that clouds everything except the tresses of celestial, golden hair. Perhaps I can meet the figure tonight, as soon as I’ve taken care of whatever prompted Dillon to wake me up.
“It’s”—he pauses to gulp back the trepidation that worries his quivering bottom lip—“it’s Andrew. He’s dead.”
***
Andrew was missing for three days after venturing into the State Park mountains for an independent hunt.
Now, he’s dead.
The news of his death brings with it a sense of ominous unease, especially amongst the alphas of the Snehvolk Pack. The four leaders of the largest cluster of werewolf packs in Alaska spread out across the forest, paired with our respective betas, as we gather the remains of Andrew’s body.
It’s not an ordinary death, but a grotesque scene of horror spread out for a mile along the creek and across the nearby tree trunks lining the ingress of the woods. Andrew’s blood paints the scene crimson, his torn limbs scattered like they’d been discarded after the blood had been drained.
It’s not our first time witnessing horror and gore of this magnitude. But it’s by far the worst we’ve encountered when we find his decapitated head floating down the stream.
It’s Alpha Thane who appears to have the toughest stomach, using a broken branch to fish out the pale head from the stream. He leans over and grabs it by the brittle strands of dark hair. He holds it up, almost triumphantly, except that he’s wearing a look of regret as strong as each of us feels right now.
As the leader of the Snehvolk Pack, I feel the dread more intensely as it courses through my bones. The alphas of the pack—Thane, Dawson, Brooks, and I—exchange glances as we hold the strewn bits of Andrew’s body in our hands.
There’s an unvocalized knowing that passes through the mind link we share. It’s like our wolves spare a moment of silence for the fallen pack member who’d served our pack since he turned eighteen.
Andrew was a descendant of the original Nightclaw Pack, his grandfather having served the patrols under my grandfather’s leadership long before we joined forces with the neighboring packs to form the Snehvolk Pack during the blood wars. Four packs came together to become the strongest in the States, and we all reside in Girdwood under the dictatorship of four alphas.
Because it was my grandfather who formed the alliance between the four packs, it’s Nightclaw that has served as the leader of the umbrella of wolf packs since then. Right now, I feelthe weight of that responsibility hanging on my shoulders, and it’s heavier than the weight of Andrew’s body parts as we lug them back to our isolated town in the valley.
It feels like we’re heading back there only to bring more bad news. Whatever attacked Andrew didn’t leave behind any tracks on the smooth snow covering the ground. We have no idea what did this to him, or the two other werewolves found over the past two weeks.
As we follow the stream against the current that leads us into Girdwood, the gathering of Snehvolk members in the town square awaits the news that a member of their pack has been slaughtered. It’s brutal enough that we’re carrying Andrew’s remains, but it’s even worse that he’s not in one piece.
I hate being the bearer of bad news, but this incident calls for an emergency meeting with the pack. Once I’ve made the announcement both vocally and telepathically for those who haven’t gathered with dreaded anticipation in the town square, I glance over my shoulder to find the other alphas nodding as if to encourage me.
There’s no doubt that I’ll make the right decisions for the pack, and my fellow alphas and I set Andrew’s remains aside to give him a proper burial later. As a fallen soldier in an army of wolves, he’ll be buried in the pack’s cemetery, and a bonfire ceremony will be conducted.
Even if we have no idea what did this to him.
