Preface:
The ten leading packs of North America were called upon to confer. For the first time in almost 90 years had a need so great aroused to gather them all? No one dare denied the call. For a single night all the dark creatures of the night and even of the day also, awaited the summoning. For nights to come whispers would float about in the air promising excitement; promising total mayhem both in the human world and the supernatural. In the darkest nights, when nature's beauty is fully revealed the cries of unknown species are heard, distressed they do what solely they are able to do: whimper to the night, cry unto their dwellings, and howl at the moon. To any one that cared to look beyond their civilized world would have noticed the first signs of unrest amid nature itself. The small herds of deer would be seen fleeing an unseen predator. Bears not daring not leave their caves, raccoons and squirrels alike swamping the highways. And birds, well birds, with their fluttery anxiety stayed as long as possible in the air hovering between the calmness of the sky and the looming menace of war.
"Have we come to this?" Fridolf asked in a begrudging voice. He turned to the man opposite him. Fridolf searched the answer within the old mans eyes, the old man's shadow did not move nor did he voice his answer. "Please answer Odolf. We are outnumbered, surely you realize this. The Call has not been made in nearly a century. Think you that the Call will be answered? By the Moon, this is demented!" his voice gaining momentum throughout his plea until he was close to growling.
It was not that the old man did not want to answer the challenge but he was deep in thought. Reflecting about the insecure future that his species faced, and more so now that the Call would be made, their future hung in the balance. But unlike the Old Days where they had fought for pure brutality and narcissistic ways and even inexcusable immaturity, this time it was bound to be different. This time the war was for existence itself. The right to breath, to fight; where co-existence had been discarded the only remaining outlet being—war. They could not lose, they would not lose, and with the help of the Moon their enemies would forever rue waking up the Lycans.
Averil POV
I eyed the bed with something akin to disgust. No way in hell would I sleep tonight, at least not willingly. Ignoring everything in my plain room from the bare walls, to the humble collection of books, and meager clothes, I crossed my room until I stood in front of my window. It was close to three in the morning, I had been waiting for my brother to come home.
Not because I love the bastard, mind you, but because I had learned the hard way how a drunken piece of crap can really pack a punch. Too many times his fist has made contact with my body, his favorite place being my stomach. Our last confrontation is still fresh on my mind.
I had sneaked downstairs of our Victorian house to get something to drink when two calloused hands whirled me around. My brother stood before me, his glassy eyes looking me up and down.
"Do you know why mom and dad hate you," his questions always hit a sore spot. "What, no hello or goodnight sister of mine?" I always decide to speak at the most inopportune of times. And my brother did not disappoint, "It's because you're a whore, a slut, a freak. Mike and Dan said they could fix you up, yeah," he had the nerve to laugh. "Probably'd work too," his words, although slurred, filled me with disgust and in the back of my head wit h a little bit of fear also. I moved to pass by him but he grabbed me by my wrist. The stench of alcohol and marijuana were repugnant, more so once he leaned into me. "Some day you'll get what's coming to you."
Through the years I had learned one valuable lesson: always keep quiet. As a little girl countless of times I would bite my tongue until I drew blood. My body received and sustained many cuts, bruises, and falls bestowed by both of my siblings. Lauren with her beauty looked like an angel, it was futile to defend myself; much less hold my sister responsible for anything done to me. Or my brother with his boyish grin and perfect smile always managed to not only hurt me but make me feel insignificant. Not soon enough, did I learn to keep quiet.
It was wondrous how as a child I was able to bottle all that I felt, indifference became my motto. The thing is not only did my self-esteem suffer but the muscular organ called heart stopped feeling. Now that I think about it, it's been years since I cried.
"And when the time comes, you'll be rotting in jail. You'll go from Mike to Mikaela, transformation made possible by your fellow cons." What was I suppose to say? Unfourtunately I had been watching Mike's face, not his hand. I didn't even have time to react. The back of his hand made contact with my cheek, a loud crack resounded in the dead of the night. I wasn't exactly shocked or angry, instead I found within myself: resignation. From then on, our relationship which had once been indifferent turned to outright hostility. We both acknowledged
the positions we found ourselves in; me the victim and him the prosecutor, judge, jailor, and tormentor.
The motor hum of an oncoming vehicle brought me back to the present. The vehicle swapped from lane to lane, nearly avoiding the sidewalks and garbage bins. For a brief moment I wondered what would I feel if my brother died, the answer was profoundly: nothing. Which scared the hell out of me, I would be okay just hating the kid but indifference over his life was over the other side in a boundary I'm not ready to cross over.
Wishing to block out all thoughts of my brother I cringed. Giving up I went over to my bed and laid on top of the mattress. I closed my eyes. Too late did I realize my mistake—sleep came swift and fast.
For over a month I have been plagued by the same incessant nightmare. Where I'm on a cliff overlooking an endless ocean of trees, where only the shinning of the moon offered me comfort. Darkness which has always been my confidante, now turned into an enemy. Something was wrong, not the place but me. I was wrong, a terrible pain pierced through me, bringing me to my knees. Blood dripped from my chin, my jaw was clenched, I turned to search for the source of the blood. I looked up and found myself in the middle of a downpour of blood. Overhead the sky turned a violent shade of dark red; the clouds were like red sponges. Dark crows joined the sky, circling above me, almost as if they awaited my demise. A scream lodged itself in my thorax; though I didn't give in. The downpour did not let up nor did the pain which at this point was unbearable promised release. Darkness became a beacon of respite, when a strong hand touched my shoulder. A hand that I had to hold on to, I went to touch it but at that instant I was pushed from the cliff. Freefalling, in pain, and bereft I welcomed the sweet promise of Hell.
I woke up. The scream that had lodged itself in the dream still wanted to be let out. Refusing to give in I bit down on my bottom lip until I tasted blood. When my heart rate decreased I jumped out of bed, going by my old alarm clock I knew it was 5:09. I stumbled to the shower. In my haste leaving a trail of clothes behind me, tremors shook me. I turned the water to freezing cold temperatures, I didn't care, I put myself under the harsh waters ministrations. Usually a quick bath brought an end to the anxiety attack, but not today.
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