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 I have him. He is right there in my cross hairs, then I blink and he’s gone. I scan the area with my night vision scope. He has disappeared, along with the other one. “Bloody werewolves,” I mutter. I sling my recurve bow over my shoulder, check my quiver and climb down from the tree I have been sitting in for the past hour. My butt has gone numb and I’m going to be picking burrs out of my hair for weeks. It is a cold night in October. A thin mist has rolled in, obscuring my vision. I guess it makes this more of a challenge. Zipping up my leather jacket to my chin, I load my bow. My fingers are frozen and I fumble the arrow. Swearing under my breath, I finally get it loaded. There is no way I’m letting these two get away. Eden is hunter territory, has been for over thirty years since my grandfather drove the last pack out and they have no right to be here. There are clear boundaries and they know the penalty for crossing them. And if they’ve forgotten, I will gladly remind them. My booted feet make no sound as I move across the forest floor. There is hardly any light since it is a new moon tonight, hence their partially transformed shape. Wolves can shift at will, but only at night. On the night of the new moon, it is impossible for them to shift all the way. It doesn’t make them any less dangerous or ugly for that matter. They keep the claws and teeth along with their human skins. Probably why they are being so ballsy. As werewolves their instincts and sense of smell would tell them this was a no go area. Half transformed as they are, means they still maintain their ability to think. What there is of it. I don’t like them being on my turf, especially since they know who my father is, his reputation. Word must have spread about his injuries and since he has been out of action for the past seven months, they have decided to test the boundaries. A branch snaps twenty feet ahead. All thought ceases as I wait. I hold my breath, arms tense, ready to release the arrow. My hands are perfectly still. Hunting requires patience. It is the only part of my life where I have any and with good reason. Move too late, you’re dead. Move too soon, you give away your position and it ends the same. One of them creeps forward, sniffing the air. My scent is all over this forest, so it won’t help him. Hunting 101, it is almost impossible to disguise your scent from a werewolf, but if it’s everywhere, then they have difficulty picking up a distinct trail. I wait until he is fully in my line of sight, then I release the arrow. It penetrates his right shoulder and he cries out, the sound is more of a roar than a scream. I expect it to drive off the other one, but instead he comes to the first one’s aid. He hurtles from the trees, heading straight for me. No time to reload, I drop the bow and when he hits me, I use his own momentum to throw him. We flip over and I land on top of him. I drive a knee into his solar plexus and swing the knife I keep on my belt, towards his throat. He swipes the knife away and shoves me hard. I fall back onto the ground. Rolling away, I get to my feet, already squaring off against him. In this light, I can only make out his outline, but I can tell from his stance that he wants a fight. Good, I do too. Now the adrenaline is flowing, the wolf takes over and when that happens, he loses any fighting finesse he had. He swings wildly at me. I dodge each blow knowing that if one of them connects it could cause major damage. I spin out of his reach, but his claws catch me in the shoulder, tearing at flesh and my new leather jacket. He swings again. I duck under his arm and slash out with the knife I keep in my sleeve. I have a lot of knives. I cut his thigh which makes him back off. The cut isn’t deep, but the knife is laced with silver dust, which will irritate the wound and prevent it from healing. His friend has managed to break the arrow shaft, but the head is still in his shoulder. A little design of my father’s. Upon contact, the head expands, trapping it in the flesh and making it extremely difficult to remove. At least in any way that doesn’t involve cutting it out. A howl sounds in the distance, drawing both their attentions. They back away. The one I was fighting hesitates. “You stay, you die. Your choice,” I say. He gives me a low growl then takes off after his friend. Cowards. I did plan on killing one and letting the other go as a warning, but I think I have made my point. Eden is still under the protection of hunters. Well, hunter. Since I’m out here alone. I asked Dad once why Weres were so hell bent on coming back here. He told me that to certain packs, Eden is considered their ancestral home. They had lived here for centuries before we arrived. One thing is for sure, the death rate certainly went down after we took over. I retrieve my weapons and head for home, trying to ignore my throbbing shoulder. Contrary to what the movies tell us, a scratch or a bite from a werewolf won’t turn you into one. Werewolves are born, not made. One of Mother Nature’s little quirks. I like to think she has a wicked sense of humor. A short while later, Eden Manor comes into view. It is a ten bedroom mini mansion on the edge of the forest. With room underneath for a state of the art lab, that dad had commissioned complete with a containment area for Weres. We have lived in many houses over the years and all of them have been big. The house itself is one of the original buildings built by the town founder. To me it’s just another old, musty building in a long line, but Dad likes his luxuries. He can afford it. The government has paid Dad a lot of money over the years to eliminate Weres. While the government would never admit it publicly, werewolves are a big problem across the globe. Most attacks are covered up as bear attacks or other wild animals. Since most packs stick to dense forests and other deserted areas, it is easy to write them off. Not many people automatically think Werewolf when there is an attack. Dad has traveled all over the world. Now with his injuries, he is only doing consulting work. We have been in Eden for nearly nine months. One of our longest stays anywhere. Since Dad is ‘convalescing’, he says I can finish my senior year here. As I approach the house, I can see lights on downstairs. Great, someone is still up. I stash my bow in the tool shed and hide my knives in my jacket before heading inside. The family is in the living room gathered around the fireplace. It’s usually only Dad and my stepmother Anne, but tonight we have visitors. My uncle Victor and his three children Kristinna, Charlotte and Owen. Three of the most spoilt morons on the planet. The two girls are older than I am and Owen is sixteen. The girls are tall with dark hair like their father. My hair is dark too, but I have a lighter complexion than they do, from my mother. Owen is blonde like his mother, some supermodel from Finland I heard. I have never seen Uncle Victor in a long term relationship with anyone. Other than his bookie. All eyes are on me as I enter the house. I try to act casual, hoping they don’t notice my wound. I say hello to everyone. “Ah, here she is,” Dad announces, “Did you have a good night?” I nod, “Yeah, just hanging out with the girls.” Anne sweeps across the room, the ice queen, tall and regal with ash blonde hair. She steps up to me and tugs a leaf from my hair. “Your daughter has been hunting,” she says. She never misses an opportunity to show me up. Crossing the room, she perches on the arm of the chair my father is sitting in. She gives me a malicious grin. “No, it’s not what you think. I was out with a guy.” Most fathers would lose it hearing that their seventeen-year-old daughter was fooling around with some guy, but for Dad, finding out I was hunting was much worse. I wait for him to start yelling, but instead he smiles benignly. “A wasted trip I imagine, considering there are no more Weres in Eden.” I try looking embarrassed, like he’s right, “Sorry, Dad,” I mutter. “It’s late.” His tone is firm. Apparently, my cousins don’t have a curfew. He shifts in his chair and I see him wince. His clothes hide most of his wounds, but not all of them healed well. He was ambushed during a raid and a group of Weres separated him from the rest of the team. He took out three of them, but was cut up pretty bad. The rest of the team just got him out in time. I think it shook him more than he likes to admit. I say goodnight and head for the stairs, glad for the pass. “Cheyenne?” Or not? I turn back to him. “Yeah, dad?” “Good news. Your brother is coming home.” “He is? When?” “Any day now.” I can’t wait to see Jared. It’s been five months since he was last home. He’s five years older than me and Dad’s second in command. He’s one of the most skilled hunters in the world and he taught me everything he knows, against Dad’s wishes. Despite all the moving around, Dad has always pushed me to live a normal life. My mother died when I was eleven, killed in a carjacking. She knew what my father was, but tried to shield me from the life. Since her death Dad has tried to do the same. After his ‘accident’, he’s even more adamant. The only reason he didn’t yell at me just now, is because he is trying to save face in front of the family. I don’t even know why they are here, although it probably has something to do with Uncle Victor needing money. Once every couple of months he shows up, looking for a handout. He tries to pass it off as a family get-together, but I know otherwise. I think Dad does too, but he still gives him the money. His problem, not mine. I hope they aren’t staying long. I head to my bedroom in the East wing. Yes, the house has wings. Pretentious I know. After a quick shower, I bandage my shoulder. The wound isn’t deep, so I doubt I need stitches, but it hurts like hell. I pull on a nightshirt, wincing as I raise my arm. Maybe I should get it looked at in the morning. I pack my weapons away into a case that I keep hidden under the bed. As I lift it off the dresser, I knock my mom’s picture off onto the ground. I pick it up to discover I have broken the butterfly shaped frame. “Sorry, mom,” I say. The picture is of her and me on my first day of kindergarten. I lift the pieces wondering if I can glue it back together. We lived here in town before and I started kindergarten in Eden Elementary school. We didn’t stay long though and I have very few memories of that time. I do remember that I was obsessed with butterflies back then, so mom bought me the frame. I set it back on the dresser and get into bed. I can fix it tomorrow. As I drift off, I hear another howl. Despite what dad thinks, the Weres are still out there. And closer than he thinks.  Kat Gracey writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance novels featuring her two favorite supernatural beings - witches and werewolves.
She currently resides in the UK, where she enjoys yoga and catching up on her favorite shows. You can learn more about her books via her website: www.witchesandwerewolves.co.uk  Chapter One
“Sometimes you don’t find your soulmate. I just don’t see what all the fuss is about.” “How can you act like finding your mate isn’t a big deal,” I scoffed, giving Tara an incredulous look. The Lupercalia Festival was one of the biggest events of our young lives, setting us up for the future and she made it sound like it was little more than a freshman dance. Tara paused in fluffing the pillows on my bed, a frown on her face. “Not everyone finds their mate and it isn’t the end of the world. Too many girls end up disappointed. I don’t see the point in setting yourself up to fail.” Rolling my eyes, I took a seat at my vanity, lifting my hairbrush. “They’re not me. I’ve known for years that I’m destined to marry Hunter Grey and tomorrow night will prove it.” Hunter Grey, the Alpha’s son, gorgeous, strong and a perfect match for me. We’d been flirting for months, but nothing had happened yet. The Alpha insisted we hold back until we were mated. That didn’t stop half the wolves of this pack, myself included, hooking up, but unfortunately, I had not had the pleasure with Hunter yet, although we had gotten pretty close a few times in the back seat of his car. Parting my chestnut-colored hair into three sections, I started braiding it. My signature look. Mom taught my sister Sierra and I the importance of having one early on. She made sure we knew what colors complimented us too. Sierra had blue and I looked great in red. We always had to look our best, to show others that we meant business. I liked to think of it as putting on armor. Looking great meant feeling confident and if you had confidence you had everything. “What if your wolf doesn’t pick Hunter? What if you end up with someone else?” Tara asked, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. She glanced at me, then back at the bed. Tara was a good example of someone lacking confidence and it showed. Of course as an Omega, that came with the territory. I paused in what I was doing, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she fixed the comforter on the bed. “Is that a joke?” I demanded, because if it was, she needed to work on her material. Tara looked surprised. “No, but it is a possibility.” I shook my head. What did she know? As an Omega in the Dark Moon Wolf Pack, she had no hope of attracting someone like Hunter. Most of the Omegas ended up working for the richer families like mine. Tara and I were in school together, but she had worked as a housekeeper here since she was sixteen, taking over from her aunt. I don’t know why I even brought it up to her, but I thought she would be excited, since she would run too, instead she seemed to be determined to bring my mood down. “Nothing is going to stop me from getting what I want. I mean who else in this pack would I end up with?” One of the other degenerates from school? One of the meathead Betas whose idea of fun was getting drunk and beating his friends up on a Saturday night. No, thanks! I glared at Tara when she opened her mouth to answer. Instead, she forced a smile and headed into the ensuite to empty my laundry hamper. Securing my braid, I moved to my bedroom window, looking out across the hills to where the Alpha’s mansion lay. With sixteen bedrooms and an indoor pool, it was a dream home. I know I’ve dreamed of living there for years, of one day being Luna. No one would ever doubt me again. I know I am built for more, to be more than what I am. Most of the other girls thought me delusional, my parents called me ambitious. I liked to call it inevitable. Self-doubt is for losers. But…what if Tara was right? What if something went wrong at the Lupercalia Festival? It was designed so that the young wolves of the pack, aged between eighteen and twenty-two, could find their mate. First, we feasted, then at midnight, we would shift, running into the woods. It was the wolf who chose the mate. I would wake up the next morning, hopefully beside Hunter and all my dreams would come true. Waking up with anyone else would be…I suddenly felt nervous for the first time since learning I would be running this year. What if that bitch, Tandy Ford, got her claws into Hunter? She made no secret of the fact that she wanted him too. We were both Betas, both from wealthy families, either one of us could be a match. Tara emerged from the bathroom, carrying the dirty laundry. Playing with my braid, I said, “What if you’re right? I mean I’m sure Hunter is the one for me, but I need to be certain.” “I’m sure you will, but only your wolf knows for sure. Don’t listen to me, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She turned toward the door, then stopped. “Well, there could be one way to know for sure…” She trailed off like she was reluctant to say anymore. “Tell me!” She needed to stop screwing around and tell me what she knew. “Do you remember those stories we used to hear when we were little? About the witch who lives up the mountain? The one who cursed children who misbehaved?” I laughed. “Please, that’s an urban legend.” “Yeah, the cursing children part, I’m sure, but there is an old woman living up there. People have seen her. She keeps to herself, lives off the land. I don’t know if she is an actual witch, but she has the ability to grant…favors, let’s say.” “Favors?” Was she a witch or a mafia boss? “She might be able to nudge you toward Hunter.” That sounded like something I needed. If it was true. “Okay, so what does she expect in return? Money?” “No, an offering.” I had visions of myself having to sacrifice a chicken or something equally ridiculous. “Define offering.” “Food, mostly. Something to show her respect.” “Oh, well that’s fine. I can do that.” “You’re going to cook?” Tara asked. “No, don’t be stupid. I’ll bring something from the kitchen that Cook has prepared.” “Just be nice. You don’t want to anger her.” “I’m always nice,” I shot back. “Don’t you have laundry to do?” Tara gave me a bemused look, before leaving the room. I would head up the mountain tomorrow. A road led most of the way up, ending in a dirt track. Then I would find this old woman or witch, or whatever she claimed to be and convince her to help me. Not that I needed it, but just to be sure. And tomorrow night, Hunter Grey would be mine.  Alison Armstrong
Excerpt from my book Consorting with the Shadow: Phantasms and the Dark Side of Female Consciousness: Beast Within--Ginger Snaps, Cat People, and Black Swan Fleeing fairytales of prince-pleasing Cinderellas and toe-confining glass slippers, a girl hibernates in her fantasy lair. She, like the passive damsels she despises, desires transformation, but the metamorphosis she craves is as terrifying as it is ecstatic. A beast within her moans, and the girl-skin casing splits open. Unlike vampire films, in which females appear about as frequently as males in the predatory role, most movies involving shape-shifting, at least until recently, have featured a man as their growling, hair-sprouting main character, the “beast” seeking his young, innocent, succulent, smoothly depilated female “beauty.” Despite the modern settings and modern characters in many of these films, the same beast/beauty gender roles usually predominate, indicating that even in the supernatural realm a certain degree of raw animal attributes are accepted, at times even celebrated, amongst men, whereas women are generally encouraged to embody a sweetly perfumed, cheerful, sanitized, unaggressively alluring yet pleasantly sensual ideal that is often at odds with their bodily processes and personality. Although women spend their reproductive years enmired in the animality of their menstrual cycles, they are still expected to conceal the evidence of their beastly biological bondage, the tell-tale ebbings guiltily staunched like the blood of a murder victim, the odor disguised by pretty-smelling, potentially poisonous chemicals. Women battle against their bodies, the physical aspect of themselves by which they are judged and because of which they often suffer. Therefore, it is even more relevant perhaps for the shapeshifter film to have a woman instead of a man undergo this physical transformation of self and body. Ginger Snaps, Cat People, and Black Swan feature a female shapeshifter/beastly doppelganger to explore themes of sexuality and self-identity. Of these three films, Ginger Snaps makes the most blatant use of traditional horror movie conventions related to shapeshifters but subverts these clichés to examine puberty and adolescent psychology from a female perspective. . . . Although shapeshifting offers the potential to attain in animal form an ecstatic sensory experience that transcends the language-filtered limitations of human consciousness, it often imposes its own restrictions, the transformations occurring unbidden, the result of lunar phases or turbulent emotions, such as anger or lust. Its addictive thrills can, as with Ginger, overpower the will, imprison the soul. For some, however, as with the protagonist Irena in Cat People, shapeshifting can bring escape into a form of being that, though imprisoning, liberates the true self. . . . |
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” 
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