The Marble Wolf Prophecy

In the car for what should be just another boring car ride. Some days, I'm just as glad that I can't drive or at least drive properly. As I still only have my learners even after a year of having it.

As I sat in the passenger seat with a pen and my trusty notebook on my lap, which wasn't unusual for me to do. It depended more on whether words appeared on the page or not. Now there was the million-dollar question.

“Don’t forget, tonight is the pack bonfire.” Grandmother said.

“Yeah, I know,” I said as I drummed my pen on the notebook, not that anyone had noticed, not even my grandmother, that it was my 18th birthday, not that I cared. It was safer for everyone if I just slipped away and shifted for the first time by myself.

I'd been planning this for weeks, I mean, how could I not? It's not like I could just ignore what was coming. Everyone in my family knew what turning eighteen meant for our kind. The first shift. Most of the pack celebrated it like some bizarre supernatural quinceañera, complete with witnesses and traditions. Not me. I wanted privacy for what would likely be the most vulnerable moment of my life.

Grandmother glanced at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You're quiet today, Imogen."

"Just thinking," I replied, trying to sound casual while my insides twisted with anxiety. I sketched an aimless pattern in the corner of my notebook, wondering if she suspected anything.

"The bonfire will be good for you. The whole pack will be there." She said it like that was supposed to comfort me. Being surrounded by thirty werewolves on the night of my first shift was exactly what I needed.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The plan was simple: show my face at the bonfire, make some excuse about feeling sick, then disappear into the woods behind our property where I'd stashed a change of clothes and some first aid supplies. Everything I'd read in the old journals suggested the first shift was painful. Messy. Intensely personal.

"You know," Grandmother continued, turning down the familiar road that led to our family home, "your mother was nervous too, on her eighteenth."

I froze, pen hovering above paper. Grandmother rarely mentioned Mom.

"She was?" I managed to ask, trying to sound only mildly interested.

"Terrified," Grandmother said with a small smile. "But she had the pack around her. It makes it easier, having family there."

Great. Now guilt was competing with my anxiety. But I couldn't change my mind. Some things needed to be faced alone, and this was one of them.

“Sure, whatever, my luck is I have no wolf. I’m an outsider, remember,” I pointed out.

Grandmother sighed, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "You're not an outsider, Imogen. You're a Lancaster."

"On paper, maybe." I turned to look out the window, watching the trees blur together into a smear of green and brown. My reflection stared back at me, a girl I barely recognised most days.

The car fell silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of gravel beneath the tyres. I could feel Grandmother's eyes flicking toward me every few seconds, but I kept my gaze fixed on the passing landscape.

"Your parents would have wanted..."

"Please don't," I cut her off, gentler than I meant to. "Not today."

She nodded once, respecting the boundary. That was one thing I appreciated about Grandmother—she knew when to stop pushing. Unlike the rest of the pack, who seemed to think my business was theirs by default.

As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Kyle Williams' truck parked near the shed. My stomach clenched involuntarily. Of all the days for one of the triplets to show up.

"What's he doing here?" I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Grandmother turned off the engine. "Alpha sent him to help set up for tonight. Something about community service."

"Great," I muttered, shoving my notebook into my backpack. Just what I needed—the boy who'd read my private journal entries aloud to half the pack when I was twelve, here on my birthday, on the day of my first shift.

"Be civil," Grandmother warned as I reached for the door handle.

"I'm always civil." It was true. I'd perfected the art of polite invisibility years ago. Civil was my specialty. Civil was safe.

As I stepped out of the car, Kyle emerged from behind the shed, carrying a stack of firewood. He'd grown taller since the last time I'd seen him up close, his shoulders broader under his faded t-shirt. When he spotted me, he paused, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

I dropped my gaze and headed for the house, clutching my backpack like a shield. Six more hours until sunset. Six more hours until I could slip away and face whatever was coming on my own terms.

Because no matter what Grandmother said about family and pack, some transformations weren't meant to be witnessed. And some wolves, especially ones like mine, that might not even exist, were better off running alone.

The walk to the house felt miles long with Kyle's eyes burning into my back. I kept my pace steady, not too fast to look like I was running away, not too slow to invite conversation. Just the right speed for someone who didn't care.

"Imogen," his voice called after me.

I pretended not to hear, mounting the porch steps with deliberate focus.

"Imogen," he tried again, closer this time. "Hold up."

My hand froze on the doorknob. I took a breath, arranged my face into a mask of mild disinterest, and turned.

"What?" I asked, the picture of polite indifference.

Kyle stood at the bottom of the steps, wood still balanced in his arms, a thin sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the afternoon light. His amber eyes, the signature Williams trait, studied me with an intensity that made me want to disappear into the floorboards.

"Happy birthday," he said quietly.