Monica lived in a renovated mansion on the eastern edge of Baton Rouge. High ceilings, marble floors, a kitchen island big enough to seat eight. Tonight, it seated four.

  Sheryl Brown sat at the head of the table, a glass of red wine in her hand, still dressed in the navy blue blazer she’d worn to work that morning. Across from her sat Karen, leaner, younger, restless energy barely contained beneath a black hoodie. Deborah Moore sat to Sheryl’s right, poised as ever in a cream blouse, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Monica stood near the kitchen counter, pouring herself a second glass.

  “So,” Monica said, walking back to the table. “Karen, how did it go?”

  Karen leaned back in her chair, jaw tight. “It didn’t. Derek showed up with an automatic weapon and lit me up. I had to bail before I finished the cop.”

  Sheryl glanced at her. “You let Derek get the drop on you?”

  “He shouldn’t have even been there,” Karen snapped. “I don’t know how he knew.”

  Monica set her glass down and looked Karen in the eye. “Then you weren’t careful enough.”

  Karen’s eyes flashed yellow for a second, then faded. She didn’t respond.

  “We’re not here to point fingers,” Sheryl said, her voice calm but firm. “We’re here to plan the next phase. Derek’s becoming a problem. So is that detective. We need them handled, but we need to be smarter about it.”

  Deborah leaned forward. “What about the containment efforts? I heard there’s talk of federal involvement. CDC showing up in Bayou Mounds asking questions.”

  Monica nodded. “I’ve heard the same. They’re trying to connect the incidents. The club, the farm, the airboat. It’s only a matter of time before someone starts linking us together.”

  “So what do we do?” Karen asked.

  Monica smiled faintly. “We expand faster than they can track. I’ve already identified three more hosts in Jackson, two in Baton Rouge, and one in New Orleans. By the end of the month, we’ll have doubled our numbers.”

  Sheryl swirled her wine. “And what about resources? We can’t keep feeding off livestock and random kills. We need territory.”

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  “I’m working on it,” Monica said. “The Sanderson farm was just the beginning. I’ve got my eye on two more properties outside the city. Foreclosures. No heirs. Easy acquisitions once the owners are out of the picture.”

  Deborah raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to kill them and buy their land?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Sheryl smiled. “I like it.”

  Karen crossed her arms. “And what about Derek? You want me to try again?”

  “No,” Monica said. “Let him think he won for now. We’ll deal with him when the time is right. Right now, we focus on growth. On to building the pack.”

  The four women sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their plans settling over the table like fog.

  “We’re making history,” Monica said quietly. “In a hundred years, people will remember what we started here.”

  Sheryl raised her glass. “To the pack.”

  The others followed. “To the pack.”

  Later that night, Sheryl and Karen drove south on Highway 16, the road dark and empty under a half moon. Karen sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, still brooding over the failed mission.

  “You need to let it go,” Sheryl said.

  “I had her,” Karen muttered. “I was about to finish it.”

  “Then you should have moved faster.”

  Karen shot her a look but said nothing.

  Sheryl pulled off onto a narrow side road and killed the engine. “Come on. We need to feed.”

  They stepped out of the SUV and walked into the woods, the air thick with humidity and the buzz of insects. Within minutes, the transformation began. Bones cracked, muscles swelled, fur erupted across their skin. Two massive werewolves stood side by side, breathing steam into the night air.

  They moved through the trees in silence, hunting. An hour later, they’d taken down a deer, tearing into it with methodical efficiency. Blood soaked the ground beneath them.

  When they finished, they reverted to human form, naked and drenched in sweat and gore. They walked back to the road, bare feet crunching over gravel. In the distance, headlights appeared—a police cruiser, moving slowly, probably on routine patrol.

  Sheryl stepped into the middle of the road and raised her hand.

  The cruiser slowed, then stopped about twenty feet away. The headlights illuminated both women, naked and covered in blood, standing in the center of the highway.

  Two officers stepped out, hands already moving toward their sidearms.

  “What the hell?” the first officer said, a younger guy, maybe late twenties.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” the second officer asked, older, more cautious.

  Sheryl smiled. Her eyes ignited yellow, glowing bright in the dark.

  “We need your clothes,” she said calmly.

  The younger officer pulled his cap. Nothing about this made sense. The expression on his face showed that he wanted to live longer.

  “Y…yeah. Sure.” He said as he removed his utility belt and nodded to his colleague. Soon they were stripped.

  “Thank you,” Sheryl said, taking the uniforms and watching as the officers drove off. Sheryl slipped into the older officer’s pants and button-up, both too big but functional. Karen pulled on the younger officer’s uniform, rolling up the sleeves.

  “Not a perfect fit,” Karen said.

  “It’ll do.”

  They climbed back into the SUV, Sheryl started the engine, and they pulled back onto the highway, driving south into the night.