Crying Wolf

The earliest memory he had of his mother was of her fangs; thick, elongated fangs that seemed as sharp and lethal as any knife. He hadn't been more than three years old at the time, but the image had remained imprinted in his mind, and never failed to evoke a certain amount of pride. He had hoped his fangs would become just as long and beautiful.

The only memory he had of his father was of him lying at the base of a broad, red buckeye, covered in blood.

Both of his parents had died before his sixth birthday, shot by huntsmen that had been tracking their activity for months. He couldn't recall much about what had taken place, but the clarity of one particular moment still haunted his dreams.

He remembered the blood gushing from the hole in his father's throat, his eyes wide and fearful as he grappled aimlessly for something that wasn't there.

He hadn't known what to do. But the loud snapping of a twig had triggered his survival instincts and injected his veins with adrenaline. And so he had turned and ran with his tail tucked firmly between his legs. When questioned by officials, he had pretended he hadn't seen anything and they'd put him and his little sister into the custody of their only living relative, grandfather Royce McMillan.

Perhaps he should have told the truth instead of internalizing the memory and feigning ignorance. But he couldn't allow them to find out about the family secret, or rather, curse. It was something he vaguely remembered vowing never to let slip, lest their entire pack be compromised. Regrettably someone had made the mishap for him, and tipped off the mercenaries, leading them straight for his family and taking away not only his parents, but uncles, aunts, and cousins as well. It had been a bloodbath that only he and his sister had escaped unscathed, physically at least.

The wind chimes hanging from the white, pergola rafters tinkled melodically as a breeze swept through the terrace. The sprawling, Verbena flowers positioned on either side colored the air with a light, teasing scent that lulled his senses, yet did nothing to abate the mild sense of despondency that seemed to always loom overhead.