Chapter 5
622words
Back at Dad's house, I was determined to uncover the truth. If Kieran and his sister wouldn't tell me, I'd investigate myself.
The locked cabinet became my target. After three hours, one crowbar, and two broken nails, the lock finally surrendered.
"Alright, Dad," I opened the cabinet door, "let's see what you were hiding—oh my God."
The contents made me gasp: silver daggers, boxes of silver bullets, leather journals filled with notes, and a thick, ancient book titled "Lycanthropy."
"Werewolves? Seriously?" I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat.
I opened the journal, my father's neat handwriting jumping out:
"May 15, 1995, full moon. Another attack. This time it was Linda. My Linda. The Shaw family denies involvement, but evidence is conclusive. Silver bullets are effective. Must protect Elowen, she may have inherited the bloodline..."
My hands trembled so badly I could barely hold the journal. My mother's death. The Shaw family. Werewolves. This was absurd.
But Kieran's scar—circular, like a silver burn. His monthly disappearances. His warnings about my book.
I continued reading, finding more records: secret families in town, generations of werewolves; the truth behind mysterious deaths; notes suggesting my mother might have been "half-blooded."
The final entry, written a week before Dad died: "Kieran Shaw has returned to town, taking the sheriff position. He has better control than his uncle did. But if Elowen returns, she'll be in danger. The bloodline awakens with the full moon..."
I closed the journal, my heart pounding. This couldn't be real. Werewolves existed only in novels and movies, like the supernatural stories I wrote.
My phone rang, unknown number.
"Elowen." Kieran's voice, weak and tense.
"Where are you?" I asked, trying to control my shaking voice.
"Listen," he said urgently, "your father's study—don't touch anything. Some things are dangerous. I'll explain tomorrow."
"Dangerous like silver bullets and werewolf books?" I asked directly, hearing his breath catch on the other end.
Long silence. Then: "You've already looked."
"Is it true?" I whispered. "Are you... are you a werewolf?"
More silence. Then: "Lock your doors and windows. Don't go outside. I'll come to you tomorrow."
The call ended. I stood in the middle of the study, surrounded by books and weapons for monsters, feeling the world tilt.
Outside, a wolf's howl cut through the night, so close it made my skin prickle. I rushed to the window. At the forest edge, a dark figure stood in the moonlight, staring directly at my window.
Those eyes glowed golden in the darkness.
I didn't feel afraid, though I should have. Instead, a strange sensation rose within me—a sense of familiarity, of belonging. My fingers instinctively touched the wolf pendant, which seemed to warm under my touch.
I opened the window, the night air rushing in with the scent of forest.
"Kieran?" I called softly.
The figure shifted, as if to turn away, then stopped. It—he—looked up at my window, those golden eyes filled with emotions I couldn't decipher.
Then he turned and vanished into the forest.
I closed the window and leaned against the wall, my heart racing. My book subject was right before me, more real, more dangerous, and more tempting than I'd imagined.
But this wasn't just about a book anymore. This was about Kieran. About my mother's death. Perhaps even about my own identity—that mysterious "bloodline" in Dad's notes.
I looked in the mirror, surprised to find my eyes reflecting an unnatural glow in the dim light.
The full moon's light streamed through the window onto my skin, and strange markings began to appear on my arms, like silver veins spreading beneath the surface.
"Well," I said to my strange yet familiar reflection, "this definitely wasn't in my author bio."
