From Ashes to Alpha

The forest grows darker as the sun begins its descent behind the mountains. Long shadows stretch across the leaf-strewn ground, transforming familiar shapes into menacing silhouettes.

My lungs burn from the exertion, but I don't dare slow down. Not with those hunters still on my trail.

I pause beside a massive oak tree, listening intently.

The distant shouts of the hunters echo through the woods, still too close for comfort. I need to buy myself some time.

"Think, James," I mutter, glancing at the metal box clutched in my hands. "You can't outrun them forever."

A plan forms in my mind as I spot a fast-flowing creek about fifty yards ahead.

The rushing water would mask my scent—one of the oldest tricks in the werewolf handbook, but effective nonetheless.

I tear a strip from the bottom of my shirt, wincing as I reopen a scratch on my arm to let blood drip onto the fabric.

The scent of my own blood makes my wolf stir uneasily beneath my skin.

"Easy," I whisper to my other half. "We're not done yet."

Finding a sturdy branch, I secure the bloodied cloth to its end, making sure the scent is strong enough to attract attention without being obviously artificial.

With careful movements, I plant my false trail, dragging the bloodied marker northward—away from Cooper's Mill and my actual destination.

I make sure to brush against trees, leaving subtle signs that any trained hunter would follow.

"That should keep them busy," I murmur, surveying my handiwork before doubling back toward the creek.

The water is ice-cold as I wade in, shocking my system. I grit my teeth against the discomfort, moving deliberately to avoid splashing.

The current pulls at my legs, threatening to unbalance me with each step.

The creek bed is rocky, each step precarious.

One slip could mean a soaked package—or worse, a noise that alerts my pursuers. I move with painstaking care, placing each foot deliberately.

I've gone about a hundred yards downstream when I hear excited shouting in the distance.

"Blood trail found! He's injured and heading north!"

A smile tugs at my lips despite the danger. "Sometimes the hunter becomes the prey," I say softly, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction.

I continue downstream another fifty yards before climbing out on a rocky outcropping that won't hold footprints.

Shaking water from my legs, I orient myself toward Cooper's Mill—the safe house Amelia mentioned.

"Sorry to send you on a wild goose chase," I say in the direction of the retreating voices, "but I have an appointment to keep."

Nightfall will provide additional cover, and I intend to make the most of it. I set off at a steady jog, the package secured inside my jacket.

The wet clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin, but the discomfort is a small price for survival.

I increase my pace, ignoring the fatigue setting into my muscles.

Each stride takes me closer to Cooper's Mill, to Amelia, to answers—and hopefully to a way out of this mess that doesn't end with me bleeding out from silver poisoning.

The forest thins slightly as I follow what appears to be an old logging trail.

Easier terrain, but also more exposed. I stick to the shadows at the edge of the path, moving with as much stealth as I can manage.

I pause to check my bearings against the stars now appearing in the darkening sky.

Cooper's Mill should be less than two miles southeast if my mental map is correct.

A twig snaps somewhere to my left.

The abandoned gas station appears almost spectral under the silver moonlight. Its broken windows and crumbling walls speak of a prosperity long since passed.

A rusted sign creaks in the gentle breeze, the company logo faded beyond recognition. The isolation is complete—nothing but flat, open terrain stretches for miles in every direction.

Perfect for a clandestine meeting. Or an ambush.

I approach cautiously, my body aching from days of running and fighting.

The metal box feels impossibly heavy in my hands now, its contents a mystery that has nearly cost me my life multiple times.

"Three days," I mutter to myself, checking the time on my phone. "Made it by six hours."

A sleek black sedan sits in the empty lot, its polished surface reflecting the moonlight in stark contrast to the decay surrounding it.

Beside it stands a man in an immaculate suit, his posture rigid and formal.

Even from this distance, I can tell he's not entirely human—something about the way he holds himself, too still, too controlled.

The suited man notices me immediately. He doesn't move, doesn't react—just watches with unblinking eyes as I cross the cracked asphalt toward him.

"You're late," he states when I'm within earshot, his voice as crisp and cold as his appearance.

I maintain my distance, still clutching the box. "Ran into some complications."

"The cargo undamaged?" He extends a gloved hand expectantly.

I step forward, extending the metal box. "Intact, as promised."

He takes it with reverent care, placing it on the hood of the sedan before opening it. Inside are items I wouldn't have expected—ancient-looking scrolls, yellowed with age, and a small silver container engraved with symbols I don't recognize.

My curiosity must show on my face, because Dominic glances up with the hint of a smile.

"Wondering what you've been risking your life for?" he asks, carefully examining each item.

"The thought crossed my mind," I admit.

"Knowledge, Mr. Davis." He closes the box with a decisive click. "The most dangerous commodity in any world."

He holds out the case to me. "This is for you. Proof that the organization rewards those who demonstrate value."

I take the case warily. "What is it?"

"Open it when you're alone," he advises. "Some gifts are best appreciated in private."