Prologue
There was a time when life was simple, thrilling, and brimming with joy for Maxwell Delgado. At the tender age of five, the world was an endless adventure. His days were filled with excitement as he followed his father, Arthur Delgado, on his many ventures. By day, Arthur was an archaeologist, uncovering ancient mysteries buried in forgotten places. By night, he was a hunter—stalking the shadows and erasing the monstrous threats that hid within them. Max adored him, admired him, and soaked in every lesson his father had to offer.
Home-schooled from the start, Maxwell's education went far beyond reading, writing, and arithmetic. Arthur drilled him relentlessly, imparting skills that would prepare him for a life far different from that of any other child. Martial arts formed the foundation of his training—fluid strikes, blocks, and counters flowing like water through his limbs. Sword and knife fighting followed, the cold steel becoming an extension of his hands. Arthur taught him to string and draw a bow with deadly precision, to move silently through the underbrush, and to track his prey with the patience of a seasoned predator. Maxwell's mind and body became sharp and disciplined; his instincts honed to perfection.
But there were other skills too—subtler, quieter abilities that would one day save his life. Lockpicking, escape tactics, blending into crowds without being noticed—all essential tools of survival. At his father's side, he learned to navigate the wilds, tracking not just beasts but the things that lurked in the dark, preying on the unsuspecting. Their hunting trips often took them deep into the wilderness, stalking elk through dense forests. The thrill of the chase became a part of him, the satisfaction of a successful hunt lighting a fire in his soul. It was on one of those hunts that Maxwell knew, without a doubt, that he loved hunting—not just for survival but as a way of life.
Life was good. The ache of his mother's absence never truly left him, but the pain dulled over time. Arthur rarely spoke of her, only saying that she had died in a car accident when Max was just a year old. It wasn't until his eighth birthday that he received a gift that would change everything—a simple but beautiful Aztec totem necklace. Arthur told him it belonged to his late mother, and that she had always meant to give it to him when he was older. Maxwell cherished it instantly, clinging to the faint connection with the woman he had barely known. The totem felt warm in his hand, pulsing with a strange energy that he couldn't quite understand. Regardless, it became his most prized possession—a symbol of the mother he missed and the father who had raised him.
That same year, Maxwell received another gift—a visit from the only family he and his father truly counted on: Aunt Melissa and his cousin, Scott. Scott was a skinny boy with asthmatic lungs, always wheezing and struggling to keep up, but Maxwell didn't mind. They played together, laughed at each other's jokes, and shared stories about their vastly different lives. Maxwell had already been trained to handle himself, while Scott was fragile and soft-spoken. Still, there was a warmth to him that Maxwell couldn't help but admire. Despite the differences in their upbringing, they got along well, and for once, Maxwell felt a semblance of a normal family life.
After his eighth birthday, Arthur made the decision to settle down in San Diego. He said it was practical—it put them closer to his associates, the Calaveras, a hunter family from Mexico that Maxwell had only heard about but never met. For the first time, they lived in a real house, rather than traveling from place to place. Maxwell went to a public school, made a few friends, and even dared to imagine that life could stay this way—stable, peaceful, even happy. The shadows that haunted his father seemed to recede, and the nights were no longer filled with whispered warnings and sharpened blades.
But happiness, it seemed, was destined to be fleeting.
Just after Maxwell's sixteenth birthday, the world he had come to love shattered around him. His father burst through the door late one night, his face drawn and frantic, eyes wild with terror.
"Max, get your go-bag. Now!" Arthur's voice was sharp, laced with desperation, and Maxwell felt the fear seep into his bones. Without questioning, he moved, grabbing his pre-packed bag from under his bed.
Then the house shook—a loud crash against the front door. Maxwell froze, heart pounding, as his father drew his pistol and glanced back at him.
"Stay behind me," Arthur commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Maxwell peered around his father's shoulder and saw them—the intruders. No, not men. Monsters. Their eyes glowed yellow in the darkened room, feral and dangerous. Werewolves.
But it wasn't just the yellow-eyed wolves that made his blood run cold. There were two figures at the forefront—one massive, balding, and imposing, his eyes burning red like molten lava. Arthur's voice was tight with recognition.
"Ennis, get the fuck out of my house."
The towering werewolf grinned, showing off his white teeth. Beside him stood another man, smaller but no less intimidating, also sporting crimson eyes.
"So, we meet again, hunter," the smaller man sneered. "You know, you killed three of my boys. I really liked them, they were useful, and you had to snuff them, now, i can't just let that shit slide. Lucky for me, I made a friend., who was so eager to rip you lib from limb" He gestured to Ennis, whose grin widened.
"Oh Arthur," Ennis rumbled, his deep voice like gravel. "Been a while, you look tired, been working yourself out. Now, remember what I promised you, the night I killed your bitch wife? You ever come after me, and I'll kill you and your son without hesitation, well, I keep my promises."
Maxwell's heart stopped. So, his mother hadn't died in a car accident, this werewolf had killed her. Rage flooded his veins, hot and consuming, and he felt the totem around his neck warm up against his skin as his emotions surged as if answering to his rage. Betrayal twisted like a knife in his gut. His father had lied to him, protected him from the awful truth. But nothing could dull the hate he felt for the monster before him—the creature that had torn his family apart.
Arthur Delgado's face twisted with raw fury; his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth would crack. His eyes burned with a mixture of rage and betrayal as he glared at the towering werewolf before him.
"My wife was your friend and ally," he spat, his voice trembling with emotion. "She was your pack's emissary, she advised you, and how did you repay that? You fucking killed her! And for what? To gain more power? To join that blind fucking idiot leader of yours?"
Ennis's eyes glinted with cruel amusement, but before he could respond, Arthur turned his gaze to the other Alpha—the smaller, wiry one with the same crimson eyes. Arthur's voice was steady, defiant, as he spoke.
"You do know he killed his own pack, right? That's the kind of monster you're trusting to stand by your side."
The smaller Alpha only laughed, his grin vicious and full of malice. "I don't care what he is," he sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "So long as I get to kill you, hunter. But first—" His grin widened, feral and menacing. "I think I'm gonna make you watch as my boys rip your son limb from fucking limb. Think of it as payback for all the grief you caused me."
Arthur didn't hesitate. In a flash, he launched himself at the trio of Beta wolves, determined to cut them down before they could get anywhere near his son. His movements were precise and brutal, his machete-like sword slicing through the air with deadly intent.
Maxwell, his heart pounding like a war drum, wasted no time either. His hands shot out, grabbing a handgun from a hidden holster beneath the end table. Without a second thought, he leveled it at the cocky Alpha and squeezed the trigger, unloading round after round. But the Alpha moved like a blur, weaving between the bullets with effortless speed and a mocking smile plastered on his face.
Arthur focused on the three Betas, knowing his son was in trouble but refusing to let them overwhelm him. One of the wolves lunged, claws extended, but Arthur sidestepped and drove his blade deep into its side, twisting viciously before yanking it free. The werewolf howled, staggering back, but Arthur didn't let up. With a swift motion, he flung a handful of wolfsbane powder into the face of another Beta, the caustic substance searing its eyes and muzzle. The wolf screamed in agony, clawing at its face as Arthur decapitated it in a single, clean swing.
The third Beta tried to flank him, but Arthur pivoted, slashing open its chest, then spun around and buried his blade in the last one's heart. The wolf collapsed, choking on its own blood. One by one, they fell, their bodies littering the floor in broken, twisted heaps. Arthur barely had time to catch his breath before he turned to face Ennis, who stood smirking, completely unfazed.
Meanwhile, Maxwell struggled against the Alpha. The werewolf was impossibly fast and relentless, slashing and striking with brutal efficiency. Max tried everything—firing shots to slow him down, throwing wolfsbane-coated knives—but nothing seemed to work. The Alpha swatted the blade from his hand, his claws raking across Maxwell's chest and shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt as the pain seared through him, but Max didn't stop fighting. He landed a wild punch to the Alpha's jaw, but it was like hitting solid rock.
The Alpha laughed, grabbing Max by the throat and slamming him against the wall hard enough to make his vision blur. Blood trickled from his mouth as the Alpha leaned in, grinning like a madman.
"Is this what qualifies as a hunter these days?" he mocked, squeezing Max's neck tighter. "So pathetic."
Max fought against the crushing force, gasping for air, his fingers scrabbling desperately for the wolfsbane-coated silver karambit knife still tucked into his belt. He strained against the Alpha's grip, teeth gritted, refusing to give in even as darkness crept into his vision.
Across the room, Arthur was faring no better. Ennis moved with predatory grace, each strike calculated and devastating. A rib-shattering punch drove Arthur to his knees, the sickening crack echoing through the room. He coughed violently, blood spattering the floor as his vision swam. Ennis loomed over him, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips.
Arthur forced himself to his feet, clutching his side as he fixed Ennis with a defiant glare. "It's too late," he rasped, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I already signaled for my friends. They'll be here soon. They'll kill you."
Ennis let out a dark, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head. "By the time they arrive, you'll be dead. So will your kid." His gaze darkened, red eyes glinting with sadistic glee. "Just like your bitch wife, and I'll be long gone."
Arthur's fury reignited, and he lashed out with a hidden knife, aiming for Ennis's throat. But the werewolf saw it coming, catching his wrist and twisting viciously, making Arthur drop the blade. Ennis sneered down at him, unbothered by the desperate attack.
"Accept your death like a warrior, hunter."
Before Arthur could react, Ennis's claws slashed across his stomach with brutal precision. Arthur's eyes widened as his flesh gave way, his intestines spilling out in a horrific, steaming mass. Pain roared through his body, and his legs buckled, forcing him to his knees. Blood poured from the gaping wound, pooling beneath him.
He glanced up one last time, locking eyes with Maxwell across the room—his son, still fighting against the Alpha, desperate and bleeding. Arthur wanted to shout, to tell him to run, but his body refused to move. The light in his eyes faded, and with a final shuddering breath, he collapsed to the floor, lifeless.
Ennis stood over the corpse, unfazed by the brutality, his lips curling into a satisfied grin. Maxwell's heart shattered as he saw his father's still body, rage and grief boiling over like a storm in his soul. His vision went red, every muscle in his body straining as he reached for his knife.
The Alpha didn't notice the shift in Maxwell's demeanor, too focused on taunting him. "Your old man's dead, kid. You're next. Not much of a legacy, huh?"
Max's fingers finally closed around the knife handle, the cool metal reassuring against his palm. He didn't respond—couldn't. All he could feel was the searing hatred coursing through his veins. As the Alpha sneered down at him, Maxwell's grip tightened, and his mind locked onto one goal.
He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he was going to make them pay. All of them.
Max's eyes were glued to the bloody, ruined form of his father, sprawled lifeless on the floor with his insides spilling out like a grotesque tapestry of death. The coppery stench filled the air, coating his throat with bitterness as Ennis's cruel laughter rang out like a twisted symphony in the background. "Oh, come on, man, he was my kill, we agreed on this" complained the alpha Werewolf holding Max. Fury and grief collided within him, raw and untamed, and a primal scream tore from his lungs, echoing through the room.
His hands trembled as he snatched up the karambit knife, the silver glinting with a wicked edge. Before the distracted Alpha even knew what was happening, Max lunged, driving the blade into the wolf's throat. Blood sprayed in thick, crimson arcs as the Alpha roared, clawing at his neck, but Max didn't stop. He slashed again and again, each stroke precise and savage, painting himself in the werewolf's blood. The Alpha staggered backward, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his strength ebbed, gurgling on his own blood. His grip on Max's shoulder loosened before he collapsed to the ground, dead, his head hanging at an unnatural angle, throat shredded beyond recognition.
Max stood over the corpse, chest heaving, his body drenched in gore. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, but his mind was barely holding onto reality. He glanced over at Ennis, expecting rage or shock, but the massive werewolf remained disturbingly calm, lips twisted into a sick, approving smirk.
Suddenly, heat seared across Max's chest, and he gripped at the totem hanging around his neck, his fingers brushing against its smooth, pulsating surface. The heat intensified, spreading through his body like wildfire, making his muscles twitch and his skin tingle. It wasn't painful—just overwhelmingly powerful, like liquid fire coursing through his veins, filling every cell with strength and vitality.
What the hell is going on? Am I turning? Panic flared in his mind, but he forced himself to think logically. He hadn't been bitten. Turning didn't happen this fast anyway—no one changed into a werewolf in seconds, no, that took time. As the heat finally subsided to a comforting, rhythmic pulse—like a second heartbeat—realization struck him.
Wait... The totem! Had it absorbed the dead Alpha's power? And then gave it to me. How? How Is that even possible? Does that mean I a werewolf now? Or I just have the powers of a wolf? No... I still feel like me—just stronger. A lot stronger.
He clenched his fists, and the rush of newfound power thrummed through his muscles, coiling like a beast ready to pounce. He could feel his senses sharpening, his heartbeat steady and relentless, strength coursing through every fiber of his being. Whatever had happened, it was clear that the totem had done something to him—something that made him more than human.
A loud, dismissive snap brought his attention back to Ennis, who looked anything but impressed. The towering werewolf cocked his head to the side, letting out a low, rumbling chuckle.
"Well done on that little fluke, kid," Ennis sneered, eyes gleaming with disdain. "That dumbass underestimated you, and paid the price. But that is where your luck runs out, because, I am not easily distracted. Your dad—a seasoned hunter—couldn't even put a dent in me. So do yourself a favor and just give up. I promise I'll make it quick."
Max gritted his teeth, glancing down at his father's ruined body—his face pale and lifeless, his blood pooling beneath him. Grief, rage, and vengeance boiled within him, a storm threatening to consume his sanity. He knew he had no more weapons on him—no wolfsbane, no silver bullets—just his trusty knife and this new strength pulsing through his veins.
Sucking in a breath, he dropped into a fighting stance, his eyes locked onto Ennis with unflinching determination. "You want me dead?" Max spat, his voice cold and venomous. "Then you're gonna have to work for it, you bastard."
Ennis barked out a laugh, his massive boot kicking Arthur's corpse aside with casual cruelty, leaving a trail of intestines dragging along the floor. The sight twisted Max's gut with rage, but he forced himself to stay focused, ignoring the grief tearing him apart from the inside.
The Alpha grinned wickedly, his crimson eyes blazing. "Don't worry, kid," he taunted, cracking his knuckles with a low growl. "You're gonna be joining your parents soon enough—in the afterlife."
With that, Ennis broke into a sprint, his massive frame hurtling toward Max like a freight train. Max steadied himself, gripping the knife tighter, his heart pounding like a war drum. He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore—he was fighting for vengeance, for his family, and he wasn't going down without a fight.
A feral roar tore from Max's throat as he charged forward, blood pounding in his ears. His vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp and bend, his body moving faster than he could comprehend. The sheer speed of it stunned him for a fraction of a second, but he forced himself to focus, pushing down his shock as he hurtled toward the monstrous man standing before him.
The massive Alpha raised an eyebrow, intrigued rather than alarmed, his lips curling into a wicked grin. "Oh, wow, you're fast, not bad kiddo," he mocked, his tone dripping with condescension.
Max closed the distance in an instant, launching himself into a spinning kick—a move perfected through countless hours of martial arts training. The Alpha leaned back just in time, narrowly dodging the lethal blow, his smirk faltering as he realized he'd need to take this seriously. Undeterred, Max didn't give him a moment to recover, flowing seamlessly into a barrage of strikes. His fists and feet moved with deadly precision, the knife slicing through the air in deadly arcs. Each kick and punch connected with bone-shattering force, moving so fast that a normal human would have been torn apart before even realizing what hit them.
Yet the giant of a man weaved and blocked with effortless grace, his massive arms deflecting Max's strikes one after another. Amusement danced in his red eyes, though they glinted with a newfound wariness.
"Well, this is unexpected," he admitted with a slow, taunting clap between dodges. "You've got more fight in you than your dad, kid. I thought tonight was going to be a dull, boring affair, but you've proven me wrong. I almost feel grateful."
Max leapt back, planting his feet and surging forward once more, this time driving his fist toward the man's jaw in a brutal Superman punch. Cocky and overconfident, the Alpha let it connect, scoffing at the attempt. His head snapped back with a sickening crack, and he was launched off his feet, crashing into the far wall.
Max's chest heaved as he regained his balance, heart hammering with a mix of triumph and dread. The Alpha rose from the rubble, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with a gloved hand. He studied the crimson streak with mild surprise before chuckling, shaking his head in disbelief.
"There's no doubt about it—you're strong, kid," he admitted, his voice almost respectful. "Way too strong for a normal human. But don't get cocky. That strength doesn't mean shit to me. You see, I'm not just any werewolf—I'm an Alpha. I've been alive for almost 60 years. Compared to me, you're nothing but a pest—a loud, annoying gnat I'm going to squash. You might put up a fight—hell, I'm counting on it—but in the end, you're still going to die screaming. Just like your pathetic bitch mother and father did."
A dark, predatory grin stretched across his face as his eyes flared brighter, glowing an unnaturally vivid red. Sharp fangs protruded from his upper jaw, glinting wickedly in the dim light. He cracked his neck, the sound echoing through the room like breaking bone.
"Now," he sneered, crouching into an aggressive stance, his muscles tensing like a coiled spring. "Allow me to retort."
Before Max could brace himself, the Alpha exploded forward, moving faster than Max could fully track—faster than even his new instincts could process. A devastating fist smashed into his gut, the force lifting him off his feet as pain seared through his abdomen. Blood spewed from his mouth as he choked on the impact, his vision going hazy. The Alpha didn't give him a chance to recover—his thick, unyielding hand clamped around Max's ankle, and with a bone-rattling roar, he swung Max like a ragdoll, slamming him into the hardwood floor with such force that cracks spiderwebbed out from the impact.
Agony screamed through Max's body as he barely registered being hurled through a wall, wood and drywall exploding around him as he crashed into the next room. His mind swam with pain, struggling to force his limbs to respond, but the Alpha was already there, looming over him like a shadow of death.
Grinning wickedly, the towering man reached down, lifting Max by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall, pinning him in place. Max fought through the fog clouding his thoughts, spitting out a mouthful of blood as he tried to retort.
"Fuc—"
Another brutal punch to the gut silenced him, his ribs creaking under the pressure. The Alpha grinned wider, leaning closer, his hot breath washing over Max's face. "You're not half bad, kid," he growled with a hint of admiration. "If I were just a normal Alpha like that idiot you killed, you probably would have ended me by now. But I'm not normal—I'm beyond that. I'm something much, much stronger."
Max gritted his teeth, glaring defiantly despite the blood dripping down his chin. The pain was excruciating, but his spirit refused to break. His father had taught him better than to bow down to monsters. The Alpha's eyes narrowed, his grin growing crueler as he forced Max's head back, baring his throat.
"Well," the Alpha mused with a low chuckle, "brave to the last breath. That's almost respectable."
He raised his clawed hand, muscles coiling with lethal intent, prepared to deliver the killing blow. Max stared up at him, heart thundering with fear and fury, but his resolve burned brighter than ever. He wasn't going to die cowering—not today.
Ennis's clawed hand hovered inches from Max's throat, poised to deliver the final blow. A savage, victorious gleam burned in his crimson eyes. Max tensed, bracing for death. Suddenly, a deafening bang erupted, and the room exploded with blinding white light. Ennis howled, staggering back as he shielded his eyes, cursing furiously as his senses reeled from the disorienting flashbang.
Gunfire rang out, tearing through the air as bullets impacted the hulking werewolf, forcing him to release his grip on Max. The young man collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his vision swimming with pain and exhaustion. As his head spun, recognition sparked through the fog—those precise, coordinated movements and tactical assault could only belong to hunters. Relief mixed with bitterness—backup had arrived, but far too late to save his parents.
Ennis continued to stagger, shaking off the effects of the flashbang, just as Max found a surge of strength and lunged forward. Pouring all his fury and pain into one devastating punch, he smashed his fist into the Alpha's jaw, sending him hurtling through the shattered wall and back into the living room. The force splintered wood and cracked plaster as Ennis tumbled across the floor, finally crashing to a stop amid the debris.
Max stumbled after him, his limbs trembling as he entered the living room. The gruesome scene hit him like a sledgehammer—his father's broken body sprawled across the floor, surrounded by the corpses of the slaughtered werewolves. Grief tightened his throat, but his attention snapped to a new presence in the room—a stooped old woman kneeling beside his father. Her wrinkled hands gently closed his father's eyes, and her face twisted with raw, unfiltered rage.
Ennis staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth as his eyes darted between the woman and Max. His confidence faltered, replaced by a flicker of fear. Snarling, he took a hesitant step back. "Calaveras!" he spat, the name drenched in venom and dread.
The old woman's dark eyes flashed with fury as she slowly rose to her feet, her gaze locked onto Ennis with cold, unforgiving hatred. She glanced at the man standing behind her and barked a command in Spanish, her tone as sharp as a blade. "Severo, tráeme la cabeza de ese follador de lobos."
The burly man behind her gave a wolfish grin and cocked his shotgun, eyes gleaming with murderous intent. "Sí, madre." He turned to three other hunters, his voice booming with authority. "Hombres, matemos a un hombre lobo alfa."
Ennis's eyes darted between the approaching hunters and the injured Max, his lips curled into a snarl. "This isn't over, kid," he growled, hatred simmering behind his words. "I will find you."
Max's face hardened, forcing down his pain as he glared back defiantly. "Not if I find you first, you bastard," he shot back, his voice raw with determination.
Ennis bared his teeth, casting one last glance at the hunters as they leveled their weapons. He roared furiously, his eyes blazing red, and the gunmen opened fire. Several rounds struck his torso and legs, but the beast merely grunted, unfazed as he spun around and leapt through the back window. Glass shattered in a storm of fragments as he vanished into the night, his furious howl echoing through the darkness.
The hunters pursued, shouting orders and firing after him, gunshots ringing out into the night. Silence fell over the house, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens drawing nearer.
The old woman turned her sharp, unyielding gaze toward Max, her expression still twisted with contempt and suspicion. Gingerly, Max dragged himself toward his father's body, his heart aching with grief. His body was mending itself, the totem's power knitting together broken bones and closing vicious gashes, but he was on the brink of collapse, every muscle trembling from the pain and exhaustion.
He dropped to his knees beside his father, gently cradling the man's cold hand, trying to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. The elderly woman remained where she stood, her weathered face softened only slightly by curiosity as she regarded him with a mixture of caution and intrigue.
With a voice thick with a heavy Mexican accent, she demanded, "Tell me, Niño, how did you achieve this? How did you fight off two Alpha werewolves and a pack?"
Max tried to respond, his throat dry and voice weak. "I-I…" He never finished. The darkness rushed up to claim him, and his body finally gave in, collapsing to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Just before his consciousness faded completely, he heard the old woman's commanding voice barking another order, sharper and more urgent. "Trae al niño, tengo preguntas para él."
Everything faded to black, his mind spiraling into the void, leaving behind the wreckage, the blood, and the faint echoes of hunters giving chase.
Max's eyes fluttered open, his vision swimming as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bathing the expansive space in a cold, sterile glow. The concrete floor beneath his feet was unforgiving, and the air carried a faint scent of oil and dust. As his mind cleared, he realized he was tied to a chair, thick chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, holding him securely in place. Panic flared briefly, and he pulled against the restraints, but they didn't budge.
Opposite him sat the elderly woman who had saved him earlier, her posture relaxed as she watched him with an unwavering, piercing gaze that seemed to strip away any pretense. Beside her stood the same burly man who had followed her commands back at the house. His face was stoic, shotgun resting casually against his shoulder. Max's thoughts raced—where were they? Was this still San Diego? And why was he tied up like a prisoner?
Then the memories hit him like a tidal wave—the brutal attack, his father dying in his arms, the blood, the chaos, the pain. His chest tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to drown out the haunting images. It couldn't be real. It had to be a nightmare. But the rough bite of chains against his skin was painfully real, grounding him in the harsh reality of it all.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the woman spoke, her voice rough and thick with her Spanish accent. "So, tell me, niño... how do you possess the strength to fight toe-to-toe with an Alpha werewolf, and heal from the injuries inflicted upon you?" Her tone was cold and demanding, eyes narrowing as they bore into him.
Max opened his mouth, searching for words, but she cut him off before he could reply. "Tell me, what are you?"
He swallowed hard, his mouth dry and his mind racing for an answer, but the woman continued, not waiting for him to speak. "Your father was one of the best hunters I have ever seen. He took the Hunter's Code seriously—like us. We even considered him a close ally." Her gaze grew sharper, judgment glinting in her dark eyes. "So, I find it hard to believe that his son would be turned into a werewolf and he would not do the right thing, as the code demands."
Max knew exactly what she meant. The code was clear—any hunter turned into a werewolf was expected to take their own life rather than risk becoming a monster. But that didn't apply to him—he wasn't a werewolf. He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to meet her intense gaze. "Lady, I'm not a werewolf, okay? If you think I'm lying, feel free to test me. My powers—they didn't come from being bitten. I think I got them from my mom. She left me a totem—one she gave my dad, for me, before she died."
The woman's expression softened slightly, curiosity flickering through her hardened features. Max continued; his voice strained but sincere. "When... when we were attacked and Dad died, I killed one of the Alpha werewolves. And... I think I felt something—like it poured its strength into me. I know it sounds crazy, but one moment that alpha werewolf was stronger than me, and the next, I was stronger than ever after I killed him. It felt like the totem absorbed his power and made me stronger."
Silence fell between them, thick and heavy, as the old woman exchanged a stunned glance with the man. Her face, usually unreadable, now bore a glimmer of shock. Leaning back toward the man, she whispered something in rapid Spanish, her voice low and tense. The man's expression shifted from stoic to startled, and he glanced warily at Max before stepping forward.
"Where?" he demanded, his tone urgent. "Where is this totem? I wish to see it."
Max jerked his chin down, indicating his shirt. "Around my neck... under my shirt," he said.
The man carefully leaned down and pulled the chain from beneath Max's shirt, revealing the ornate amulet with the totem. His eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped open as he whispered, "Dios nos ayude a todos."
The woman frowned, her face tightening in confusion. "¿Qué pasa, hijo mío?" she asked sharply.
The man, still staring at the totem as if it were a cursed object, replied with disbelief in his voice. "Él tiene el tótem... el tótem de Tonatiuh."
The woman's eyes widened, and her face paled as the word hit her like a slap. "Impossible," she whispered in English, moving closer to examine the amulet, her fingers trembling slightly as they traced its intricate carvings.
She stared at it, muttering to herself, "¿Cómo logró la bruja hacer esto?"
The man just shook his head slowly, clearly as baffled as she was. Max, still dazed and aching, couldn't help but frown, his mind spinning. Why had they called his mother a witch? What kind of power did this totem hold? He didn't have answers—just more questions piling up with every second.
The woman suddenly reached out and gripped the amulet, intent on pulling it off Max's neck. The instant her fingers touched the cool stone, a sizzling sound filled the air, accompanied by the acrid stench of burnt flesh. The woman cried out in pain and jerked her hand back, clutching her palm and glaring at the amulet with wide, astonished eyes. The faint wisps of smoke curling from her singed skin made Max wrinkle his nose, the enhanced sensitivity from the totem making the smell almost unbearable.
The woman looked at Max with a mixture of frustration and intrigue. "It would seem your mother made it so that no one else but you could wear the amulet and use the totem's power," she said, her tone begrudgingly respectful.
Max swallowed, his heart still racing from the sudden commotion. "Wait," he said cautiously. "Do you know what the totem is?"
Before the woman could respond, the man standing beside her—whose presence loomed like a shadow—answered instead. His deep, gravelly voice carried a heavy Mexican accent as he spoke. "It is the Totem of Might. Ancient texts speak of druids who channeled the power of the gods themselves to forge a talisman capable of granting the wearer the ability to absorb the lifeforce—the 'spark'—of any defeated enemy. The stronger the enemy, the greater the power gained. The more powerful enemies the wearer kills, the stronger they become."
Max listened in shock, his mind whirling with the implications. He remembered the surge of strength after killing the Alpha—the way his muscles seemed to hum with newfound power, the totem pulsing hot against his chest. As terrifying as it sounded, he knew the man's words were true.
The man continued; his tone grim. "But the texts also speak of how this power corrupts. Those who wield it become consumed by their own might, driven by an insatiable hunger for power—believing themselves to be gods among men."
A chill crawled down Max's spine. He knew all too well how intoxicating that power had felt, how primal and fierce. But to think it could turn him into something monstrous... His stomach twisted with unease.
The man gave Max a hard look, lips pressing into a thin line. "And now, the amulet is in the hands of a child. This will not end well."
"Cálmate, hijo mío," The woman interjected, her voice steady but stern. "It could be worse. The totem could have fallen into the hands of the shapeshifters. We should count ourselves lucky, ¿ey?"
The man—Severo, as Max would soon learn—hesitated before giving a reluctant nod, though his eyes never left the amulet.
Max cleared his throat, trying to cut through the tension. "Excuse me, but I'm still confused. Where am I? What happened to my dad's body? I... I need to go back."
Araya's expression softened slightly, and she pulled up a nearby chair to sit directly across from Max. "My name, niño, is Araya," she said calmly, her voice firm and unapologetic. "I am the head of the Calavera family. Like you and your father, we are hunters. We knew your parents well. Your father was a good hunter—one of the best. Your mother... she was Mexican, one of us. Though we did not always see eye to eye, before you were born, she shared her knowledge of shapeshifters with us, and would help us, from time to time, making us better at our jobs. That knowledge saved lives."
A hint of sorrow touched Araya's face, but she pushed it down, her jaw setting with determination. "Your father was one of our most cherished allies. This attack will not go unpunished—we swear it. To cover up his death and any evidence of the supernatural, we set fire to your house. As far as the authorities know, it was a tragic accident—a house fire caused by a robbery gone wrong. We also created an alibi for your absence. The police will believe you were staying with us when it happened."
Max took a shaky breath, his throat tight as he processed her words. "And... my aunt? Does she know what happened" he asked, his voice small.
"The police notified her of your father's passing. She will arrive tomorrow to handle the funeral arrangements and take custody of you," Araya said, her gaze unwavering. "You'll return to San Diego to be interviewed by the police. You'll say you were staying with a friend—nothing more. Understood?"
Max nodded slowly, feeling numb. The grief simmered just below the surface, but he forced it down. He had to be strong—like his dad had taught him.
Araya gestured to Severo, and he moved forward to unlock the chains binding Max to the chair. As they clattered to the ground, Max rubbed his sore wrists, grateful to be free.
"We also cleared your father's weapons from the house before burning it, so that the cops would not find anything, we will return them to you when you have settled down in your new home. Now, I hope you understand," Araya said, her tone softening just a fraction, "that your capture was not personal. We had to make sure that you were not a shapeshifter, that the Hunter's Code was upheld. But now that we know the truth, you are no longer our prisoner."
Max met her gaze and gave a small nod of understanding. "Thanks... for saving me, I owe you a lot," he mumbled, unsure of what else to say.
Araya's lips quirked into a faint, almost maternal smile. "No need to thank me, Niño. We are this fight together, we are hunters, and we look out for each other. My son, Severo, will show you to a room where you can rest. You'll stay here until it's time to return to San Diego and attend your parents' funeral."
Max hesitated, looking between them, but ultimately nodded again. Severo motioned for him to follow, and as they walked away, Max couldn't help but glance back at Araya one last time. The weight of everything pressed down on him, but for now, he simply followed Severo, hoping that a moment of rest might dull the ache in his heart.
-0-
Two days had crawled by since the attack, the haunting memories replaying in Max's mind like a broken record. The Calaveras had been practical, giving him what information they could. His father's garage was still standing, untouched by the flames, so at least he still had access to some of his belongings. That garage was more than just a workshop—it was where his dad had taught him how to fix cars and work with his hands. A piece of his father still lingered there.
Money wouldn't be an issue either. His father had been thorough with his preparations, setting up offshore accounts that max had full access to, and even a legal trust fund that would unlock when Max turned eighteen. Max couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt over the practicality of it all—his dad had planned for his death long before it came. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Now, as the sun hung low in the sky, Max stood at his father's funeral, his heart weighed down by grief and confusion. The priest's voice carried over the small gathering, solemn and respectful, speaking of the legacy Arthur Delgado left behind—a life well-lived, a man to be proud of. Words like honor, dedication, and strength punctuated the speech, but they barely registered in Max's ears. He sat beside his Aunt Melissa, who was quietly sobbing into a tissue, her shoulders trembling with each breath. He wrapped an arm around her, offering what little comfort he could.
According to the news, Arthur Delgado—renowned archaeologist and loving father—had been brutally murdered in a suspected robbery gone wrong. The house fire had destroyed most evidence, and the media speculated endlessly about how and why it had happened. They also mentioned how Max had survived only because he had been visiting a family friend in Mexico. The Calaveras had set up the alibi perfectly, making it seem like mere coincidence that Max had been gone during the tragedy.
But as the priest continued to speak, Max barely heard him. His fingers absently traced the totem necklace around his neck, the cool metal pressed against his palm, grounding him in reality. The totem—his mother's gift when he was just a baby—still pulsed with power, a constant reminder of what it was and what it could do. The Calaveras had explained some of its abilities, though much remained a mystery. It granted him immense power—enough to rival even the shapeshifters—and it seemed to grow stronger with every enemy defeated. The realization still gnawed at him. The power he now possessed had come from killing the Alpha, and the notion that more kills would make him stronger left a cold weight in his chest.
But he knew one thing for certain—he wasn't done. He was going to find Ennis, the werewolf bastard who had destroyed his family, and make him pay. He would use the totem's power not just to avenge his parents, but to protect the innocent from the creatures that lurked in the dark. We hunt those who hunt us, he thought, clenching the totem tightly. The words felt like a mantra, one that fueled his resolve.
His mind wandered back to the morgue—the sterile, bitter cold of the room still fresh in his memory. He had gone there with Aunt Melissa, who had insisted on being there as a nurse, prepared to identify the remains. When the drawer slid open, and the charred bodies of his father were revealed, Max's stomach had lurched. His hands shook, and he wanted to scream, to deny the truth that lay right in front of him. Melissa had held him, whispering soothing words, even though her own grief had been suffocating. Somehow, through her own pain, she managed to support him, guiding him through the motions and handling the paperwork with a weary efficiency.
Melissa had taken over funeral preparations, aided by Araya and some of Max's parents' friends from the neighborhood. There weren't many people who came to the funeral—most were distant acquaintances or work colleagues. His mother had been an orphan, growing up in Mexico, so no family stood in her place, but the Calaveras had shown up, a quiet and respectful presence among the mourners.
The ceremony wrapped up, and the priest blessed the coffin one last time before it was lowered into the ground. Max remained frozen in place, staring down as the polished wood disappeared into the earth. His mother's gravestone stood beside his father's new resting place, an unyielding reminder of what he had lost. Even as people trickled away from the cemetery, Max stayed rooted to the spot, his mind swirling with thoughts of vengeance and uncertainty.
A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Aunt Melissa giving him a sad, supportive smile. She pulled him into a hug, her arms warm and steady despite her own pain. "It's time to go, Max," she whispered.
Max nodded numbly, allowing himself to be led toward the exit of the graveyard, where cars waited in a somber line. As they walked, Melissa spoke softly, her voice cracking here and there. "Max... I know this is a lot. I know it hurts. Believe me, I feel your pain too. But you don't have to go through it alone, okay? I'm here for you. Scott and I will be here for you."
She hugged him again, tighter this time, as if trying to shield him from the harshness of reality. "After the funeral's over, you're coming home with me. From now on, you'll be staying with Scott and me. Okay?"
Max looked at her, the faintest glimmer of gratitude breaking through the numbness. "Thank you," he whispered.
Melissa squeezed his shoulder gently. "You are family, and family looks out for each other. Now, take as much time as you need. I'll be waiting in the car."
With a nod, Max watched her walk away before turning back to the grave. A wave of emotion crashed over him, and he placed a hand on his father's tombstone, the rough stone cold beneath his palm.
"Bye, dad," he murmured, his voice low and raw. "I promise I'll do what you trained me to do, Dad... and I'll find the bastard who took you from me. I swear it."
With that final vow, he turned away and walked toward his aunt's car, each step heavy with determination. His future was uncertain, but one thing was clear—he would make Ennis pay, and he would carry on his father's legacy as a hunter. Whatever came next, he would face it head-on, just as his dad would have wanted.
After the funeral, when all the friends, neighbors, and distant relatives had offered their condolences and shared their memories, Max found himself riding in silence beside his Aunt Melissa. The car's engine hummed softly as they pulled up to his childhood home—or what was left of it. What had once been a place of warmth and comfort was now a smoldering ruin, reduced to ash and soot. The charred remnants of walls jutted up like broken ribs, and the smell of burnt wood lingered in the air, choking him with memories of happier days.
But amid the destruction, one thing remained untouched—the garage. His father's sanctuary of metal and grease had somehow survived the inferno, standing tall and resolute against the backdrop of devastation. Max felt a pang in his chest as he approached it, his footsteps heavy with dread and determination.
Movers, hired by his aunt, had already arrived, their trucks parked at the curb. They moved quickly and efficiently, but Max could see the sympathetic glances they gave him, pity etched into their faces. Gritting his teeth, he ignored them and got to work, sorting through his father's tools—wrenches, ratchets, sockets—all meticulously organized, just as his dad had always kept them. One by one, they were packed into heavy-duty boxes and loaded into the moving trucks, each clang of metal a painful reminder of the man who had shown him how to use them.
The police had already swept through the garage, hoping to find clues about what might have provoked the brutal attack. They came up empty, eventually giving Max the go-ahead to clear out the rest. Little did they know, the real secrets were hidden beneath their feet. Max knelt by the workbench, hands brushing away dust and grime as he found the hidden latch. With a firm tug, a small panel popped open, revealing a secret compartment nestled into the concrete floor.
Inside lay a stash his father had prepared—a last resort, just in case. Stacks of cash, fake IDs, passports, and other essential items were packed neatly, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. His father had always been prepared for the worst, but Max never thought he would actually need it. Steeling himself, he pocketed the essentials, knowing the rest could wait until he set up shop in Beacon Hills. He would have to build a new base there, one equipped to deal with the threats he knew lurked in the shadows.
The Calaveras had promised to send his weapons once he arrived and even mentioned a family of hunters as old as theirs—the Argents. They had been in Beacon Hills for a while now, dedicated to protecting the area from shapeshifters. One of their own had been killed by an Alpha werewolf recently, and the Calaveras were planning to go there to ensure she was truly dead. Max couldn't help but wonder what kind of hunters the Argents were—the good kind, who fought to protect people like his father had, or the kind that reveled in killing for the thrill of it. He would find out soon enough.
As the last of his father's belongings were loaded into the moving trucks, Max felt the weight of finality settle on his shoulders. Aunt Melissa checked on him multiple times, her voice soft and careful, asking if he was holding up. He gave her the same answer each time—a curt nod and a quiet, "I'm coping." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Grief and fury battled inside him, but he kept both buried under a mask of calm.
When the movers signaled that they were done, Melissa gave him a tight, reassuring hug before getting into her car. Max took a deep breath and walked over to his father's pride and joy—a black, customized 2011 Harley Davidson V-Rod. The bike gleamed despite the ashy residue in the air, aggressive and powerful, just like his dad had liked it. Max swung his leg over and settled into the seat, feeling the rumble of the engine as it roared to life beneath him.
With one last look at the house—his childhood home now reduced to rubble—he tightened his grip on the handlebars. The memories threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed them back, forcing himself to focus on the road ahead. A new life awaited him in Beacon Hills, one full of uncertainty and danger. But he was ready for it. He had to be.
Melissa's car pulled out first, leading the way down the cracked and worn road. Max revved the engine, letting the roar echo through the empty street, then peeled out after her, tires kicking up dust and gravel. The wind whipped through his hair as he sped down the road, leaving the ashes of his past behind.
A new life awaited him in Beacon Hills. One where he would rebuild, regroup, and find Ennis—the monster who tore his world apart. And when he did, he would make him pay. But until then, he would stay vigilant, train harder, and prepare for whatever the supernatural world threw at him next. The road stretched out ahead, and with every mile, Max felt his resolve harden—he would survive, he would protect, and he would avenge.