Atticus
As he surveyed the crowd gathered before him, Atticus grinned. It was the night of the full moon at last, and his body thrummed with excited energy. He was proud of the legacy he’d built, and proud that so many wolves were eager to stand by his side each month. There was always another battle to fight, fresh territory to claim, and, in the beginning, he’d feared that they may not respect him the way they had his father.
He’d had nothing to worry about, as it turned out. He straightened his back, rolled his shoulders, and then he began to speak.
“Blood Moon pack!” He bellowed, clapping his hands and stomping his feet. A cacophony of howls filled the night air, and his grin stretched wider.
The moon was hovering above the horizon, its crisp white light piercing the black curve of the sky. Atticus could see the grey craters making up its face, dimpled into the shape of two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, and, deep in his chest, he felt the last of his nerves settle.
“Tonight we head North,” he continued, his voice loud and strong. “The White Oak pack have pushed at our border for too long, trying to sneak themselves into our woodland. They have been claiming our land and our resources for their own. Tonight, we fight. Tonight, we take them down.”
There were whoops and cheers, and more howls as the full moon continued to rise. The shift was uncontrollable, and it began gradually. Soon, the change would take hold.
The Blood Moon pack were the most fearsome around. His father, old Alpha Alvaro, had torn through the continent, with Atticus at his side. When he’d passed on his title, he’d hoped that Atticus would have found his mate soon thereafter. They’d attended Mating Balls and Pack Meets, yet Atticus had not found his Luna.
He didn’t mind. There had only ever been one girl he’d ever liked, and she was utterly, completely wrong for him. He’d rather have no Luna than a weak one; he couldn’t risk letting his parents down. They’d devoted their lives to their pack, and Atticus had to do the same. He’d grown tougher, harder, meaner, and he never backed down. Not anymore.
He’d buried his protective streak to begin with, but, with time, it had morphed into something twisted and sickly instead. He’d cared for the weak, once. Now he only cared for the strong – he wanted to keep them strong, to make them stronger. He would fight to the death for his pack, but only if they deserved his protection.
So far, only one of his wolves had ever let him down. And, of course, she just so happened to be the one she-wolf he could see himself loving.
Every month, he combed through the assembled crowd, trying desperately to pick her out. He could picture her hair shining beneath the moonlight, the stars reflecting in her huge brown eyes, and, every month, there would be a sliver of hope in his heart that, at least, she would join them – him – on the battlefield.
But every month he was disappointed, and this time was no different. He could make out her dad – they looked so similar, both tall, olive skinned, and with a wistful curve to their mouths that spoke of age-old aristocracy – but Lily was not beside him.
Atticus couldn’t let her absence dampen his mood. And, if the gleam in his eyes darkened, drowned out by his broken longing, none of his pack noticed. The moon was steadily climbing, and, as it did, they began to shift.
In the beginning, the transformation from man to beast had been painful. But with each shift, the pain lessened. The crack of bone and the tearing of muscle still sounded gruesome, but Atticus was used to it. He’d endured the shift once a month for five years, now, and it felt almost fluid as his face elongated into a snout, and his knees snapped to make way for hocks. Fur bristled from his skin, and his hands compressed into paws, as his nails lengthened into claws.
Then he fell, his arms becoming his front legs, and he caught himself. Some of the younger, newer wolves collapsed to the ground, writhing against the pain, but if Atticus felt any sympathy for them he didn’t show it. Instead he began to pace, pressing his weight down through his legs and into his paws, getting used to the feeling of being an animal rather than a man once again.
Every month it got a little easier, and every month he lost a little more of himself in the process.
Controlling himself in his wolf-form had taken time. The younger wolves looked to him for guidance on nights like these – without a strong Alpha to take charge, to corral them in the right direction, their wolf-side would take hold, and they could end up waking up miles from home, with no memory of how they got there. With practice, they would be able to manoeuvre as a wolf as if they were in their human bodies, but the heady sensation of becoming an animal was not something that could be adjusted to all at once.
There had been rumours circulating of a witch with the power to control a wolf’s shift. They were reliant on the moon, and they had no choice in whether or not they turned beneath its light. To take charge of their own bodies would provide the Blood Moon pack with unimaginable power, and it would solidify their position as the strongest pack in the continent. If there was one thing that Atticus wanted, it was power.
But the rumours had, so far, been no more than that. Fighting for witches had cost the lives of his pack members in the past, but Atticus was willing to risk them all if it meant that they would never be challenged again.
There was just one wolf left on the ground, struggling to unfurl its body. With a small sigh, Atticus paced towards it, his black paws thudding rhythmically on the grass. They didn’t have time to waste once they’d shifted, and he needed to get the youngster on its feet. He didn’t recognise the little wolf – it was silver-grey beneath the glowing moon, with a muzzle and paws that looked as though they’d been dipped in chocolate – and he didn’t care to get to know it.
Perhaps in a few years, when the wolf had proved it’s worth to him, then – and only then – would he deign to learn it’s name.
Atticus barked at the young wolf. It quivered beneath his hard gaze, and, slowly, it stretched out it’s paws, putting an experimental amount of weight on them each in turn. Atticus barked again, sharp and irritated, before nipping at it’s hindquarters. They didn’t have time for this.
The wolf stood on shaky legs, it’s back bowing and trembling. Atticus watched it struggle idly, wondering if they could leave it behind. Lily, though stubborn, and almost mutinous in her disagreement with the basic principles of the Blood Moon pack, had never been a nuisance like this.
But eventually the wolf steadied itself, and, with the light of the moon to guide them, the Blood Moon pack tore through the night and, teeth bared, they headed into battle.