Chapter 2: Moonlight
YEAR: Present Day
“Higher. Watch your step!”
Fresh air paraded through the fields sharpening the lungs of two fighting partners who danced around one another almost synchronously. The men moved slowly, launching forward occasionally in an attempt to catch the other off guard.
“Watch his movements,” an older man stated. “You always need to be ahead of your opponent; know their move before they can even think of it. That’s it! Now, back up and…pay attention! Go higher!”
“I physically can’t go higher,” one of the men noted, panted; his hands fell to his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
“You can always go higher, Damon. You just need to think of how,” the elder man answered. “Use your surroundings.” He turned his head and looked to the buckets on the ground beside them providing the perfect catapult. “Anything to give you the advantage. Because without that advantage…”
“You’re a dead man,” Damon finished for him as if he had heard it a hundred times before. He took a deep breath and stood up straight. “I know. But knives?” he asked, gripping the pocketknife tighter in his hand. “I’ve never heard of any other pack use knife practice as a part of Alpha training.”
“You’re right,” the older man answered. “But it’s just as imperative to know how to fight in human form, as well as wolven. The more talents you possess, the more of a threat you become.”
“I don’t know,” Damon smirked, sweat dripping down his forehead from his caramel hair. He lifted his arm holding the knife and flexed, showcasing his ever-present biceps. “This is a massive threat in my eyes.”
Damon’s fighting partner snickered, and the elder man laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re more like your mother every day, you know that?”
“Mom has biceps like this?!”
The man shook his head and approached Damon, placing a hand on his shoulder. After a minute, he looked up at him—his blue eyes secure, just like his father’s. “I want you to be the best Alpha you can be, Damon. Not for me, or your mother, but for Moonlight.”
For Moonlight.
“I have the best example to look up to,” Damon replied. “If I can amount to even an ounce of his greatness, I’d be happy.”
Damon’s father smiled, and his eyes glossed over ever so slightly as he patted Damon’s shoulder.
Damon looked weary and took a step back, letting his father’s hand fall. “Oh…I meant Sawyer Einar…but you’re great too, in your own way.”
His father chuckled. He walked over to Damon’s partner and gestured for the knife in his hand. “I’ll show you true greatness,” he began as he rubbed his grey beard. He narrowed his vision in on Damon and flipped the knife around in his hand while getting into a crouch. “Come on, we all need entertainment around here.”
Damon smirked and copied his father’s movements, adjusting his stance. “Are you sure you want this, old man?”
“Old man?” his father echoed as they began moving in a circle around one another. “Let’s see how much of this training you’ve actually absorbed and then we’ll talk.”
Damon followed his father’s lead, waiting patiently for an opening. The wind picked up, pushing coloured leaves between their feet, but despite the pressure from the gusts surging by, Damon’s concentration was entirely on his father’s hands. They were aging—he was aging. His once golden bronze curls were fading to silver and his skin had accumulated more freckles over the years. And for a moment, Damon’s attentiveness broke, and once he realized, his father’s figure was making its move to Damon’s right side.
Damon dashed out of the way just in time, spinning around his father and charging for the opening near his back; only his father, just as quickly, moved out of the way and grabbed a hold of his son’s arm.
“You’ll have to do better than that, son,” he smiled, letting go of Damon’s wrist. “Try again. Remember, aim high.”
They stepped apart and Damon’s eyes kept fixed on his father, pleading for revenge. He reasserted his position, altering the hold on his knife, and nodded to his father to start. Each man took their stance and as soon as Damon lifted his foot, they were halted by a man approaching. His father's beta, Ambrose.
He stopped at Damon’s father and whispered in his ear. Both men conferred quietly, their eyes flicking upwards towards Damon every so often. Damon took a step back and watched their conversation unfold and his father occasionally nod before raising his hand to stop Ambrose.
Damon walked towards his father gradually, closing the knife and placing back in the sheath on his hip. Ambrose looked discouraged, but Damon’s father looked…haunted. “What’s wrong?”
Ambrose glanced towards Damon’s father, who ushered him to speak for him. He sighed before speaking. “It’s the siren.”
Damon’s body froze. Growing up, he had only heard horror stories of the siren; about how she had hunted the men of their pack for decades, enchanting them with her song before killing them brutally. He only knew this so well because it’s exactly how his grandfather had died when his father was a child, prompting an early ascension once he turned 18, after his great-grandfather’s passing.
Damon looked to his father, who didn’t meet his gaze. “What happened?” Damon prompted.
“We’ve known for a while that the siren and her herd were in the area again, not far up the coast. We don’t know how far—but for the past few weeks, your father and I have been plotting what we think could be her location. And then this afternoon…” Ambrose paused and gulped.
“What?” Damon asked, his heart picking up pace. Not out of fear, but pure anger.
“Three boys went hunting yesterday…one of them my son. And we thought they’d be back by this afternoon, but they haven’t returned.”
“You think she’s responsible,” he said as a statement rather than a question.
Ambrose nodded. Damon was gutted. Three of their own, missing. For the first time in almost five years, no incidents had occurred; they had been foolish to let their guard down, even for a second. And just when he was about to volunteer himself for the search, piercing screams broke through the surrounding forest causing the entire town, minus the wind, to fall utterly silent.