A/N: I don't know much French or German, so if I wrote something wrong. Please tell me.

1. Forbidden

I squatted in front of the wall, bucket of light blue paint sitting beside me. Dipping the brush in, I signed the initials that I used to identify myself. DM. The painting itself was a massive dark blue circle. I was about 6 yards from where I had attacked my latest victim.

I could only remember bits and pieces of whatever happened when I Phased but I made a habit of finding a big enough blank spot to paint my mark. It was supposed to be the moon, the every thing that controlled my Phases.

That's right, members of the public, I am a werewolf. I was Infected fifteen years ago by some dumb ass who forgot to kill me. Of course, being fully grown at the time of my Transition, I do not look forty. Or maybe I'm forty-one? I live by weeks, not years.

I don't sound like I'm forty either. I try my hardest to sound as human as possible when I'm around humans and not a wolf. It means acting like I look, not how I feel.

I'm Rouge, but almost all of us are Rouges now. The bloodsuckers known as the Volturi tend to destroy packs or those who might form packs as soon as they get word of them. Apparently, they want to kill as many as they can in one fatal blow.

I know very few others of my kind, only the stories I am told when I see Malachi, a former Pack wolf. He, also being a total dumb ass, has decided to start another pack. I haven't seen him in over a dozen Phases, probably because he's running for his life.

I credit Malachi with helping me keep my mind clear when I am human and helping with my memories as a wolf. Unfortunately, that means I also have to blame him for leading me to kill again. As I gained control I considered joining his furry utopia, but before I could ask, he disappeared. It drove me to the brink of insanity.

According to an English physiology book I stole from the Paris library one night when I was not Phased, my paintings were a sign of guilt or remorse. I use it like a dog that pees. It's my mark; it tells anyone else who might come to Paris to back off. The city belongs to me.

I'm probably the only city dwelling werewolf in Europe; maybe even in the world, but if any supernatural being shows up, they'll know. The Volturi probably likes the propaganda of saying that we wolves are monsters that decimate villages and terrorize cities. That we're a risk to the vampires' secret remaining a secret.

I'll admit, I do like scaring the humans, but I don't let anyone live to tell the tale. Not old people, not children; they're all the same to me. No one lives to tell the tale of the Dark Moon.

Have I forgotten to introduce myself? Pardon my manners. I was born Delphine Marque, but now I usually tell the humans my name is Irene or don't tell them at all. I'm a painter, German born, French raised. I speak three languages, French primarily with German and English fighting for second place.

I wiped my hands on my ratty jeans (also stolen) and quickly moved back to the abandoned warehouse I called home. I dunked my head in a bucket of water, to stay awake, changed my clothes and headed back onto the street.

As I neared the part of town where I stole my food from, I dumped into someone. "Je vous demande pardon," I muttered, stopping in my tracks. (I'm sorry or I beg your pardon)

The man did not know what I was saying. "Parlezvous allemand?" (Do you speak German?)

He blinked, clearly perplexed. "Anglais ou américain?" (English or American?)

"American," he said, finally understanding a conjugate. "Name's Carsin."

"I was apologizing for knocking into you. Seriously, you tourists need to learn the language if you are going to be here for more then a few days."

"I'm not a tourist. I'm an artist, a photographer working for a paranormal magazine." He handed me a business card.

Carsin Boyle, Photographer, Unnatural Monthly

I stared at the bandana clad man with ash brown hair in mild shock. He was the first human that I thought was cute since I was Infected. How ironic was it that his name was spelled with an i. Sin, as in forbidden. Something I couldn't have.

His blue eyes were piercing right though me. "Are you okay? Um—what's your name?"

I didn't think about the lie at first. "Del—Irene." I sputtered. "My name is Irene."

"Are you okay?" he asked again. "You look tired and pale."

Pale wasn't a usual for me, but tired was. Even when we aren't Phased, werewolves are generally nocturnal creatures. To seem as normal (aka not a serial killer) I try my hardest to not sleep in the morning. "I have not had my coffee yet this morning, ami." (friend)

"Can I take you to a café then, Irene? My treat."

- -

I was marveling at Carsin's camera, simply because I had seen nothing like it. "What is your assignment here, Carsin?"

"The Dark Moon." He chose a picture and passed me the camera.

I almost dropped my pastry, panicked. It was my mark; the one I made my first Phase after Malachi disappeared. "What?"

"My—colleagues—seem to believe that this graffiti is somehow related to dismemberments blamed on escaped dogs."

"DM," he said, pointing to a light spot on the photo. "They think it's some sort of supernatural being. A vampire or vengeful spirit of some sort. We've already ruled out werewolf."

That was a relief. I tried to sound as much like a skeptic as possible. "How did they rule out the werewolf?"

"The bodies have been found a week after the full moon and they had not been dead for a week."

I almost laughed hysterically. Instead, a single giggle left my lips. I bit into the pastry, trying to hide the fact that my face was going red.

Carsin must have interpreted my relief as embarrassment on his behalf. "You don't believe in the supernatural?"

"Oh—I mean," I put the pastry down, "English isn't my native tongue. I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Do you believe in ghosts, werewolves or vampires?"

I took a deep breath. "Ghosts, maybe. Vampires, of sorts. Werewolves, no."

"Well, I think the werewolves are real." He leaned across the table to point out the details I had memorized. "This circle, you can tell by the little circles in it, is supposed to be the full moon. The thing that turns a 'were' into a wolf."

"You cannot believe everything you see in movies, ami."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, picking at our food and sipping our coffee.

"So, Irene, I see there's paint on your jeans. Can I imply that you paint?"

"Oui. I do. When time allows. Usually, I just—" I lost my English for a second. "What is the word I am looking for?"

"Draw?" Carsin offered gently. "Doddle?"

"Yes, doddle. I enjoying doddle—ing?"

Carsin laughed at my slight struggle with gerunds. He wasn't mean about it, but he leaned in further, hand rubbing against mine.

It was like an electric shock that traveled up my entire arm. I pulled my hand away, shaking it slightly. Draining my coffee, I stood. "I am afraid I must return to my work, Carsin Boyle. Good luck on your article."