The moon hung low over Ironhaven, a bloated silver - like eye glaring down on the decaying city's rusted bones. Drew Caroll crouched on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, the salt-streaked air stinging his nostrils. He watched below as the black-market deal was going down as planned; but his interest chiefly was in the truck loaded with questionable medical supplies, ripe for the taking. His pack, the Damned, needed those supplies to survive another month in this forsaken city. Werewolves like them didn't exactly have health insurance.
"Rhona, are you in position?" Drew whispered into the comms, his voice rough as gravel. His dark hair clung to his sweat-damp forehead, and his amber eyes glinted with the predator's edge that marked him as an alpha-in-waiting. The tension alone produced more sweat on his face.
"Ready," came Rhona's reply. Her voice was sharp and steady. She was perched across the alley, her silhouette blending with the shadows. As his beta or second-in-command, she was the only one he trusted to watch his back without question. Well, almost without question. He should have left her behind with the rest of the pack at the base but he had a feeling he needed his best hands on this particular job.
"Lena, keep the perimeter tight," Drew added, glancing at the youngest member of the pack who was at a distance. Lena, barely eighteen, nodded nervously from her spot behind a dumpster, her fingers twitching as if itching to shift. She signalled two others hidden close her to take positions. Ezekiel and Ralph, about the same age with her; signalled back.
"Don't screw this up, pup," Silas growled through the comms as if it was what she always did. The elder's voice dripped with disdain, as always. Drew ignored him, this wasn't the time to make a point. Silas might be part of the Damned, but his loyalty was as slippery as the oil slicks pooling in the streets below.
The deal seemed simple: attack the truck (which seemed to have no powerful occupants within it), grab the supplies and vanish before the human guards-or worse, the hunters-caught wind of what was happening and show up. The Damned were rogues, outcasts of different types -from the Detroit werewolf Council's pristine packs. With no cover, no protection, not even from outside the council but themselves they knew that they didn't have the luxury of mistakes.
Drew's muscles tensed as the truck's engine rumbled to a stop. Three people in black tactical gear and faces covered stepped out, their hands hovering near their gun holsters - ready to pull out their weapons and shoot first. Drew's senses sharpened as he listened to the heartbeats, then his sweat, and the faint tang of gunpowder. But something else prickled at the edge of his awareness, a scent, mixed with the feeling he knew he had felt before but couldn't quite place. It was not human, not werewolf. But his senses give it a summary. *Trouble.*
"Now," Drew hissed into the comm before putting it back.
Rhona leaped from where she perched while her two other companions moved too - a blur of muscles and claws, landing on the nearest guards to each of them and taking them out in less than 3 seconds. Not one of the guards could scream before they were knocked out. Drew followed, dropping silently to the ground, his boots barely making a sound despite their turdiness. Lena had already darted forward, her small frame weaving through the shadows to disable the warehouse's alarm and reach the door of the truck to check if there was a fellow hiding inside the truck. None. It seems the guards were not expecting such a hit or strong opposition. How could they? Who expects overpowered half-humans to be the security risk they could face one day?
But then it happened. And also to the Damned. Something too fast, too precise, like a flash of movement occured. Barely noticable but for them, they could track it. Feel it. A figure in a hooded jacket launched fiercely at Rhona, branding a silver blade glinting in the moonlight. Drew's heart lurched. The words escaped his mouth like a breath. "Hunters."
"Ambush!" he roared, lunging forward. His claws extended, a curse in his blood humming to life. It always started like this—a rush of power, intoxicating and dangerous, threatening to pull him into some kind of feral abyss. A feeling far more different that him turning completey into a werewolf. He shoved the feeling down, focusing on the fight he and the pack was about to encounter.
The first hunter was exceptionally good at fighting for a human, matching Rhona's speed blow for blow. Drew tackled another figure emerging from the shadows who had tried taking down Ezekiel and Ralph, and almost succeeded. He pinned the figure to the ground. The black-jacket figure was a woman, young, with fierce green eyes and a scent that hit him like a punch—wildflowers and steel. She twisted under him, her dagger grazing his ribs as she hoped for more space to attack before he caught her wrist.
"Stop," Drew snarled, his voice sounding more beast than man. Her pulse raced rapidly under his grip, but she didn't flinch. Like if she was use to this. How could she when she was weighed down by muscles beyond human strength. But those her eyes locked onto his, fearless, daring and for a moment, the world seemed narrowed to just the two of them. Something stirred in his chest, familiar and yet unwelcome. Like they had met somewhere. No. Something that he thought happens between people who have fought side by side for a long time.
"Drew, we've got the goods!" Rhona shouted, pointing at Ralph and Ezekiel hauling crates from the truck. Lena was already sprinting toward their escape route since the deed was done, but Silas lingered, his gaze fixed on the woman beneath Drew.
"Let me kill her," Matthais said, his voice cold, slowly extending claws from a hand turned furry. "She's a hunter. You know what they have been doing to us."
The woman's lips curled into a defiant smirk, daring Drew to decide. His instincts screamed to end this threat in his front, his heart beating very hard but that scent, that *feeling*—it held him back. He didn't know why, and that scared him more than the blade at his side. Which of course was made of silver and could cause an unhealing wound if he was not careful.
"Move out!" Drew ordered his pack, releasing her and shoving her back. She stumbled and hit a wall but didn't run, neither did she make a move; her eyes tracking him like a predator sizing up prey. "We're done here," he added.
And with that, the Damned vanished into the night, crates in tow, but Drew's mind stayed on her. That particular hunter had seen his face, his pack. She'd come for them again that was for sure. And deep in his bones, where the curse whispered its dark promises, he knew this wasn't the last he'd see of her. It was just a matter of when. If he only knew it was that night.