The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. William Wolf did not spare a glance for the crowds of girls who immediately started preening, hoping to catch his eye. Their attention was nothing more than static now, background noise that had lost its frequency the moment he woke up, weak and confused, on the cold earth of the hidden solarium.
William and Neil Owen snuck out of the last class five minutes early, melting into the halls with the practiced ease of two boys who had grown up avoiding both trouble and unnecessary fanfare.
"Hurry up, Will. We don't want to be late," Neil urged, his voice tight with anticipation. Neil, William's cousin and best friend, was a Summer Moon wolf, big and boisterous, a perfect foil to William's leaner, more intensely focused Winter Moon heritage.
William nodded curtly, but his mind was a whirlwind. Today was special. Today was the day they race to the moon.
The annual Moon Race was the single most important event in the tribal calendar for the young generation of werewolves in Deadwood. It wasn't just a physical test; it was a ritual that influenced far too many real-life situations—from pack hierarchy and land distribution to, most crucially, the right to court specific powerful families. For William, the pressure was immense. As the rumored half-blood heir of the powerful Winter Moon line, his strength was constantly questioned. Winning was the only way to silence his critics, particularly the Owens family, who seemed to hover over his status like opportunistic vultures.
Preparations for the race started early. The pack would gather for a whole pig roast, beer flowing freely, and an occasional, highly coveted underground moonshine going around.
"Are you asking why moonshine is forbidden when beer is above ground?" William thought, recalling an old lesson his grandfather had drilled into him. It had nothing to do with alcohol concentration, but everything to do with how werewolves reacted to it. Beer barely affected them; it was just a little more food, and their bodies stored incredible amounts of energy. However, Moonshine was different. It didn't just make one excited; it amplified the presence of the beast. In an event already chock full of primal euphoria, taking a drug that induced more euphoria was a recipe for disaster. A hundred years ago, a werewolf driven mad by moonshine slew his entire pack. Since then, it had been rigorously forbidden.
But William's turmoil wasn't centered on the race rules; it was centered on her.
This morning, after he woke up in the solarium—a place that smelled sweetly of fresh earth, fear, and something so powerfully hers—he knew immediately he had met his mate.
The memory of the kiss was a confusing mix of bliss and near-death. He had lost his control, his strength, his will to the girl, yet every fiber of his being screamed that she was his. She was the other half of his soul.
He looked at the symbol on his chest. It was only a half moon.
A HALF MOON!!!
The traditional mark of a Luna (Alpha's mate) was always a Full Moon, symbolizing the submission and complement of the mate to the Alpha's dominance. A half moon indicated his mate was equal to him, in all ways that mattered—power, spirit, and rank. This was unprecedented. Never in the Winter Moon lineage had an Alpha been marked with a half moon. It was a sign of a symbiotic relationship, not a dominant one, which flew in the face of centuries of tradition.
William felt the weakness lingering in his limbs, a strange physical lethargy he couldn't shake. The kiss had drained him, yet the memory of her lips, her body pressed against his, ignited a burning core of desire that pushed the weakness aside. He had to win the race. He had to solidify his place. He had to claim his equal.
Meanwhile, on the south side of Deadwood, Violet Darkwood was watching the clock tick down. Her mind, sharp and strategically cold, was compartmentalizing her life. She was the dowdy new girl in school—unattractive, glasses, bad clothes, the perfect camouflage. This was the Violet who would keep her safe, the Violet who could observe without being seen.
But she was also the wolf girl, the one who had kissed William Wolf to the edge of unconsciousness and felt a surge of vitality she'd never known.
Violet was in her solarium, dressed only in a pair of running shorts and a tank top, despite the cold. She was pacing the multicolored tiled path, the freshly planted snowbells and violets offering a surprisingly powerful, calming scent—likely enhanced by the wolfsbane she'd mixed into the planting medium around the perimeter of the room, just in case.
Why am I so energized? she wondered, tapping into the almost frantic energy bubbling inside her. The books she'd read about werewolves mentioned a heightened state of euphoria after the first time, but what she felt wasn't just euphoria; it was an incredible, almost frightening power. The strength that had allowed her to move the two-hundred-pound trough was now a constant, humming presence in her muscles, ready to be unleashed.
She knew William would be participating in the Moon Race. She had done enough research on the local werewolf traditions to know this was mandatory for rising Alphas. She also knew that William, despite his strength, was likely recovering from their encounter. The kiss had been intoxicating for her, but she remembered the terror of seeing him collapse, his powerful body giving way to a sudden, inexplicable weakness.
Heal him, and take his energy. That was the primal, unspoken exchange. She knew she was somehow connected to his life force, and the sheer power of the Moon Race would be an irresistible magnet for her newly awakened needs.
She slipped out of the solarium, transforming into her sleek, ash-grey wolf form. She didn't bother with clothes, knowing she'd shed them in the transformation anyway. This was the only way to move fast enough, to get close enough, to sustain herself. She knew the lake where they had first kissed was the unofficial finish line for the race. It was isolated, near the Blackwoods, and sacred ground for the pack. If she went there now, she could wait for him.
The starting point of the race was a high ridge overlooking the valley—a treacherous, icy path that demanded absolute concentration.
William, standing on the starting line, felt the cold air biting at his lungs, but his internal temperature was boiling. His hands, gripping the ground, trembled slightly. He had to win.
The field was crowded with young werewolves, all transformed into their massive, powerful wolf forms. They ranged in color from deep obsidian to stark white, their fur thick and their eyes glowing with the primal amber and gold of their lineage.
Neil clapped William on the back, a rough, comforting gesture. "Don't let the old man's words get to you, Will. You're a Wolf, not an Owen. Kick their asses."
William didn't need the reminder. The Owens, represented by a trio of particularly bulky, dark-furred wolves led by Ken's older cousin, were already sneering at him. Ken Castelli himself was nowhere to be seen—vampires, even those who mingled with the wolves, knew better than to interfere with this ritual.
The Alpha of the pack, Malden (William's grandfather), stood on a carved, ancient stone, raising his massive head to the sky. The first sliver of the actual moon was barely visible.
A deep, resonant howl tore from Malden's throat—the signal.
The wolves exploded from the ridge.
William transformed instantly, the smooth, painful shift a familiar sensation. He burst forward, his golden eyes blazing, his Winter Moon fur a rare, shimmering silver-white that stood out even in the twilight.
For the first mile, he was magnificent. His strides covered yards at a time, his power surging as he navigated the treacherous, icy paths. He pulled ahead, leaving the Owens' bulky forms trailing.
But then, the fatigue hit.
It wasn't physical exhaustion; it was a profound, bone-deep emptiness. The power drain from the kiss had been more severe than he realized. His muscles felt heavy, and the golden light in his eyes flickered. He faltered, his pace slowing fractionally.
Neil passed him, followed quickly by two of the Owens. William gritted his teeth, forcing more power, but it felt like running with a parachute dragging behind him.
I can't let this happen! He roared internally, a sound that only his inner wolf could hear. I am the heir!
As he struggled, a scent hit him—a scent that was a paradox of pure, wild wolf and sweet, intoxicating human perfume. It was the scent of the solarium, of the lake, of her. It wasn't on the main race path; it was leading him off-course, towards the forbidden Blackwoods, where the Moon Lake lay hidden.
It was an impossible distraction, a siren's call woven into the very fabric of his primal instincts. He was supposed to be running to the Moon symbolically, but now, his body was demanding he run to his Half Moon matephysically.
He was five miles from the finish line, trailing fifth. The decision was instantaneous, driven by a need more powerful than the race, tradition, or pack dominance.
William executed a sharp, impossible pivot, his silver form veering off the main trail and plunging into the darker, older woods toward the Moon Lake.
"William! What are you doing?!" Neil's howl, full of confusion and rage, was lost behind him.
Violet had reached the lake bank an hour ago. She was hidden behind the huge willow tree, its branches heavy and draped, perfectly concealing her. The air was still, and the crescent moon, now high in the sky, was beginning to bathe the scene in a spectral, silver glow.
She had felt the surge of energy across the miles—the primal power of the Moon Race, a thousand wolves running, shifting, and howling. It was a feast, a symphony of raw, unfettered life force. She wanted to dive into it, to feel that power, but she knew she couldn't.
Then, she sensed him. William. His energy signature was distinct—a powerful, magnetic pole around which all other life energy seemed to align. And he was coming for her.
He's leaving the race. The thought made her heart pound with a mix of triumph and guilt. He was risking his future for her.
She shifted back to her human form—the only way to truly take him in. Her naked body, now toned and powerful, moved with a predatory grace. She walked to the edge of the lake, kneeling down. The water was still, reflecting the moon like a perfect, frozen eye.
A moment later, William burst through the underbrush. He was panting, his silver fur matted with sweat and pine needles. His golden eyes, usually so bright, were clouded with exhaustion and fierce, confusing desire. He saw her—a pale, ethereal figure rising to meet him, bathed entirely in the silver light.
He shifted immediately, the loud tearing sound of muscle and bone ignored as he scrambled for the clothes he'd strategically left near the lake—a simple cardigan and corduroys, the same attire he'd worn yesterday. His transformation complete, the clothes felt like a mere afterthought, a thin shield between the man and the beast.
He did not walk; he lunged, his immense body closing the distance in three long strides.
"You," he rasped, his voice a baritone gravel of need and confusion.
Violet rose slowly, not speaking, her blue eyes wide, reflecting the silver of the moon. She knew her power lay in this moment, in this silent, magnetic pull.
William gently put his hand around her waist and pulled her to him. She didn't resist.
He looked at her face for confirmation—not that she wanted the kiss, but that she accepted the consequences of the kiss. Seeing she was not struggling, he lowered his head and kissed her.
It was a slow kiss, savoring lips one at a time. It's the most chaste kiss he ever had, yet he was electrified from the bottom of his heart, the euphoric feeling amplified tenfold by the surrounding energy of the Moon Race and the strange, magnetic pull of the Half Moon mark on his chest.
Violet kissed him back, but her motivation was different. Her primal side, the succubus-wolf hybrid, had taken over. She wasn't just receiving a kiss; she was plugging into an unimaginable power source.
As they stood there, completely immersed in the kiss, the external world warped. The surrounding air began to swirl. The moonlight, usually diffused and soft, became impossibly bright, converging, not toward the Moon in the sky, but toward William. The moonlight reflected on the lake surface, which again converged towards William, channeling the energy of the ritual and the night itself directly into him.
And from William, the energy flowed like an electric current into Violet.
She felt it—the raw, untainted life force of a true Alpha. It was pure power, and it flooded her system, chasing away the last vestiges of her childhood weakness, replacing it with an almost terrifying strength. Her mind, fueled by this surge, became intensely, frighteningly clear.
William felt the change instantly. The euphoric high was replaced by a dizzying, plummeting drop of energy. He could feel his inner wolf, the mighty Winter Moon beast, receding, its strength being siphoned away through their locked lips.
Stop, his conscious mind screamed. Mate, stop!
But his primal self, trapped in bliss, refused to let go. He kept kissing the girl, the girl kept kissing him back.
Slowly, but surely, William lost the energy in his body. So much so, he sank down to his knees, but he hadn't stopped kissing the enchantress. His hand fell from the girl's waist to his sides, limp and unresponsive.
Violet's hands, now incredibly strong, came up to his sides and held him aloft as she slowly laid him on the lake bank.
Still, the girl kept kissing him.
William could feel his extremities losing feeling; slowly, blackness encroached in his vision. He tried his best to stay awake, to maintain the connection, but the last of his will gave away. The world dissolved into a glorious, silver-white void.
The girl released his lips only then.
Violet stood up, completely satiated. She felt utterly whole, stronger than she had ever been in her life, the energy of a thousand charging wolves now residing within her.
And then she saw him.
William Wolf, the charismatic, sexy Adonis of Deadwood High, lay motionless on the lake bank, his silver-white corduroys and cardigan rumpled, his breathing shallow. He was utterly spent, a beautiful, lifeless statue carved from snow.
Panic, cold and sharp, replaced the euphoric haze.
What have I done?
She had no idea she could do this. She knew the kiss was special; she knew it was necessary, but she hadn't understood the cost. Her body had acted purely on instinct, draining him to the point of collapse.
She knelt by his side, gently running a hand through his dark, thick hair. He was alive, thankfully, but barely.
She looked around wildly. No one. The sound of the race was miles away, muffled by the dense Blackwoods. The moonlight, having completed its convergence, was now returning to its normal, gentle flow.
Violet quickly shifted back to her wolf form. Using her snout, she nudged him gently, covering his body with leaves and pine needles, trying to hide him as best she could. She had to get out of here. If anyone found William Wolf, the Winter Moon heir, near death after abandoning the most important race of the year, and found her scent all over him, her carefully constructed "dowdy new girl" persona would shatter instantly.
She backed away slowly, her keen wolf eyes scanning for any sign of witnesses. She saw nothing.
Turning tail, Violet ran. She didn't run back towards her home, where her mother might see her frantic state. She ran deep into the woods, toward the border of the Badlands, needing to feel the untamed earth beneath her paws to process the terrifying power she now held, and the life she had just nearly extinguished.
"This double identity game is going to be far harder than I thought," she howled. The sound of a low, mournful, and powerful wolf howl echoed through the empty woods. The wolf within her was awake, fed, and demanding—but the human part of her was trembling with the terrifying realization that her love could be fatal.