This time, I simply shook it off and walked on until I reached the back of an outdoor amphitheater.
Hundreds of piercing, eager eyes landed on me.
Was every wolf from every district within their territory invited to this? One pack member’s problem was everyone’s, I guessed.
So much for a low-key entrance.
Even though the energy tore through me like a set of sharp claws and I wanted to run and hide… I raised my chin high, picked a staircase, planted one foot in front of the other, and wove through the terraced seating. Paying less attention to the humans sitting on the low cobblestone walls and the werewolves sprawled on the grass behind them, and focused on the more pivotal things—like breathing.
My eyes darted around. For Shanley, for Mau, for any familiar face. I found one, glaring up from a seat near the front of the amphitheater.
Chet.
The breath I’d been taking lodged in my throat.
He’d lost his fake tan. His gaze was wild, darkened by the shadow of the crescent-shaped rock I could only assume this clearing was named for. Even dressed as he was in a full suit and tie, it was clear he’d been off the roids and out of the gym, likely kicked off the water polo team, far from the overinflated jock I’d last seen.
I could see what I’d taken from him. But no one—my hands curled into fists—no one knew what he’d taken from me. Tonight, I’d expose him for what he truly was.
Chet’s lip curled. He was out for blood too; I didn’t need to hear a single word to know that.
My gaze drifted behind him to the stage, where five people waited on thrones that had been carved out of the massive rock face.
The Council of the Moon. They almost looked bored.
While their faces wore the marks of battle—faint pocks, and fine lines—I was shocked at how young they actually were despite being considered Elders. My dad had grayer hair and more weathered skin than they did, and he was in his late forties.
Werewolves didn’t live long—something about the stress of Turning and what it does to the body: organs growing and shrinking, limbs bending and snapping. Every time they shifted it shaved another few months off their lives.
The beings in front of me… there was no way they were older than thirty, thirty-five tops. The one in the middle tilted his head, a silver scar slitting across his warm beige jaw catching in the low light. With a raised brow, he cleared his throat.
Shit. I was staring.
Trying to coach my face into something in the ballpark of neutral, I scurried down the few remaining steps, attention drifting to the other side of the aisle—finally locking eyes with Shanley, her gaze even more translucent in the starlight. I beelined to the open seat next to her, heel skidding on a patch of moss.
Moisture dotted my upper lip, and it damn near killed me to have Chet see me sweating. I didn’t have to face him to feel how his dangerous smirk drilled into me, how every part of him had been honed into a threat.
I knew what he was thinking: keep her quiet, submissive. No chance, Chet.
The same Elder who’d given me the odd look rose from his throne.
Not a single breath, not a whisper of the wind floated on the night—just the heavy fabric of his emerald mantel sliding over the stone, as he prowled towards the front of the stage.
“Rise.” His voice echoed off the rock, bellowing across the clearing, into the marrow of my bones. In one swift movement, the entire audience rose to their feet. I staggered up, a breath too late, my cheeks hot. “Let us honor our ancestors and receive the blessing of this new moon.”
Tilting his head back, the ends of his jet-black hair skimming his broad shoulders, he let out a howl.
Those in human form raised their chins while the beasts angled their snouts.
Staring up at the stars, I swallowed a breath, and the song of the wolves erupted around me. Their howls wove together as if this was their form of worship, the chorus building, strengthening until their lungs couldn’t take it, and they fell back into silence.
“Tonight, we will hear from Shanley Galloway, Pack Leader of Santa Cruz City, District Three, and Chet Jennings, fledgling, pack to be assigned, to gather more information around the night he was Turned. Any other grievances will be discussed after, if time permits.”
Murmurs spilled and spread like water seeping through a crack in a dam. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could feel it. The franticness, the fidgets. I tugged at my cuffs, stretching out my sleeves.
The man raised his arms, quieting the crowd. “In June, the evening of the Strawberry Full Moon, there was an altercation at Davenport Beach, resulting in a member of the Santa Cruz City Pack biting mortal Chet Jennings, which led to him Turning.” His gaze swept the assembly. “A direct violation of both clause fifteen of the No Hunt Order, and article nine of the Werewolf Accords.”
I turned towards Shanley, trying to get a read. But she was stone-faced, her eyes fixed on the stage. Leaning back, I managed to snag Mau’s attention.
