Chapter 2 Chapter 2: Blood and Boundaries

The next morning, the ranger station was abuzz with unusual activity. Three different ranchers had called in overnight, reporting livestock kills. Marcus met me at my desk, holding a coffee mug and looking concerned.

"Where were you last night?" he asked. "I tried calling around nine."

"Sorry, I went hiking and left my phone in the truck," I said. That was partly true; I had made a point of leaving it behind, wanting total disconnection. "What happened?"

"Multiple attacks across three properties. Clean kills, professional." Marcus hushed his tone. "Warden Blackwood is furious. He's calling it a wolf problem."

My stomach tightened. "Has anyone confirmed it was wolves?"

"Tracks at two sites match wolf prints. Big ones." Marcus sipped his coffee. "He's talking about authorization for lethal removal."

"What? No!" I stood up too quickly, and papers fell off my desk. "We can't just start killing wolves without a proper investigation. There are protocols—"

"I know, I know." Marcus raised his hands. "I'm on your side. But the ranchers are demanding action, and Blackwood's under pressure from the county commissioner."

Other rangers filed into the station. I knew most of them—Diane from Wildlife Management, Robert from Law Enforcement, Teresa from Public Relations. If Blackwood had called everyone in, this situation was escalating fast.

My phone buzzed. A text from my mom: "Family dinner next week. Your brother has news!"

I groaned inwardly, expecting this. Jason always had news, and it usually related to his law firm promotions or his perfect girlfriend, Victoria. They were that golden couple, always achieving, always impressing everybody. At times, their happiness felt like a spotlight on my own stagnation.

"Everyone, briefing room, now!" Warden Blackwood's voice boomed across the station.

The briefing room was filled. Blackwood stood upfront, his face grave, and behind him was a map of the region with red markers showing the places where the attacks had happened.

"Last night, we had five confirmed livestock kills across three ranches," Blackwood said. "Twelve sheep and one calf. The kills were clean, efficient, and occurred within a three-hour window. This wasn't random predation. This was coordinated."

Murmurs spread through the room. Coordinated wolf attacks were extremely rare.

"Diane, what is your assessment?" Blackwood asked.

Diane stood, consulting her tablet. "Based on the tracks and kill patterns, we're looking at a pack. At least four to six individuals. The alpha is large—significantly larger than standard gray wolf measurements. They're organized and strategic, which suggests an established hierarchy."

"Translation: we have a problem," said Blackwood. "The ranchers want blood. The commissioner wants solutions. The media's already running stories about 'killer wolves.' We need to act."

I raised my hand. "What about relocation? Or non-lethal deterrents?"

"We're past that point, Pierce." Blackwood's face softened a fraction. "I know you care about wildlife, but we have a balance to strike between conservation and public safety, and sometimes economic concerns. If these wolves continue attacking livestock, we'll have no choice but to authorize removal."

"Give me one week," I said, surprising myself. "Let me track this pack, assess their behavior, and find out why they're targeting livestock suddenly. If I can identify the problem, maybe we can find a solution that doesn't involve killing."

Blackwood looked at me. "You think you can track them?"

"I'm the best tracker here," I said simply. It wasn't arrogance—just fact. "Give me a chance."

He considered this for a long moment. "One week. But you don't go alone. Marcus, you're with her. Daily reports. If there's another attack, authorization goes through immediately. Clear?"

"Clear," I said.

The meeting continued for another hour with logistics and safety protocols. I hardly listened, my mind already on the forthcoming tracking expedition. Something didn't feel right about those attacks. Yes, wolves were opportunistic predators, but this kind of coordination and boldness was just out of pattern.

And from the start, I couldn't get my mind off the huge black wolf from last night. Was he of this pack? Was he the alpha?

I called my dad after the briefing. He answered on the second ring.

"Luna! How's my wilderness warrior?"

"Hey, Dad. I'm good. Listen, I wanted your opinion on something." I explained the situation—the attacks, the tracking assignment, the strange behavior pattern.

"Hmm," Dad said. "In my thirty years with the forest service, I only saw wolves act that aggressively twice. Both times, something was pushing them out of their normal territory. Could be development, could be another predator, could be disease. You'll need to check their usual hunting grounds."

"That's what I was thinking. Thanks, Dad."

"Be careful out there, kiddo. And don't forget about dinner next week. Your mom will kill me if you skip."

"I won't forget," I promised.

The rest of Tuesday, I spent getting supplies and equipment ready. Marcus and I would leave Wednesday morning for the first attack site, then work our way through the others, looking for patterns and tracks.

That night, I couldn't sleep. My mind kept drifting back to those amber eyes. Around midnight, I gave up on rest, stood on my cabin's porch, and stared off at the forest. The moon hung fat and bright overhead, just about full.

A shadow fell between the trees.

My breath caught. The black wolf stepped into the moonlight at the edge of my property, those impossible amber eyes finding mine across fifty yards of darkness. We stared at each other, and again I felt that strange pull in my chest, like invisible threads connecting us.

He took a step forward. Stopped. Seemed to be waiting.

I walked down my porch steps, against every self-preservation instinct. Ranger was barking from inside the cabin, sensing something was wrong, but I ignored him. I crossed my yard slowly, each step deliberate, until only twenty feet separated us.

"What do you want?" I whispered.

The wolf's ears twitched. Then he did something impossible—he lowered his head in what looked distinctly like a bow. A gesture of respect. Of recognition.

And before I could react, he whirled and vanished into the woods again.

I stood there, shaking, not out of fear, but because of the impossibility of what I'd just seen. Wolves didn't bow. Wolves didn't seek out humans repeatedly. Wolves didn't have eyes that seemed to hold human intelligence.

Unless they weren't just wolves.

It came unbidden and ridiculous, spawned from too many late-night fantasy novels and local legends, but once there, I couldn't shake it.

What if the stories were real?

What if there was a world where werewolves existed?

What if I had just met one?