2 Chapter 2: Hoarders of Hate

Despite the hostility triggered by my birth and the obvious hate and mistrust my father now harboured for my mother and the way my mother looked at me for it; The childish part of me thought, deep down- deep, deep down beyond their hate for what I was, they loved me regardless, because love conquers all right?

It sounded stupid and delusional but I justified it with the fact that my parents had not spoken a word of what I was to the rest of the pack; they didn't even breathe a word of my existence; so that must count for something if they had truly hated me, they would have handed me over to their Arctic-hating pack to slaughter me.

For me, this was enough to convince myself that, though their love was just...different, it was still love regardless.

That was until the night I turned 5 years old...

The night before that, I had turned into my werewolf form,

"Look, look" I had said before shifting as easy as second nature.

But when my mother had turned around, her eyes had gone impossibly wide, then she'd slapped me. The sting had me shifting back immediately. It hurt but I didn't cry, I wasn't allowed to cry, father got dangerously mad when I did.

"Don't. Ever." She'd said.

Later on that evening I heard mother reporting what had happened to father. Then father had started speaking but I had sensed the growing anger and had scurried off to bed before I could be caught and punished.

Now, I wish I had stayed; Maybe it would have prepared me for the next night.

It had been my 5th Birthday. I hadn't expected anything, since I had never received anything before so imagine the shock and elation I had felt when my parents told me we would be attending a very important gathering at the packhouse.

My parents had never once taken me anywhere, so this had seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and a chance to show my parents that I could be trusted enough to be let outside the house.

But it was only until I was in the thicket of crowds and crowds of Black werewolves, all in their human form, gathered in a wide circle in anticipation, that I realized that this was more than just a gathering.

But it took until three people were dragged out to the centre of the circle, beaten and in chains, for me to realize this was an execution.

I tugged on my mother's sleeve but she didn't look at me, I looked at my father but he didn't look at me either. I looked around at the chattering, cheering, and whispering; everyone else seemed so unaffected by the sight of shackled people, almost enjoying it.

But then a sudden silence fell on the crowd, I pushed through limbs and bodies that seemed to cave in, to maintain my view of what was happening.

Then I saw him; a man with a shock of white streaking through his jelled back hair; whose aura crawled up our spines and whispered fear in our ears; telling them that running was futile. They all knelt on one knee and, though I'd never once been to the packhouse or met the man, I hastened to follow suit.

He was undoubtedly the Alpha.

Our heads stayed lowered, not allowed to look him in the eye, but I could feel his gaze sweeping over us like a claw sweeping over a surface of dust.

Then he spoke, "Welcome brethren, to the delightful show I have prepared tonight,"

His voice was that of a showman commanding a crowd, so part of me actually hoped that he was really just going to perform a show, maybe just make the captives dance, then release them.

"Rise and look upon the spectacle we have before us," the tinge of venom in his voice was enough to confirm, they were not going to be dancing, they were going to die.

"They appear to you like humans, but don't be deceived," He yanked the hair of one of the chained people, making her bare her face the crowd; darting, wide eyes, gasping, cracked lips, deprived, sunken-in cheeks, torn flesh, raw unclosing wounds, in shades it shouldn't have been, all riddled her face; a woman's face.

I wanted to throw up, I wanted to leave. What could anyone have done to deserve that? My five-year-old mind couldn't fully grasp the weight but I knew, these people must be bad people. I backed up once but my mother quickly grasped my hand without even looking at me. She held it tight, keeping me there.

Alpha continued to speak, "This thing, found within our borders, is an Arctic," He spat the last word like it was a curse word, and my body when suddenly so devastatingly cold. The crowd broke out into low, death-promising growls, barely holding themselves back, from tearing towards the stage at the centre.

He tutted at the crowd, placating, "No no, this won't do, I have special plans for her,"

He stroked her cheek, and the sight was more twisted than when he had pulled her by the hair. It was now that I could see the sickening state of her bare neck; streaks of black marked where her veins should have been; effects of Wolfsbane.

"Let's give a warm welcome to my son," He stood and turned to look at the entrance where he had come through. The crowd's heads followed.

A boy stood there. He was walking towards his father, towards the woman, the Arctic. The boy's silver unblinking eyes stared face to face with the woman's. The woman suddenly shifted into her Arctic wolf form but even the white of her fur was slashed in places with devastating claw marks. She growled but the crowd growled even louder.

The image of a boy, no older than me, in front of a wolf twice his size had me feeling a pang of fear for him. If I could I'd tell him to run. Unlike Arctics, Nightmare wolves could not shift until they turned 16 at least and so the boy was as good as dead.

I looked to the Alpha who made no attempts to save his son. Instead, he just smiled.

"Go on," he coaxed but there was a maniacal gleam in his eye, "Show them all the neat tricks you've learned"

The Alpha dangled a curved knife of steel silver, in front of his son, the colour of his eyes. Silver was like a hot rod against a werewolf's skin. I looked on in horror while the werewolves around me howled their approval.

I looked back to the boy, shaking my head frantically. He took the knife from his father. And that's when I could see him; really see him; not what I wanted to see but what was there, in his eyes. He wasn't unblinking from some sort of paralyzing horror, he was just simply bored. Bored of the crowd, bored of his father, and bored of the sight of the giant white wolf that loomed over him. Was this really a 5-year-old boy?

The Alpha's voice boomed, "My brethren watch closely and enjoy, you're going to see something wonderful, this is what we do to Arctics, what they deserve. Their mere existence deserves not to be spared," I realized this hate was not just an obsession but a sick hobby.

The Arctic, shattered the chains binding her and leaped towards the boy, but he stood firm, like the sight was no threat, nothing he hadn't seen before.

Before the Arctic landed, I shut my eyes tight. Then wished I had shut my ears too as piercing scream, wavering between that of a woman and that of a beast, making it all the more horrendous, marred the air. The werewolves growled and howled their delight, making savage noises in place for whoops and whistles.

I refused to look at the mangled art he'd made of the corpse of the Arctic. Instead, I kept my focus on the boy, a 5-year-old who had slain a werewolf, an Arctic wolf, and he looked... bored.

The Alpha drawled, "Well done, Marcus," He turned to the crowd, grabbing Marcus' little fist, "Behold, the Arctics-Bane,"

He presented his son to the crowd like a rabbit he'd pulled out of a hat then gave it a name. With such enthusiasm, he might as well have said 'abracadabra'.

'The Arctics-Bane'. Foreboding rushed through my veins.

The Alpha spoke again, like it was all a performance, "To the next Act," He took the knife from Marcus, "I'll do this myself."

He stalked towards the remaining two prisoners whose eyes were still on their supposed fallen friend. Were they Arctics as well? The answer came soon enough.

"These two, aren't Arctics, unfortunately, however," the 'however' was sharp enough to cut short the crowd's groans of disappointment, "They were caught accompanying the Arctic. And any, absolutely any, Werebeasts caught sympathizing, in alliance, in relation or even in mere association with an Arctic, regardless of who or what they are, will be gutted and killed all the same."

I looked at my father once more and this time he looked back at me, a giddy gleam in his eyes much like the one that pulsated the air around me.

And understanding finally flickered in me. That's when I realized, they don't keep me a secret because they loved me, it was simply because if I was discovered, even if they handed me over themselves, they too would be killed simply by being related to me. Love didn't conquer all, here.

Love didn't exist here.

I tried to tug free of my mother's wolf-like grip but she didn't let go.

The Alpha's voice was distant, "Though I'm yet to teach my son the art of creating a slow death, I'll demonstrate on you," he pointed to the first man in chains, "Then he can practice on you," he pointed to the second woman in chains.

I tugged harder. I was not going to stay to watch this. I pulled my arm more violently until it tore away from my mother's grip, claw marks scraping down from where she held me.

But she still didn't look at me.

I backed up hastily, back through the crowd that paid me no mind- just a girl in their eyes, one of theirs; how quickly they'd turn if they knew.

When I finally navigated myself out of the packhouse, I was running, my small feet slapping against the pavement and the only thing that chased me was the screams from the packhouse followed by a symphony of howls.

Tears pricked my eyes, my body coated with sweat, then I threw up; wretched with such force my whole little body shook with it.

I wanted to keep running but there was nowhere for a child like me to go to. There was no one to trust; the humans would think I'm crazy and any Werebeasts living here, would only live here because they'd sworn allegiance to Nightmare wolves, so would hand me over in a heartbeat.

I wasn't safe. But I needed to survive this place. Needed to, not ever shift, not ever be seen and not ever be caught.

I vowed to keep my secret under lock and key.

. . . . . .

12 YEARS LATER

How long have I lived with this secret?

17 years.

How much longer can I live with this secret?

As long as I can, by any means necessary...