Three in the morning.

  A moonless sky hung over Allen-Hill Swamp Refuge—but the darkness wasn’t empty.

  It pulsed. It breathed. It watched.

  The refuge was gone.

  In its place stood Lycara’s territory—a corrupted domain reshaped by divine will. Trees bent at impossible angles. Stone paths cut through former mud. Foreign sigils glowed in the reeds. Something ancient now ruled the air.

  A lone Louisiana State Trooper SUV rolled down the main road, headlights cutting through the haze.

  Trooper Bill Donaldson squinted through the windshield.

  “Carroll… when did they put this in? This road wasn’t paved last week.”

  Trooper Carrol Duchins scanned new structures in the swamp. Stone pillars. Carved patterns. A faint green shimmer drifted across the ground.

  “No idea. Who in the world paid for all this?”

  “Probably taxpayers,” Bill muttered. “Let’s go check it out.”

  The troopers stepped out, boots crunching over a road that had not existed the day before.

  As they approached one of the new archways, a silhouette materialized in the middle of the road. Motionless. Upright. Watching.

  A woman stood tall before them.

  She wore black leather armor.

  Her jet-black hair flowed over her shoulders.

  Her nails were long.

  High heels clicking in the silence.

  Lycara.

  Trooper Bill raised his flashlight.

  “Hello there.”

  She said nothing.

  Trooper Carrol tried again.

  “Ma’am, we’re Louisiana State Troopers. Can you explain what’s going on out here?”

  Lycara’s eyes glowed green.

  “I can,” she finally said. Her voice was calm. Regal. Cold.

  “I am issuing both of you a directive. Leave this land immediately. It has been taken.”

  Bill scoffed.

  “Taken? Lady, how about we give you a directive? Turn around, put your hands behind your back—”

  “You’re under arrest,” Carrol finished, stepping forward.

  Lycara cocked her head slightly.

  “Interesting.”

  Bill moved in to grab her.

  He never touched her.

  A massive shadow vaulted over the SUV, landing with a bone-splintering thud atop Bill.

  Gwendolyn.

  Eight feet of black fur, muscle, claws, and green eyes blazing with hunger.

  Gwendolyn attacked before Bill could scream.

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  Carrol shrieked, emptied her gun — Gwendolyn didn’t flinch.

  A rustle came from the brush.

  Olivia.

  Olivia emerged, huffing, fangs bared. Carrol spun, too late. Olivia slammed her down.

  Two troopers.

  Two monsters.

  Instant slaughter.

  As Gwendolyn and Olivia finished, another SUV roared into the swamp.

  Backup.

  Lights flashing. Siren screaming.

  The vehicle barreled toward the scene — until Sarah stepped out from the vegetation like a freight train.

  Sarah — the newly-turned Lycan — rammed her shoulder into the SUV, launching it off the road. Metal shrieked. Glass exploded.

  The SUV rolled violently and landed upside down.

  Sarah strode over, upright and towering, seized the wreck, and hurled it onto the road. It flipped four times.

  Olivia and Gwendolyn sprinted to the wreck, ripped it open, and dragged the dazed troopers out.

  The men screamed as the werewolves attacked, blood splattering the patrol car.

  From the center of the road, Lycara watched the carnage with a faint smile.

  “No one enters my territory,” she whispered.

  “No one.”

  She turned, heels clicking as her pack feasted behind her.

  The full moon was coming.

  And Allen-Hill belonged to her.

  Elsewhere, as night still ruled the sky—

  The morning light had not yet broken. A bruise of dawn pressed against the sky as Sheryl woke, nerves wired for war. She dressed in silence: jeans, a black T-shirt, boots, and a leather jacket like armor. She stood at her mirror, eyes dim with exhaustion, but beneath them simmered resolve.

  Across town, Derek was already in motion. In his small condo, the tactical gear was laid out with military precision. M4 carbine. Glock. Spare mags. Orichalcum-jacketed silver rounds. The Celestial Silver Spike is in a specialized holster attached to his belt. He ran through several function checks with practiced ease and secured the final clasp on his vest. This time, there was no Olivia at his side. Just blood, betrayal, and the hard truth that the next few hours could reshape everything.

  Across town, Derek was already in motion. In his small condo, the tactical gear was laid out with military precision. M4 carbine. Glock. Spare mags. Orichalcum-jacketed silver rounds. The Celestial Silver Spike is in a specialized holster attached to his belt. He ran through several function checks with practiced ease and secured the final clasp on his vest. This time, there was no Olivia at his side. Just blood, betrayal, and the hard truth that the next few hours could reshape everything.

  By seven in the morning, he arrived at the house. Sheryl was waiting in the living room, sitting fully dressed on the couch, hands clasped, breathing slowly and steadily. Derek closed the door behind him.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “No,” Sheryl said. “But I will be.”

  They rehearsed for hours—routes, signals, enemy patterns, where Lycara’s pack might hide. When to fire, run, shift. Lunch, then more drills. Dinner, more drills. By night, bodies tired; purpose sharpened.

  When everything was loaded into the gray two-seat Chevy Express, Sheryl took the passenger seat, and Derek drove. They headed toward Allen Hill Swamp Refuge, the birthplace of all this madness. Their headlights cut through the darkness as the first hint of green energy flickered against the clouds far ahead. The ritual had begun.

  During the drive, Sheryl stared out the side window. “Son,” she murmured. “If we don’t make it out, just know that I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mom,” Derek replied. “But I’m not driving out there to die. We are killing Lycara and getting Karen back.”

  Sheryl exhaled sharply. “I hope so.”

  The green glow became brighter. A swirling column of energy pulsed above the tree line.

  “I think she’s starting the ritual,” Derek said. “Look, I know you are new to this fight from our side of things, but this is how it goes most of the time. You step out, and you go straight into combat.”

  Sheryl glared. “Good grief. Thanks for the motivational speech.”

  “You’re a werewolf. You’ll be fine.”

  “Well, duh.”

  They pulled off the road several miles from the transformed territory and parked the van behind a thick line of trees. Sheryl armed herself with the forty-five pistol loaded with Orichalcum silver. She slung the Celestial Silver Spike across her back in its saya-like case. Derek checked his M4 once more and slotted several silver nitrate grenades into his belt. It was time.