The Predator's Preparation
Ken Castelli followed leisurely after William and his party, maintaining a precise fifteen-minute gap that allowed the prey to feel safe yet remain perpetually within striking distance. He reached the point where the marked trail met the dense tree line exactly as the last traces of their scent—a heady mix of wolf, human, and the strange, sharp, violet-like musk that belonged only to the girl—began to dissipate.
He frowned, a subtle curl of his perfect lip, when he registered their choice of terrain. Blackwoods, rather than the Badlands.
The Badlands were vast and open, perfect for an ambush where sheer speed and numbers could corner a target. Blackwoods, however, was treacherous, a tangled net of ancient, whispering trees and sudden, unforgiving ravines. It was the rumored location of a never-ending curse, a place vampires, even powerful ones like himself, usually avoided.
Snowdrops popping from strange locations always pose an unseen danger. It was a local saying, referring to the hidden geothermal vents and pockets of ancient, forgotten magic that sometimes bubbled up in the earth. Here, even a grand vampire could be humbled by meager beavers—or worse, the capricious, non-aligned nature spirits that were drawn to the woods' deep silence.
Yet, this was an acceptable inconvenience. The sheer, overwhelming need to eliminate William Wolf and claim Violet Darkwood transcended petty concerns of localized folklore. Ken had far too many generational and personal feuds with the Winter Moon alpha line; William was merely the latest, most arrogant iteration. More importantly, Ken was profoundly incensed by the girl's audacity. She had the nerve to be immune to his charm. His glamour, a psychic force refined over centuries to make all human and most supernatural eyes droop in admiration, had glanced off her like a water droplet hitting hot stone. That alone made her a conquest he required.
This time, there would be no mistakes, no fair fights. Ken had mobilized seven of his most experienced soldiers—veterans of countless skirmishes, efficient killing machines capable of operating in perfect, silent coordination. They would encircle the entire area under the guise of nightfall.
Ken drew a delicate, silver-tipped whistle from his coat and blew a single, sharp, high-frequency note, inaudible to human ears but a commanding siren to his subordinates already lurking deep in the woods. They were to converge on the target camp, not rushing the attack, but building an inescapable, suffocating perimeter.
This time, they will kill The wolf prince, snatch the impudent little girl who had the audacity to not be charmed by him, and probably use her mother as rations for his underlings.
The thought sent a wave of ecstatic anticipation through him. When October rolls in, they will hold the moonlight banquet—a rare and sacred event only the oldest clans hosted. Violet will be the highlight of the banquet this time around, not just a sacrifice, but a centerpiece. Her blood, the strange, potent succubus/wolf hybrid mixture, would flow ever so slowly from her neck, down her flawless skin, to her feet, as his comrades feasted on her lifeforce. The spectacle of her defiance crumbling into submission would be Ken's ultimate revenge.
My sweet temptress! Wait for me! Ken thought, as he flashed through the woods. He moved not like a man but a blur of motion, picking out the best, radar-blind approaches from which his soldiers could approach the small party. He chose three cardinal points—a high ridge overlooking the camp, a winding creek bed, and the shadowy depths of a dense pine grove. The fourth point, the main trail, would be left open as a path of panic, funneling them towards the waiting ambush teams.
The trap was set. Now, Ken waited for the sun to sink completely.
The Unwavering Oath
Meanwhile, back at the hastily constructed camp, just beyond the tree line that sheltered the stream, Wynona was intensely focused. When the children did not return exactly when she expected, a primal terror, one she hadn't allowed herself to feel in years, seized her heart.
The fear was not of simple delay. Wynona was an adept, perhaps not a full-fledged sorceress, but one born to an old line of practitioners—the secret bloodline of Lilitu, whispered in hushed tones by both witches and demons. She felt the subtle shift in the air, the creeping, cold dread that didn't belong to the wild, but to the hunters. The scent of bats, blood, and something far older and more malign than a common vampire.
She knew in that instant that Ken Castelli was here, and he had brought allies.
Wynona understood the risk of the Blackwoods. She had known the moment William chose the site that this wasn't just a hunt for snowdrops; it was a test, a challenge, perhaps even an execution planned by his rivals. But she had been so lost in the mundane details of their new life—the cleaning, the gardening, the job tips—that she had forgotten the grand, terrible tapestry of Violet's true heritage.
Violet is not just a wolf. She is Scarlet's daughter.
Wynona's memory, which had been curiously splotched, as if someone deliberately removed or edited large sections of her past, began to surge with painful clarity. She recalled a time, long before Violet's birth, when she had loved Damian, a powerful demon prince. But Damian was truly in love with Sera, Violet's birth mother, who had the sensitive soul of a powerful witch. Sera could feel that she matched Damian in a way Wynona never could.
In time, Violet (originally named Scarlet) was born, a hybrid child of a demon prince and a mighty witch—an unthinkable blend of celestial and infernal power. On the day she was born, Sera and Damian faced the hardest hurdle of their lives. Vampires, werewolves, dark mages, and various mysterious creatures all vied for the blood and flesh of the child of two primes.
The memory was cold, sharp, and unforgiving. With Sera's ultimate, self-sacrificing act, Violet and Wynona were able to run away. Wynona's duty was not merely to raise her, but to shield her, to hide the true nature of the girl who was both an heir and a devastating weapon.
I promised Sera and Damian I will bring up Violet properly.
But now, her protective façade had failed. The magical blood in her veins—the Lilitu legacy—was surging, demanding a release. It was a call to arms that she had repressed for decades, choosing a human life of denial and transient boyfriends over the ancient, bloody responsibility of guardianship.
If the situation were not this urgent, she would have completed the necessary ritual slowly, diligently, preparing for the power transfer over weeks. But her daughter was missing, and the air smelled of death.
Wynona rushed to the center of the clearing, grabbing the essentials from her pack: a small jar of her own blood, a handful of dried herbs (wolfsbane, for protection against some magic, but also nightshade, for connection to the void), and a handful of dirt from the south side mansion's garden—soil now enriched by the strange, magnetic power of the fig tree and the moon lake.
She began drawing a protective array on the frozen ground with a piece of charcoal. It was an arcane circle, complex and interlocking, designed for summoning a powerful, bound entity. She was not summoning a god, but invoking a specific, localized contractual spell with a lesser entity—a guardian spirit of the Blackwoods, one powerful enough to disrupt the vampire's plans.
She cut her palm, allowing her blood to drip onto the junction points of the array. The iron-rich blood sizzled against the cold dirt, and the air grew thick with a burning scent.
"I offer a life force," she chanted in an ancient, dry tongue, the words tearing at her throat, "to protect the blood of the two primes. I offer my greatest vessel, the heart of my being, in exchange for one act of interception. A debt paid in full."
She knew the price. The ritual array was one used for signing a contract with an entity of sacrifice. She wasn't just offering her life; she was offering the core of her will, the emotional engine that drove her.
Soon, the small charcoal array was completed. A deep-red, pulsing fire spontaneously ignited at the center. The air filled with chanting voices—not Wynona's, but the chorus of the ancient spirits answering her forbidden call. The scene looked outright mysterious, terrible, and utterly final.
However, there was only one thought in Wynona's head, overriding the pain, the fear, and the sheer power of the gathering magic: 'Any and every guardian deity who can bring my daughter back safely.'
Her desire grew stronger, focused entirely on Violet's survival. This consuming, singular purpose transformed the raging fire in the array. It burst outward, taking the shape of a massive, black-feathered creature—a Fiery Raven, crackling with crimson power.
The raven did not fly away. It fixed its spectral, molten gaze on Wynona. Then, in a single, silent, devastating moment, the fiery raven burst towards Wynona's chest, where the life-array demanded payment.
It plunged through her ribs, devoured her heart in a single moment, not physically, but spiritually. Wynona didn't scream. She collapsed, the pain so profound it registered not as agony, but as a complete, sudden absence of self. Her vision swam, her consciousness dissolved into the cold ground, but as she fell, she saw the raven—her consciousness, her sacrifice—surge away from the camp, a dark, fiery speck soaring towards the impending battle.
She was left as an empty vessel, a mother whose last act of will was a total sacrifice.
The Wolves' Retreat
Deep in the woods, William and Violet, side by side in their powerful wolf forms, froze.
One moment, they were sharing a rare moment of playful, primal connection by the stream, still reeling from the shock and thrill of their simultaneous transformation. The next, the woods, which had been silent and cold, screamed with an influx of unnatural, malevolent energy.
William, the larger, silver-grey alpha, lifted his massive head, his amber eyes narrowing to slits. He smelled the blood and the bats—the scent was no longer faint on the wind, but a thick, metallic cloud of death rolling over the forest floor. Worse, he heard the faint, precise tink-tink-tink of well-oiled rifle mechanisms being manually armed in the distance. Silver bullets. This was a dedicated hunt, not a common foray.
Violet, the smaller, shadow-black wolf, cowered low. The bloody scent was thicker to her, laced with a psychic terror that amplified the ancient need to flee. It seemed to be saying, Tonight, it's you or I!!! Let the blood flow like rivers!! Slay! Destroy! Devour!
William nudged her with his large head, a silent command to move. His amber eyes met her golden ones—a flash of communication, an unspoken promise of protection. He inhaled deeply of her scent, the heady musk of her fear and her strange power, locking it into his memory as a constant.
Then, they ran. Not in panic, but with the synchronized, fluid grace of predators moving from a position of disadvantage.
William, being the alpha, naturally took the lead, guiding her not back to the camp, but away from the tightening circle of danger. He was faster, relying on raw wolf strength to navigate the uneven terrain. Violet, however, was smarter, using her smaller frame to weave through the low-hanging branches and brush where William's bulk struggled.
"Ggrrr!" William growled, a low, frustrated sound as he skirted a fallen tree, losing precious seconds.
Violet's mind, sharp and clear even in wolf form, instantly understood the situation. They couldn't outrun seven experienced vampires in an unfamiliar wood, especially when the wolves' greatest tool—their powerful scent—was now their biggest liability. They had to break the net and create chaos.
She veered sharply to the right, away from William's path, bounding towards a dense, high thicket of thorn bushes. William halted, letting out a sharp, warning bark.
Violet turned back, lifting her head and letting out a sound that wasn't a bark or a howl, but a high-pitched, almost human screech—a sound laced with the illusionary magic of her succubus side. She was creating a distraction, drawing attention and confusing the converging enemy lines.
She was leading them into the fire.
William understood. His mate was sacrificing herself to protect him. His wolf howled in protest, but his mind, tempered by the knowledge of the centuries of wolf leadership, recognized the strategy. He would go the other way, hoping to draw the main force, while Violet used her unique abilities to fight or evade the smaller teams.
William turned and launched himself into the deepest part of the Blackwoods, a silver streak becoming one with the shadows.
Violet, meanwhile, ran towards the sound of the nearest advancing vampire squad. The forest was now quiet again, save for the rhythmic crunch of snow under her paws and the faint, unsettling thud of heavy footsteps closing in.
As she entered a narrow, twisting ravine, a single, black-feathered shape—the Fiery Raven, Wynona's desperate sacrifice—darted through the air above her, letting out a sharp, silent scream that only the creatures of the night could hear.
The hunt had begun. Violet was no longer fleeing; she was setting a series of dangerous, chaotic traps, preparing to use the full, terrifying extent of her hybrid power to survive. The net was closing, and she was the bait.