Roman walked down the street and away from the door of the tiny apartment. He frowned deeply, his brows creasing in frustration—there had to be some way to reach the man. It wasn’t like he could just wrestle Dallas into his car and drive away. It didn’t work like that—there were just too many people around for something like that to work.

Again he looked at his phone; the messages he’d sent had been read for the most part, but there were two that hadn’t. He’d called, but no answer. Out of all the members of his pack, these were the ones he could trust with the issue. He knew he would face some sort of trouble—but that was only secondary. His actions might cause the pack to be exposed, and Roman would be killed if that were the case.

He had half thought of just killing the wolf-to-be, but it would likely only bring out the wolf, and a new wolf was far stronger than a seasoned wolf for the first handful of changes. At least, that’s what he’d been taught when his teachers had even bothered to discuss wolves who had been made. Roman sent up a silent prayer to Fenris, praying for guidance on what to do, and how he could best protect his pack.

He decided he’d come back to Dallas' apartment in a few hours, after he’d gotten something to eat and given his pack time to respond to him. For a moment, he thought of calling his father and decided heartily against it. His father would have him beheaded before he had a chance to explain himself. Not for the first time since waking, he cursed the old fool’s archaic rules, and his own wolf. The wolf did not seem to care for his curses or even react.

He needed to eat and quickly if he was going to be chasing a full blown New Wolf all night. He doubted he’d have to—in fact, he was fairly sure he could prove that he’d been telling the truth by changing in front of Dallas. It would be a last resort, as the man was likely quite traumatized (and rightly so) by his last encounter with the wolf.

For the first time in his life, Roman’s wolf shocked him with a sliver of remorse for what it had done.

It caught him so off guard that he nearly walked in front of a car, the blaring horn the only thing that kept him from stepping in front of the vehicle. Instinctively, he jumped back, the wolf snarling in his soul at the loud contraption. Despite Roman’s very modern view of cars, the wolf did not share his view. He would never see the modern world as anything more than a stifling inconvenience that took up far too much space for his liking. The wolf missed the Pacific Northwest, and upstate New York, where he could run freely. Instead, he’d been forced to be discreet in Central Park—and to never sing to the moon.

Roman hated the last part too. How was a man—or wolf—supposed to give worship to the mighty Fenris without song? He’d killed monthly under the full moon—always a deer as it was the wolf’s natural prey. Always under the blessing of the full moon. He’d never eaten his kill on these nights.

He hadn’t eaten his kill last night either, the wolf reminded him. Roman ran his hands through his hair, wishing he had a band to tie the long hair back and out of his face. He let his hands cover his face for a long moment. Perhaps he’d do better if he simply took a deep breath. He needed to relax a little—the stress wasn’t going to help him solve his problem.

First things first, he needed food. Preferably, he needed meat—and a lot of it. Fortunately, he’d passed a pulled-pork barbecue truck the day before and still knew where it was. Roman headed back to Central Park at a quick walk. He didn’t hesitate to order the normal amount of food—it wasn’t often a problem these days, as service people likely assumed he was ordering for two or three. The wolf made him starving, and he found himself just wanting to eat when he changed back. One of his tutors had explained that the magic of the change burned through more calories than a triathlon. Which meant he couldn’t change—or shouldn’t—more than once a week. The wolf thought that was nonsense—his body was healthy and strong.

Just as he found a secluded spot to eat, his phone dinged several times in succession. Someone was reaching him, that was for sure. Judging by how fast it had all come through, he would suspect it was Victoria. Roman took his time, listening to each ding take longer to sound. Clearly she was typing out paragraphs, and most of it was likely a lecture.

Despite her place in the pack ranking, she had always been most like a surrogate mother to him. So when he’d sent her the alarming text messages, he expected and accepted this would be a consequence. He felt bad for not giving more information, but he didn’t have time for the typical back-and-forth that someone as intense as Victoria would insist on. He always had a hard time telling her no, anyway. Besides—a short and sweet ‘what do you know about changed wolves’ and ‘it’s an emergency’ had been enough for the quick-witted beta, clearly.

Even now he could imagine the look of pure indignation her face. The wolf allowed one to age a bit more gracefully, and coupled with a serious diet and exercise regime, Victoria Stilwell had far fewer wrinkles than anyone in her age range should have. Somewhere in her early fifties, he’d never known anyone to tell her she looked a day over thirty-eight. Her silvery-blonde hair had likely kept people from knowing, too. It had hidden the silvering streaks in her hair easily, and only when she dyed it did the evidence of her age really come out—it would always dye the lightest part of her hair much darker as it developed.

Finally, Roman picked up the phone and eyed the screen—sure enough, a wall of text greeted him.

From: Moon Mom (Victoria)

Roman, if this is a joke, or some sort of stunt I’m going to drag you

around the pound by your ear.

Do you understand me?

In any case, I don’t know much, just what Lawrence taught us.

They’re stronger than your regular wolf, and they are generally

immune to the usual ailments. They tend to be extremely violent,

sometimes never coming back. The first change will happen on the next

first moon.

Why?

What is this about?

Roman frowned, staring down at the screen of his smartphone. They wouldn’t change until the full moon? That wasn’t what he’d witnessed with the man back there. He’d been obviously ill. Roman quickly composed a text back.

To: Moon Mom (Victoria)

You sure about that? Double check if it’s not the night they were

bitten.

With the text message sent, Roman stood and headed for the trash, tossing his food stuffs in the can before he headed to the car. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. His lips made a thin line just then—she must be wrong. The text message came back quickly.

No, it’s the first full moon. I confirmed with Thomas.

Why?

Roman, tell me you didn’t

…you didn’t, did you?

The text message was apprehensive at best, and for a moment fear sat like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach in consideration for the trouble he was in. He should have told her right then—but he couldn’t bring himself to. Roman didn’t respond, instead taking the car around the park and back towards the apartments. He’d wait just out of sight of the apartment and make sure his information was wrong—after all, if that was Thomas’ teaching, it was certainly right and Roman wouldn’t argue with him.

As he drove, he became less and less confident in his diagnosis. Perhaps the man had simply been sick before he’d been bitten. It was a less and less likely idea that Roman had seen him beginning the change. He could take his time—after all, he was only being paranoid. Time was on his side. Yet the whole way to the apartments, the feeling niggled at him. What if their information was wrong—or Dallas was just plain different?

The trip to his apartment took longer this time; mostly due to the several stops at the side of the road to allow emergency service vehicles through. It wasn’t surprising to him, this was the city after all. He was stopped several times, and only when he crested the hill before arriving at Dallas' did he see what the commotion was. The cars were parked in front of the apartment.

Immediately, Roman’s heart dropped into his stomach. He felt cold all over as he drove past the throng of people, the ambulance, fire trucks, and four police cars. He could see an officer vomiting off to the side, and the stretcher from the ambulance on its way to the house. Roman would have driven away, but a thought occurred to him—unless decapitated, a werewolf wouldn’t die. If they’d managed to incapacitate him (and they likely had, because nobody was dying) they probably believed him dead. He’d wake up and attack the unsuspecting paramedics.

Roman cursed as he slid into a parking spot two blocks over, tossing his things to hide under the seat. At the last moment he paused, and grabbed his phone to send Victoria another text message.

To: Moon Mom (Victoria)

The dog mauled a guy in Central Park last night. His dog is sick…tonight.

Rightnow. May have killed some pets. Checking it out. Need animal

control on standby.

I’m sorry

I love you.

He sent two more texts detailing his location and where someone should wait for him and his new charge. The wolf was remorseful—not for his actions, but for Victoria’s pain. They both knew she would be beside herself. When Roman’s natural father—the man who had birthed him—had passed away, Victoria had cared for Roman, where his own father had not. In fact, when his father Walten had married the very young Sierra Willows and insisted on Roman also referring to her as ‘stepmom’ he had only ever referred to Victoria that way. He would have to make tonight up to her, if he got the chance.

As he loped quietly through the shadows of the neighborhood, he could only try to figure out what happened. The wolf lent him his strength in his senses, if only just. Suddenly, he could hear better—and his sense of smell was much sharper. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and he found himself aware of the loudness of his steps. He moved with quiet speed now, all the while listening and watching for intruders as he made his way as close as he dare.

Even from the back of the apartment, he could smell the tang of blood. He could

distinctly make out the soft weeping of several people; and as he watched from around the corner, a bloodied sheet draped across the figure was wheeled away to the ambulance without any real hurry. Taking a chance to peek through the window, he could see the inside of the apartment.

Where Dallas' apartment had once been a beautiful array of color and texture, the artful display was now nothing more than an ugly mish-mash of color. Broken porcelain and water spread from the bathroom doorway, and the little beaded curtains he’d seen hanging cheerfully up were now on the floor, beads torn from their string and scattered to the wind. The couch had been flipped over, disturbing the television and shattering its screen. Stuffing from both the bed and couch lay strewn like some sort of strange innards.

Then there was the blood.

There was more blood than he realized, at first. It had soaked into rugs and into the stuffing of the overturned couch. It was hidden under part of a broken table—but it was there. Splattered up to the ceilings and in the huge gouges missing from the walls’ plaster veneer. It had sprayed in arcs—and it had coated one window. The other window, where the cat clearly came in and out from the scent of the window, was clear of any blood. The window was slightly open and through it Roman could smell the blood of a human woman and a smaller animal. The lifeless orange shape half under the couch was proof enough.

Yet there was no sign of a wolf—or a dog, or any sort of large animal. The apartment was tiny; and unless he was hiding in just the right angle, Roman would have seen him. The wolf was relieved—after all, if the new wolf was dead or subdued, the chase was over. Involuntarily he ran his tongue over his canines and his lips, eager to begin the hunt. He didn’t intend to kill the new wolf—no, he was brave, but not stupid.

Roman shook himself and squeezed his eyes closed. It wouldn’t do to let his own wolf control him. He needed to be intelligent—and on top of his game. He couldn’t afford the wolf to take over now. Instead, he took several calming breaths and centered himself on the memories of his home in the Pacific Northwest. While he did so, he could focus on what he was hearing.

“She just went to check on him and that dog! There was a huge dog! It killed her, and when we tried to intervene it just ran out the door!” The words were cut off by an almost manic sob before a new voice continued, “We tried to get him off of her, but he just…he wouldn't let go—They won’t be able to have an open casket funeral, officer. It was horrible.” There was a pause as the officer wrote down several notes.

For a long few moments, there was no discernible news until the officer's’ radio crackled. “We saw him! He just ran into the Park. We’re in pursuit.” The click of a round being chambered could be heard across the speaker.

Well, that wasn’t going to make things easier. Roman turned, sprinting towards the car as fast as he could. He didn’t stop when someone yelled for him to halt. Whoever it was, they weren’t an Alpha—they didn’t get to tell him what to do. Roman made it back to the car and jumped in. He sped into the night, arriving at Central Park in record time. Despite his speed however there was already a crowd gathered outside of the gates, and a police line set up. He’d need to find another route in.

Parking the car, he headed down the sidewalk, looking for an entrance that wasn’t already taped off. A gunshot barked somewhere in the park, and someone screamed. He was running out of time. Thinking quickly, he shoved his way to the front of the crowed at an entrance to the park. When he met an officer in his way, he had to think quickly. He was lucky when he saw the woman thirty feet from the entrance struggling to get her stroller and three children to safety.

“That’s my wife! I’m going in to help my wife!” he yelled at the officer. He shoved past the man and was relieved when he didn’t try to stop him. Roman nearly passed the woman—but her children were sobbing, refusing to walk. He came closer, scooping up the two children who couldn’t ride in the stroller. He picked up the stroller’s side and began to head towards the entrance, the grateful woman thanking him.

As soon as he’d gotten them to safety he retreated back into the park, managing to run into the trees during the panic of park visitors exiting as quickly as possible. He could hear officers shouting but, for or at what, he couldn’t tell. He skirted the tree line, heading in their direction until he realized they were coming towards him. He stopped and ducked behind a tree, the night hiding him well as two officers ran past him, obviously unsure of where the beast had gotten to.

Roman took a deep breath and tilted his head, calling on the wolf to supply his ears once more. The wolf gifted him with his sense of smell as well; and that was what found him the trail. The musky scent of werewolf was prevalent in these trees, as was deer. Likely, Dallas was hunting the deer that were becoming a nuisance in the park. All for the better, Roman decided. At least he wouldn’t be after the people.

He was careful to move both quickly and quietly. At any moment someone could mistake him for the rampaging wolf. The thought was not a new one—after all, he’d been shot at during hunting season. A stray bullet wouldn’t kill a werewolf unless it was extremely lucky, but it was likely to hurt more—and even more when he tried to extricate it—than maim. Regardless, the very real possibility of his being shot at was something he wasn’t excited to think of. His mouth felt dry, and his heart was hammering so hard against his ribs that he was shocked the police officers couldn't hear it. Nor could the newly changed wolf, apparently—because if he had, he’d have turned around.

Roman stood just beyond the tree line, upwind of the wolf. Despite the circumstance, Roman couldn’t help but admire the handsome wolf before him, digging into the carcass of a small deer. Unlike true wolves, their patterns had much more variety. Some wolves could look more like german shepherds than real wolves. Dallas certainly didn’t look like a dog. He had a long, lean body and shorter fur than the wolves Roman frequently saw. His skull was leaner, like a hound’s and his ears were small.

He was primarily shades of warm gray, with russet markings around his eyes and along the front of his nose. A white blaze split his face, matching the inner ears. His underside was a dark gray-black where traditionally he might be tan or white. He sported slashes of black along the underside of his neck and the crest of his shoulders, with white smudges on both shoulders. His eyes were a deep shade of rootbeer brown, almost red.

Roman had to shake himself out of his admiration—he’d have plenty of time to moon over the wolf later. He watched carefully and slowly reached for the drawstring on his pants. He began to quietly ease it out of the little holes, and once it was free he gave a short sharp whistle, trying to get the wolf attention. Dallas' wolf did not so much as flinch, too busy frantically devouring the deer carcass. Roman was sympathetic—he’d been much the same his first time.

The red-brown eyes of Dallas' wolf turned to face him on the second lower whistle. The wolf stared him down fearlessly, licking his chops of the gore and blood that dribbled down his front. He watched Dallas with a cold, calculating gaze; trying to figure out what sort of threat the man might be.

“I know. It’s weird, but it’ll be okay. Dallas, if you can hear me, I’m going to help you. You’re just going to have to trust me,” Roman said in low tones, intending to keep the wolf focused on his voice. Roman had done this before with the younger generation, who had not yet learned to control their wolves, so he was ready when Dallas' wolf lunged at him.

The one upside a seasoned wolf had against a new wolf was that the man and wolf had worked together so long that they were able to work as a true team. Dallas and his wolf were too new, too awkward. Their body gave away the secrets of their intentions long before they made them. So when he got near enough in his charge, Roman sidestepped him, and delivered a kick to his hind legs.

The wolf yelped, and his feet went out from under him for a second. It wasn’t enough to bring him down by any means, but the wolf turned headlong and tried again, only to receive the same treatment. The third time, Roman circled him fast enough to tweak his tail. The wolf was not amused and stopped charging him. He stared up at Roman with furious eyes, teeth bared and stifled breath making his chest heave.

“I know. It’s a bitch, but you’re going to have to learn. We need to get you safe,” he said, just before the wolf charged.

This time, Roman fell with the charge, and the wolf ran right over him. Dallas was sleek and agile, and he turned, grabbing Roman by the forearm. Teeth knit into the muscle there, drawing blood and a satisfied grunt from the wolf as he tried to turn to shake his new victim. Roman had been just a hair too slow, but he’d dealt with this before. He reached his arm deeper into Dallas' mouth until the wolf gagged.

Dallas jerked his head away, and it was the opportunity Roman had been looking for. He lunged at the wolf, driving his shoulder into its flank and knocking its feet from under it, and the air from its lungs. The wolf gagged and gasped, Roman pounced and grabbed his muzzle. He slipped the cord he’d tied into a hangman’s knot around the muzzle and pulled it tight, before winding it quickly around his snout. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, however.

Dallas immediately began to thrash around like a trout on a line. He pawed at his muzzle, but the binding was too tight. He threw his head to and fro, distracted until Roman drove his fist into the side of the wolf’s skull. He didn’t hesitate or pull the punches, striking the canine again and again until he stopped trying to stand, and Roman’s knuckles were bleeding.

He hadn’t even knocked the wolf unconscious, but he certainly had dazed it, and that was part of the battle. He was lucky they’d made it north towards the van he’d asked Victoria to meet him at. It was still a long walk in less than ideal circumstances, but he’d be able to drag the animal, so long as he could manage not to get caught.

Just then he heard the two police officers once more. Of course, now they were here!

Roman grabbed his scuff and dragged the wolf into the woods. For the next quarter mile to the access point he’d thought of, his life consisted of only a handful of things; moving at a shuffle as he hauled the beast along, only stopping to listen or to hit Dallas in the head again until he was still. He was lucky he’d figured Dallas would be here. He had a black van parked at the station as if it belonged there, and apparently they’d had no real trouble.

Even when the wolf tried to raise his head, eventually a quiet growl from Roman was all that was needed to keep him from continuing. Roman worried he’d possibly given the younger wolf a concussion. He wondered vaguely if that was even possible.

When he managed to get to the van he had never seen such a beautiful vehicle in his life—he thought he’d never make it to the damn van! When he neared it, a pair jumped out—two tall, young, non-descript looking types. They were muscular, with dispassionate looks on their faces that nearly matched. They were clearly not wolves, though he wondered if they were the vampires his father had put on the books just a month prior. They didn’t smell like anything at all. They opened the utility doors for the Pack Alpha’s son, then helped Roman load the huge wolf inside the van, and when Roman jumped in they shut the door behind him. He could feel the sway as two people entered the cab and started the engine.

He should have expected the surge from the wolf the moment the engine growled to life. Limbs flailed as he tried to right himself, a snarl escaping the bound maw of the wolf as his limbs scrambled for purchase while the van began to rumble towards the main road.

“Shut the hell up,” hissed Roman, reaching out and grabbing the wolf to pull his face level to his own. “Do you understand? Shut up or we’ll be found out. Then they’ll try to cut you into pieces to figure out what the hell you are. Do you understand?” The Alpha glared into the new wolf’s eyes.

Dallas' wolf snarled deep in his throat and tried to swipe at the Alpha. Roman had tried to be nice—but now he settled for punching the wolf squarely in the head again, several times. He knew he wouldn’t damage the wolf permanently—and his own hand was already healing. As fast as Dallas was healing, so too, was Roman. As hard as he’d hit the wolf, a normal man may have died—but werewolves were tough.

As they passed through the gates and onto the main road, Roman's heart was in his throat. He did his best not to peek out the blacked-out windows, but he could still hear screaming from the park. The hysteria was still well and truly present, for sure. For a brief moment the van came to a halt, and Roman strained to hear any sign of dissent outside, as if he could change the reaction of any police who might stop them by simple sheer force of will.

Finally, the wolf seemed to lapse into some sort of rest, because it did not try to rise again. He could see the animal’s eyes moving, but it did not tense in readiness to pounce, and so Roman was able to think. He hoped he would be able to explain the situation, but he knew there was a real possibility that he’d be executed for the violation. The knowledge made his stomach twist, and he took a few deep breaths to curb the aggression the idea ignited in his wolf.

Whatever happened, he was at the moment responsible for the wolf before him. Yet he had so many questions! Why had Dallas changed? Were the books wrong? He’d checked the app for the moon tables on his phone. There was no full moon tonight. Nor was it likely Thomas had misremembered something—the man had an almost photographic memory.

Still, the question was a daunting one. Why had Dallas changed? Could it have been due to the Alpha himself? If he had not shown up, would the wolf still be Dallas? There were too many variables and possibilities he just couldn’t know. Instead, he focused on what he would do and how he could explain himself. He would need to take Dallas to the safe room, where he couldn’t hurt anyone else until morning.

Roman reached down, running his fingers through the smooth coat on the wolf's neck, stroking gently as he stared down at the wolf who glared menacingly up at him.

“I know. I don’t much like keeping your mouth tied like that either,” he mused. “But you tried to kill me, and I bet you’d try again given half a chance,” and after a moment he added, “Don’t worry, we’re going to feed you too.” Perhaps he’d been mistaken, but it felt as if a little tension eased from the wolf.

Despite the fact the wolf had done his best to kill Roman only minutes ago, as they cruised into the compound affectionately known as ‘Werewolf School’ Roman could not help but feel sorry for Dallas. He’d done this to the man, and if he’d only had a little more control, perhaps Dallas wouldn’t be sitting here. The thought was wiped out of his mind as the wolf suddenly sprang with a strangled snarl lodged in his throat. He knocked the Alpha to the ground as the van came to a halt and the engine was cut.

Roman wrestled with the wolf, striking his skull again with a muttered curse. This time he hit him a bit harder, trying to incapacitate the wolf. He’d never met a wolf who rebounded from a possible concussion so quickly; but Dallas was a strange one. Perhaps he was some sort of rare mutation, but whatever the case was he was much stronger than they’d anticipated.

While Dallas lay incapacitated, Roman summoned the two men to help him carry the wolf into the empty estate house. They navigated through the front of the door and down into the basement. The basement looked like any normal finished basement, but in the corner sat a concrete slab with an enormous metal jail cell atop it. Inside was a bucket, a bed, and several toys and bones. Patronizing as it may have been, it seemed to work on the newer wolves who would need a timeout here from time to time.

Roman and his help safely deposited the wolf in the cell, retreating to the outside. Roman locked the triple bar titanium lock when the wolf was finally on his feet, growling. He stared accusingly up at Roman, as if holding him—and rightly so—solely responsible. Roman crouched, holding up his hands.

“If you can hear me, or understand me, come here so I can take the string off,” he said simply.

The wolf regarded him coolly for a long moment and promptly got to work trying to remove the string. Without the easily accessible Alpha near him, he had no interest in lunging. Instead, he concentrated; tugging, scratching and eventually flexing his jaws until he managed to ease off the tie and let it fall to the ground.

Roman nodded in approval, amused. “Fine, have it your way,” he said with a shrug. “I’m sorry for this cage—but you were not very cooperative, and now you’ll have to face the consequences,” he swallowed. “I’ll be sending down a couple people who can help you. Don’t paint me in a bad light. Well, a worse light,” he added as he headed for the stairs, the men already in retreat to their car.

“Well, you have a good night there, now,” he said, giving the wolf a small wave before he closed the door on the strangely silent wolf.

With the door clicking closed with finality, Roman rubbed his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He had solved at least one of his problems; there was only this final one remaining. He’d have to tell his father.