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The snow had blanketed every inch of the forest floor, the birdsong had ceased, and the scent of flowers was nothing more than a distant memory. It seemed as if this forest had always been like this: white, silent, and dead.
But Atticus knew it wasn't.
On new moon nights like this one, there used to be campfires, songs, and the lingering aroma of a barbecue. There was laughter and an eager anticipation of Christmas.
Now, all that remained was suspicion.
A predator had arrived in the forests of the pack, and although they didn't know what they were facing, the danger was palpable.
He took another step; the snow swallowed his foot completely. He hated giving away his position, but it meant his prey was close.
If it were a full moon, they would have already caught the intruder.
The radio crackled; it was his father.
"The tracks seem to indicate he's on Silverfang Rock," he reported.
“I’m close,” Atticus replied.
“Don’t act alone,” his mother said quickly.
Atticus rolled his eyes and considered pretending he hadn’t heard anything.
“I’m close too. Wait for me by the stream.”
Silverfang Rock was a large white rock that rose among the trees and seemed to glow in the light of the full moon. It had a cleft between the rocks that served as the entrance to a large cave. According to legend, a group of Outcasts had made it their refuge while fleeing witch hunts.
Now, it was where his friends gathered to party and scare the little ones.
Atticus reached the stream. While he waited for his father, he checked the bullets in his shotgun, adjusted his gloves, and took off his hat to shake off the snow that had fallen on him. At that moment, a soft breeze touched his face, carrying with it the scent of a wolf.
His body tensed immediately. The hairs on his neck stood on end.
It was a werewolf, he was sure of it, but not one of his pack.
Suddenly, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and turning around, he saw his father's long, thin face. The man put a finger to his lips and then gestured for him to follow.
The hat fell to the ground, and Atticus crossed the stream.
The trees began to thin out, and when the crag rose above them, they saw a huge wolf huddled against the rock.
Atticus's eyes widened.
"Is it a…?"
"Yes," his father replied. Unlike the boy, surprise had given way to a more somber expression.
"How? Atticus looked up at the sky to make sure the moon was still hidden, as if his own body couldn't sense the celestial body's energy.
"Alphas don't exist."
His father smirked and adjusted his shotgun.
"Tell her that."
Atticus looked at the wolf again. His father was right; it was a girl. Although she seemed big, much bigger than him, the shape of her fur reminded him of his friends'. She didn't yet have the voluptuousness of the elder ones.
His father moved forward, and Atticus hurried to follow.
They were ready to take a precise shot when the wind picked up again. Just as Atticus had caught the scent of the she-wolf, this time she recognized them.
She opened her eyes wide, and even in the darkness, he could see they were blue, like two pieces of ice.
The she-wolf moved quickly, baring her long fangs. However, her ferocity was lessened not only by the pink and blue streaks that framed her face (and brought a smile to Atticus's face), but also by the way her eyes seemed to desperately search for a way out.
From all the stories he'd heard about Alphas, this Alpha—if she was one—didn't seem like the bloodthirsty monster he'd been led to believe.
The sound of the gunshot brought him back to reality, and the she-wolf ran into the woods, whimpering.
Atticus looked down at the snow; there was no trace of blood.
"Let's go," his father said. "We need to tell the others about this."
His father led the way, but he stayed behind for a few more seconds.
He scanned the clearing and met the she-wolf's gleaming eyes fixed on him.
He felt no danger.
He didn't feel stalked.
Atticus placed the shotgun behind his back and raised a hand, as if saying goodbye to that mythical being.