The Lycan Inheritance

I can hear their screams.

Even now. Almost a week later.

I’m curled up, at the very back of this cave, hidden amongst the rocks. Safe. Or as safe as it can be for someone like me.

I haven’t moved in what feels like days. My body is still so mentally broken that the most I can do is lick the rainwater off the walls as it trickles down.

They’re dead. All of them.

My entire family. Erased. Removed. Murdered.

I shudder, curling up tighter, trying to rid myself of the images but they come anyway. My father lying, with his throat ripped out. My mother, half covering him, wailing before they gut her and leave her to bleed out and die.

And my sister, Lia, my beautiful sister. Her long locks splattered with blood. Her face completely obliterated as if she’d caused some offence to the Moon Goddess herself.

She was meant to be a queen. She was destined for greatness, we all knew it. Everyone knew it. The entire Werewolf world knew it.

As I lie here, I feel a rush of anger at the fact my father didn’t acquiesce to the Royal Pack’s demands. That they hadn’t sent her to their lands, to grow up alongside her future mate. If he’d done that she’d be safe. She’d still be alive.

But my father had been suspicious. He still didn’t trust the Alpha Twins. He still believed there was some great plot to overthrow him, to overthrow all the other packs.

And now my sister is dead.

As is every other member of my family. All my brothers. All our pack. The only reason I survived was because Carlos was assigned to watch me, to protect me, and it was his body that shielded me. His body that took the blows, and whoever the aggressor was, they had no idea that a pathetic mutt was hidden beneath him.

That I was hidden beneath him.

So that’s where I’d lain. Trapped. Petrified. For hours after the fighting had stopped. Hours after the flames had gone out and there was nothing left but the awful silence of death lingering about me.

I dug their graves with my bare hands. Dug as my tears streamed down my cheeks, as my nails ripped from the tips. And carefully, I’d covered them over. Covered what was left. Leaving nothing but a small stone to mark what was beneath because I was too fearful someone would come back and if I did anything bigger, made a more obvious sign, then they would not only dig them back out but they would know I survived. They would know that someone from the Aurora Pack got away. And they would hunt me down like a dog.

So instead, I crawled away, on my hands and knees, crawled for miles, through the jungle, through the undergrowth until my strength had failed me and I hid, just like always, like a coward, in the dark.

My stomach grumbles. The last meal I had was days ago and I know I need to reset the traps but I hate catching animals, and I hate killing them even more. Though I’m a technically a Werewolf, I’m not a true born one. A fault in my genes means I have no Wolf. Oh, I can hear her well enough, I can feel her presence, but she has never manifested, never come into being.

I’m a Mutt. The lowest of the low.

I was the shame of my family, though they tried hard not to show it or treat me as such. But my father was Alpha and he had his pride to deal with. He had to present a strong front and no Alpha worth his title would ever admit to having such a failure as a daughter.

So I was kept away. Not locked up exactly but every time any foreign dignitary came I was safely stowed out of sight. My brothers would tease me. My sister would smile sympathetically but it didn’t make any difference.

I was a Mutt and nothing would change that.

My parents weren’t cruel. They weren’t intentionally malicious. They loved me in spite of my failings and I wanted for nothing. I was happy for the most part and by having Carlos guard me, they made sure I was protected which is more than most Wolves would do if they had Mutt offspring.

A noise makes me pause. I look about, seeing the snake and though I know I could ignore it, it’s extremely hard to when a meal presents itself so readily. I gulp. That’s my wolf saying that. She’s hungry. Ravenous. Her instincts are more base than mine. Her morals less refined.

She wants to live.

To survive and as I lay here, cold, scared, and pathetic, I realise that I need her more than ever.

I need my Wolf to save me. To save us.

She calls out, screams in my head, and as I pull myself back, I let her take over, let her dominate my consciousness. I’m done with being alive anyway. This world is too painful right now for me to want to be aware of it. No, it’s easier to let her take charge, to let her lead, while I’ll just stay in the background, stay hidden, just like always.