The storm's a monster tonight, its roar shaking the house like it wants to tear it apart. I'm in the kitchen, rinsing plates, the clink of porcelain barely audible over the rain's fury. Mom's in the dining room with Dad, their voices a soft hum—her laugh, light and warm, mixing with his deep chuckle. It's the sound of home, the kind that makes me feel safe, like nothing can touch us here in West Point Grey. But that metallic scent from the garden still clings to my nose, sharp and wrong, and the heat in my chest from earlier hasn't faded. It's like a pulse, faint but restless, stirring under my ribs.
"Cinantra, you're gonna scrub that plate to death," Mom calls, her voice teasing. I glance through the doorway and see her leaning against Dad, her dark hair spilling over his shoulder as he wipes the table. Elena's always been the spark to his steady flame, graceful, sharp-witted, the kind of woman who can charm a room or silence it with a look. Dad—Alex to the world, but just Dad to me is her perfect match, all quiet strength and warm smiles. They're my heroes, the kind of love I want someday, unbreakable even after twenty-five years. I grin, shaking my head, and go back to the dishes, but that uneasy feeling won't quit.
"Cin, you okay?" Dad asks, his baritone cutting through my thoughts. He's watching me now, his dark eyes crinkling with concern, Mom's hand still on his arm.
"Yeah, just… the storm's got me jumpy," I say, drying my hands. I don't mention the heat in my chest or the way the shadows outside feel like they're watching. I don't want to worry them. They've always been my rock—Mom with her fierce love, Dad with his unshakable calm.
Before Dad can push, a crash explodes upstairs, glass shattering like a gunshot. My heart slams into my ribs, and Mom's head snaps up, her green eyes narrowing. Dad's already moving, his body coiled like a spring, heading for the stairs. "Stay here, both of you," he orders, his voice sharp, not the Dad I know but something harder, like a soldier.
"No chance," Mom says, her tone fierce as she follows him, her boots clicking on the hardwood. I'm right behind her, my sneakers squeaking, that metallic scent hitting me stronger now, thick enough to choke on. The heat in my chest flares, my fingers tingling like they're buzzing with static. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I can't let them face whatever's up there alone.
The second floor is a black void, the hallway stretching like a throat. Lightning cracks through the windows, throwing jagged light across Mom and Dad's backs. My bedroom door's at the end, hanging off its hinges, glass from the shattered window glittering on the floor. Rain pours in, soaking the carpet, and that scent—iron and something sweeter—makes my head spin.
"Alex, careful," Mom whispers, her hand on his arm, but he shakes her off, stepping into my room. A growl rumbles through the air, low and wrong, not the storm but something alive. My stomach twists, those amber eyes from the garden flashing in my mind.
"Get back!" Dad roars, shoving Mom behind him as a shape lunges from the darkness—a wolf, but too massive, its fur matted with blood, its amber eyes glowing like fire. It slams into Dad, knocking him down, and Mom screams, a sound that cuts through me like a blade.
"Dad!" I lunge forward, but the heat in my chest explodes, a white-hot surge that blinds me. My vision sharpens, every detail razor-clear: the wolf's jagged claws, Dad's blood on the carpet, Mom's face pale but fierce as she grabs a shard of glass, slashing at the beast. My hands burn, tingling like they're alive, and something inside me shifts, wild and hungry, like it's been waiting for this moment.
I don't think—I move. I'm on the wolf, my fingers digging into its fur, yanking it back with a strength I shouldn't have. It snarls, twisting to snap at me, but I'm faster, my body moving like it's got a mind of its own. I slam my fist into its side, and it yelps, a sound too human, too wrong. The heat pulses, and my nails—sharper now, longer—draw blood that smells like that metallic tang, mixed with something that makes my mouth water.
"Cinantra, stop!" Mom's voice is sharp, desperate, as she pulls at my arm. Her eyes are wide, not just with fear but something else, like she's seeing me for the first time. Dad's back on his feet, blood streaming from his arm, grappling with the wolf, but then another shape moves—sleeker, crimson eyes glinting like blood in the dark. It's on Dad before I can blink, claws tearing into his chest.
"No!" Mom screams, diving at the crimson-eyed creature, glass shard flashing. I'm moving too, my nails slicing into the second beast, its screech grating against my bones. But there's too many, and Dad's down, blood pooling beneath him, his breaths ragged. Mom's at his side, her hands pressing his chest, her face streaked with tears. "Alex, stay with me, please—"
I drop beside them, my hands shaking as I try to help, pressing against the wounds. "Dad, hold on—" My voice breaks, and that heat surges again, my fingers tingling as if they're pulling something from him, something alive and electric. His blood feels wrong, too hot, too charged, and my head spins. Images flash behind my eyes: a forest under a full moon, a woman's face—not Mom, someone else—her eyes glowing like the wolves'. I shake it off, focusing on Dad, but the vision lingers, unsettling.
"Cinantra," Dad gasps, his hand grabbing mine, slick with blood. "Find… the pack. Stanley Park. They'll… protect you." His eyes flick to Mom, a look of love and pain, then back to me. "Be strong… for both of us."
"Alex, no," Mom sobs, her voice breaking as she cradles his face. His eyes flutter shut, and a scream tears out of me, raw and helpless. The heat in my chest erupts, my hands glowing red-gold, the light shattering what's left of the window, glass raining down like the storm outside.
The wolves are gone, vanished into the night, their growls fading into the rain. Mom's rocking Dad's body, her tears mixing with his blood, and I'm frozen, the glow in my hands fading but the heat still burning. Sirens wail in the distance, faint over the storm, but they feel like they belong to someone else's life. My world's broken, my hero gone, and Mom's grief mirrors mine, her strength crumbling in a way I've never seen.
I look at her, her face pale but fierce even in pain, and I want to be like her—strong, unbreakable, even now. But that heat in me, that power, it's not right. It's not human. And those eyes—amber, crimson—they're out there, watching, waiting. Whatever they are, whatever I am, this isn't over. I'll find them. I'll find the pack. For Dad. For Mom. For us.