Chapter 2: The blood moon hunt
Silence.
That was the first thing wrong.
In the dripping, reeking blackness of the kennel, silence was a predator. In a place that was normally filled with the thrum of air, growls, shouts, rumblings of savagery or jubilation. Now, nothing. Nothing but the slow drip-drip-drip of water leaking through stone, and the frantic beat of my own heart battering against my chest. It was so still in the quiet that I feared they could hear me. The unhuman quiet enveloped me, dense and oppressive, intensifying the chill seeping into my marrow from the cold stone floor. I dug deeper into the corner, the rough wall abrading Borin's freshest welts on my back. My heart hitched. Something was coming. Something worse than fists. Something worse than hunger. Worse than the wolfsbane burn of the blood-slave collar on my beck. The silence was a trapped breath before a scream.
And then the drums.
Deep. Primal. A low, insistent thud-thud-thud vibrating up through the floor, pulsing into my marrow. It bypassed thought, striking the core of instinct where terror lives. Ice water flooded my veins. My breath stopped. Bloodmoon drums. The name surfaced from whispered pack lore, dismissed as myth. Now, horrifyingly real. Fear, cold and sharp as obsidian, speared through my numbness.
The kennel door scream was a body assault. Harsh light from the torch sliced in. Borin stood in the doorway, his figure enormous, face lined with a sinister grin. Anticipation danced within his eyes.
"Big day, Shadow," he boasted, lunging forward and grasping my chin, fingers digging into the jaw. He jerked my head up. "Alpha's got something special in store. A real honor." His grin stretched. "The Bloodmoon Hunt."
My blood solidified into ice, breaking apart inside me. The Hunt. Dull fear hardened. Every ten years under the cursed blue moon. A victim was thrown to the forest. Packs struggled to chase them down. The winner claimed the prey, for whatever depraved reason they desired. Survival was not a choice. The prey was often given a quick death because mercy was rarely shown. And for this hunt, I was the prey.
Panic engulfed my head. I attempted to draw back, suffocating. Borin's hold was like steel. Two guards approached, expressionless masks. Unyielding hands dragged me up. Pain flashed as my injured back raked against the serrated iron doorframe. I gasped for air. They didn't care. I was meat for their slaughter.
Borin dragged me through the abnormally quiet compound. The din was absent. A sepulchre lit by torches. Pack members lining the pathways, watching. Dozens of predator eyes flashing torchlight. Their silence oppressive hunger, heavy enough to suffocate upon.
Then the whispers. Hissing, slithering snakes entwining around me.
“….traitor's whelp." My guilt was stripped raw. My parents' blurred faces flashed, victim or traitors? The difference was irrelevant. Their transgression was my inheritance.
“….finally paying the blood price." Payback for existing. Injustice burned beneath the terror.
“…hope the Silverfangs join, I heard they tear their prey limb from screaming limb…" Nausea overtook me. Imaginations of mutilation, wet ripping noises amplified a hundredfold, happening to me. My legs wanted to give way. Only Borin's firm hold and the guards' restraint kept me standing. Death was not the worst; being the Silverfangs' plaything was hell.
We stepped into the central square. Torches roared, throwing demonic shadows on the ground. Smoke, sweat, and tension filled the air. Kael stood atop a platform, exuding sadistic authority. He lifted his hand.
Silence descended like a shroud. Thick. Expectant. Heavy as a burial cloth. There was only the thud-thud-thud of the drums beating in time with my wild heart.
"Tonight!" Kael bellowed, thundering. "The Bloodmoon ascends!" He pointed towards the initial ill-hued blue sliver on the horizon. Shivers of dark exhilaration ran through the pack. "The ancient woods crave! And we bring them…" His hand fell, finger pointing straight at me. “….the last tainted blood of the traitors!"
A roar convulsed the air, a wave of sound crashing against me. The throats of hundreds opened in bloodlust and savage triumph.
"Elara Shadow!" Kael's voice cut through, laced with venom. "Traitor-birth! Nightfang's blood-slave is the sacrifice!"
Sacrifice. Prey. The words struck me harshly. The world whirled gut-twistingly. Colors blurred. Muffled by the shouting crowd. My knees gave way. Only the grips held me up. "Fair use" Kael's words echoed horrendously. My life was being bartered away as entertainment.
"The rules!" Kael bellowed, arms raised. The roar receded. "She runs now, and then we hunt at moonrise!" He beckoned. Varga, the keeper of the ritual, emerged. In his hand was a collar. Thicker, heavier, dark metal. Seated in its center, throbbing evil light was a blood-red stone. It was a collared tracker. "One hour headstart! Collared and tracked!" Varga's expression was blank; I was a ritual piece. "The pack that hunts her down," Kael's voice dropped like a knife, "claims her and her blood debt!"
Excitement rippled through the crowd.
Claiming the debt meant claiming me for horrors.
Kael leered.
"May the hunt be worthy of the Bloodmoon!"
Blinding cheers. Howls. Feral barks. Borin shoved me hard against Varga. I stumbled. Varga's cold fingers unfastened the tattered collar. Transient relief was lost as the heavy tracker collar snapped into place with a final click.
The weight was monstrous and seemed to drag me along with it. The metal felt colder, leaching heat from me. The wolfsbane poison was a sharper and more insidious burn. And the stone pulsed against my throat. Not in time with my heartbeat but with a slow, deliberate, malevolent rhythm. Alive. Hungry. A beacon screaming HERE! PREY! HERE! Every pulse jolted pure panic through me. It was a brand. A shackle. A honing device for death.
Kael descended. People parted. He was inches away, his presence suffocating. The scent of alpha musk, aged blood and rot filled my nostrils. His chilled eyes snapped onto mine. Profound, utter hatred trapped my breath. He leaned towards me, foul breath enveloped me, words slicing like ice shards:
"Run far, little Shadow." The pet name was poison. "Make them chase." His voice dropped low, perverse closeness. "Make it fun." My fear was his play. "Your parents' debt will finally be repaid tonight.. " A wicked grin. “….in screams."
He spun, flung up his titanic arms, fists clenched, then he yelled, "TO THE WOODS!" Chaos unleashed. The pack charged, a screaming horde. Shoved and pushed, I was forced to the edge of the compound, towards the dark, ancient trees of the Bloodmoon Woods. The damnable blue moon climbed higher, casting noisome light, whitening the world to an abomination. The drums pounded, marching with the frantic pounding of my heart against the hard, pulsating stone. Run.The word blazed, a desperate ember in the consuming darkness. It overshadowed the howling, the drums, the weight of the collar, Kael's hatred. The only command. The only hope.
Run or die screaming.