Chqpter 4: The Call
“Eden!” The voice, distant at first, seemed to echo strangely, not in the air, but against her very skin. She blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the familiar light. Sierra’s face appeared through the lingering shadows of the alley, her brows deeply furrowed with worry, her breath curling into faint wisps in the cool morning chill. Behind her, Logan jogged up the alley, his shoulders heaving, puffing from exertion.
“Where the hell did you go?” Sierra demanded, her hand grasping Eden’s arm, her grip firm. “We’ve been calling you for, like, fifteen minutes!”
“I…” Eden looked back the way she’d come, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The gas station now stood as nothing more than a silent, unassuming shell—just cracked concrete and tenacious weeds. No blood. No gouged claw marks. No boy. The transformation was complete, a horrifying memory now erased from the physical world. Her voice came out thin, fragile. “I got turned around.”
“You disappeared,” Logan said, his voice laced with genuine concern. “We thought you got jumped.”
“I’m fine,” she said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too vehemently. They stared at her, their eyes moving across her face, taking in her pale skin, the unsettling, unfocused stare in her eyes, the slight, uncontrollable tremble in her hand. Sierra opened her mouth, a question forming on her lips, but Eden cut her off, desperate to avoid further scrutiny.
“Seriously. I just needed air. I’m fine.” A lie. A blatant, desperate lie. But it slid out smoothly, effortlessly, a practiced deception.
By the time she arrived home, the faint, lingering scent of smoke and damp earth still clung to her hoodie, a ghostly reminder of the night’s horrors. She shut the door quietly behind her, the soft click of the latch echoing in the silent apartment. She didn't bother turning on the lights; the dimness felt more comforting. Her hands, despite the cool air, were ice cold.
She dropped her backpack to the floor with a soft thud and went straight to her laptop. She hesitated for a long moment, her fingers hovering uncertainly over the keys, then slowly typed: “Can people turn into animals?” Her finger instinctively pressed backspace, erasing the words. Then, she typed: “Are werewolves real?” She clicked the search button. The results flooded the screen: Mythology. Movie lore. Teen fanfiction. Nothing useful. Nothing that could explain what she had witnessed.
She chewed her lip, the metallic taste of blood suddenly sharp in her mouth, bringing it all back—the visceral memory of claws ripping through flesh, bones bending and snapping, the raw, terrified look in his eyes. She scrubbed her hands frantically, as if they were physically stained, even though she knew they weren't visibly marred. But she still felt it. On her palms. Her wrists. The ghostly imprint of pressure on her throat.
She grabbed her phone, her fingers fumbling slightly. She opened Google, then, at the last second, changed her mind, a sudden surge of caution. She opened her Notes app instead and typed a single word: Ryker. She stared at it, the name a tangible weight on the screen. Backspace. Delete. Erased.
It was nearly four a.m. when she finally lay down, exhausted but unable to truly rest. Her window was opened slightly, letting in the faint, cool breath of the night wind, carrying the distant scents of pine and frost. The city beyond her room hummed low, a dull thrum in the distance. She closed her eyes, seeking oblivion.
And saw him.
The way he looked at her. Not like prey. Not like a threat. But like a question he didn’t know how to ask, a profound enigma etched in his gaze. And the worst part? Some deep, unsettling part of her felt like she had the answer.
Back at the pack. The cabin door slammed against the wall with a resounding crash. Ryker flinched, caught mid-step like a thief, his body tensing instantly. Kade stood framed in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes molten gold, locked onto Ryker with an unyielding intensity. Everyone else in the room cleared out, scattering swiftly, silently. No one needed to be told. Talon lingered for a mere heartbeat, a flicker of concern in his gaze, but Kade didn’t even glance at him. His menacing silence was more than enough.
The door shut behind them, the room now thick with a suffocating heat and the palpable weight of shame. Ryker swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I didn’t mean to—”
Kade moved fast. Not a strike, not a physical blow. Worse. He closed the distance between them in three powerful steps, grabbed Ryker by the collar of his shirt, and shoved him hard against the rough wall. Not violently, not recklessly. Precisely. His control, even in his fury, was terrifying.
“You left the perimeter on a full moon,” Kade said, his voice low and unnervingly calm, a tone that made it far more terrifying than a shout. “You shifted in public. You exposed yourself. You left a trail.” His gaze dropped to Ryker’s neck, a piercing stare. “You dropped your name tag.”
“I—I didn’t drop it,” Ryker stammered, his voice choked, trembling slightly. “I didn’t mean to. It broke.”
“And a human found it,” Kade hissed, the words laced with cold fury.
Ryker’s breath caught in his throat.
“You think I didn’t trace the trail?” Kade’s eyes bored into him, twin points of molten gold. “She followed you. She saw you. She stood there and watched every second of the shift—and you didn’t even notice her.”
“I felt something,” Ryker said quickly, desperately. “Something weird. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t like the other times I almost turned.”
“What was it?” Kade demanded, his grip tightening on Ryker’s shirt.
Ryker hesitated, searching for the words. Kade’s grip tightened further, a silent command for him to speak.
“It was like… I don’t know. Like something calling me,” Ryker muttered, his voice barely audible. “Not words, not a voice, just this pull.”
“From her?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to stop.”
Kade stared at him, his intense gaze unwavering. And for the first time that night, he looked less angry—and more afraid.
“Something drew her too,” Kade murmured, almost to himself, the words barely a whisper. “She hadn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just stood, watching you.”
Ryker nodded, a silent confirmation. “She looked at me like she knew me.”
Kade let go of his shirt, stepping back, the fury momentarily abated, replaced by a deep, unsettling unease. “No human reacts like that. Not unless they’ve seen it before.”
“Do you think she’s a hunter?” Ryker asked, his voice barely audible, the fear evident in his tone.
Kade shook his head once, a decisive movement. “No. They don’t watch. They shoot.” He turned toward the door, already speaking as if Ryker wasn't even there, lost in his own troubled thoughts. “She saw too much.” A pause. Then— “We might be in danger.”
The morning sun crept sluggishly over the treetops, casting long, skeletal shadows across the gas station ruins. It looked like nothing had happened. Just another forgotten patch of asphalt and rot, devoid of any hint of the chaos that had transpired.
But the man in black stood perfectly still, a stark, unmoving silhouette against the rising sun. His boots didn’t crunch the gravel beneath them, his coat didn't rustle in the faint breeze. He moved like a shadow—present, yet somehow not truly a part of the world around him. He crouched slowly, his movements fluid and controlled, his eyes hidden behind matte lenses.
Blood. Not fresh, but not old either. Still a vivid, disturbing stain on the ground. His gloved fingers brushed the streak of red smeared into the gravel, then moved to the bent fencing near the alley. One brutal claw mark was embedded deep in the metal—half-shifted. Messy. Uncontrolled.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin, worn phone—old tech, analog, deliberately secure. He pressed one button. A quiet click, and the line connected.
The voice that answered was smooth. Cold. Almost bored. “Yes?”
“They were here,” the hunter said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “At least one confirmed shift. Maybe more nearby.”
Silence stretched on the line. Then: “Evidence?”
“Blood. Tracks. A claw mark.”
“Young?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Alive?”
“Unknown. But it wasn’t alone.”
There was movement on the other end, barely audible. A chair shifting. A breath drawn in, deep and slow. Then the voice returned, its tone unchanged. “Tread lightly.”
The hunter’s head tilted slightly. “We could act now.”
“No,” said the voice on the other end, firm and resolute. “Let them come to us.”
Another pause.
“And Eden?”
The hunter looked up—toward the city’s edge, where distant rooftops glittered like fangs against the pale morning sky. He pulled something from his coat. A thin strip of cloth. Blue. Torn. He dropped it casually beside the bloodstain on the ground.
“I think she saw everything,” he said.
Static hummed quietly through the line, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. Then the voice sharpened, losing its bored detachment, infused with a chilling satisfaction. “Good.”
A soft click. The call ended.
The hunter stood, his rifle slung over his back with careful precision. No haste in his movements. No fear in his posture. He didn’t look back at the blood. He simply walked into the woods. And vanished.