Chapter 1 The Hunt

"You missed a spot, trash," Garth laughed, his voice echoing off the damp walls of the washhouse. He slammed his mud-caked leather boot directly onto the rim of the wooden washbasin, sending a shower of gray ice water splashing over the floor.

Evangeline didn't look up from the tub. Her hands were raw, red, and stiff from hours of sitting in the freezing water, but she kept scrubbing the thick leather chest-piece with a stiff bristled brush.

"If you stopped rolling around in the dirt like a stray dog every time you went on patrol, Garth, maybe your gear wouldn't take three hours to clean," she said smoothly.

A low chuckle burst from a pair of lower-tier warriors standing near the door, leaning against their spears. Garth’s jaw clicked shut, his face flushing dark red in embarrassment as he snapped his neck towards the men, immediately hushing them up with one dirty look. 

"Watch your mouth, wolf-less," Garth spat, leaning down until his shadow completely blocked the meager lantern light. His breath smelled of stale ale and burnt meat as he pressed close to her ear. "You won't be so mouthy when the sun goes down."

Evangeline paused, wringing out a heavy chunk of wet leather. She wiped a stray drop of muddy water off her cheek with the back of her wrist, her grey eyes unbothered as could be as she met his glare. "Is that a threat Garth, or are you just daydreaming about having some semblance of a personality again?"

"It’s not a daydream, girl," one of the warriors by the door chimed in, tossing a bitter winter apple core toward her bucket. It splashed right into the clean rinse water. "The Elder’s calling all the unbonded to the main hall right now. The roster for tonight’s Hunt is being nailed to the post."

Evangeline’s fingers went dead still against the leather armor.

The Hunt.

Every winter solstice, when the moon hit its zenith and the mountain snows locked the valley tight, the Midnight Pack weeded their ranks. They dumped the weak, the human defectors, and the unbonded defectives into the high woods. Then the pack’s young bloods were unleashed to run them down for sport and claim their first kills.

She stood up slowly, her wet skirts clinging firmly to her shins. She was barely five-foot-four, half Garth’s width and half his height, but she didn't step back an inch.

"I’m not on the Hunt roster," she said, her voice dropping an octave so low that the words basically came out gritted out. "I’m assigned to the estate grounds. Pack law protects registered laborers from the seasonal culls."

Garth barked a loud, ugly laugh, turning to exchange a smirk with his buddies. "Pack law protects people who have wolves, sweetheart. Or people who have families willing to pay their shelter tax. And sadly, you don't have either."

"Go check the board yourself, girl," the second warrior added, gesturing lazily toward the courtyard with his spear tip. "Or better yet, don't waste time looking at wood. Start running now. Maybe you'll make it to the river before someone decides your skull makes a nice drinking cup."

Evangeline wiped her hands on her damp apron, dropped her scrub brush into the tub, and walked out of the washhouse without saying another word to those fellows.

The central encampment was a hive of frantic, nervous energy. Servants scurried between the stone barracks with armfuls of torchwood and blankets, keeping their eyes glued to the snow covered ground beneath them.

The younger pack warriors were already congregating in excited clusters near the armory, their eyes glowing faintly in the dim evening light as they tested the edges of their hunting knives and laughed among themselves.

When Evangeline reached the broad wooden stairs of the grand hall, a large crowd had already gathered. Standing at the top of the landing, flanked by two armored guards holding broadaxes, was her uncle, Elder Thomas.

He held a wooden tray filled with heavy looking palm-sized iron badges, each one stamped with the crude image of a wolf skull.

"Evangeline," Thomas called out, his voice easily cutting over the murmurs of the crowd. "Step forward."

The crowd parted instantly, eager to leave space between themselves and whoever was being addressed. Evangeline climbed the stone steps slowly, stopping three feet short of the landing.

"Uncle," she said quietly. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Do not address me by title of relation," Thomas replied coldly, his face completely devoid of warmth. "Before the eyes of the pack, you are merely a resident of our territory. You have lived off our grain and rested under our roofs for eighteen years without manifesting a wolf. You consume resources you do not generate."

"I work!" Evangeline countered. "I mend your gates, scrub your armor, clean your stables, and cook the rations your hunters eat before they go on patrol. I earn every scrap of stale bread you throw onto my plate."

"But that is not enough," Thomas said as he picked up one of the iron badges from the tray. "The pack demands strength. The pack demands utility. Tonight, you will serve the highest purpose available to a wolf-less human. You will provide our young warriors with their seasonal blooding."

He tossed the iron badge at her feet and it struck the frozen timber of the steps. Evangeline stared at the piece of black metal at her feet, then brought her eyes to look at the man who had taken over her father’s estate after her parents died in the border raids.

"You’re putting me on the execution list," she said almost like she couldn’t believe it.

"I am only fulfilling pack law," Thomas corrected. "Pick up your badge and clear the courtyard. The hunters assemble at midnight. If you are caught within the palisade walls when the horn sounds, the guards will throw you over the spikes."

"You’re a coward Thomas," Evangeline murmured, stepping closer so only he and his two closest guards could hear her. "This isn't about pack strength. This is about my father's land patents on the eastern ridge. As long as I'm alive, you can't legally sell them to the southern merchants. You just want me dead so your own sons can divide and sell what doesn’t belong to you."

Thomas didn't look surprised to hear that. His expression remained as dead as carved granite. "Hold your tongue and move, girl. Or I will have Garth break your kneecaps right here on these stairs before the horn even sounds."

Evangeline looked at him for a long second before huffing out a breath in frustration. She leaned down, picked up the iron badge, and squeezed it in her fist until the sharp metal edges bit into her skin.

Before anyone could say a word, she turned on her heel and walked away. She didn't weep, she didn't scream, and she didn't beg any of the watching servants for help. She walked straight across the icy courtyard to the tiny, unheated wooden shed built against the back wall of the stables—the place she had called home for six years.

Once inside, she dropped the wooden latch into place.

Her hands were shaking, but not from the bitter cold seeping through the wall boards. Her blood felt like it was boiling in her veins, at the fact that her life had just take a nose dive for the worst. 

"I will not be slaughtered like sheep over a useless tradition," she fumed. "At least not without drawing blood."

She knelt beside her straw mattress, flipped the corner over, and reached deep into the dusty floorboards beneath it. After a while of blindly searching, her fingers closed around a long thick iron nail. The object was about eight inches of thick metal she had stolen from the blacksmith’s scrap pile three weeks ago just in case someone broke in or tried to mess with her.

She grabbed a flat, coarse river stone from the corner of the room, sat down cross-legged on the dirt floor, and began to work.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

"Come on," she muttered, pressing the tip of the iron nail against the stone with all the weight in her shoulders. "Just give me one of them. Just let one arrogant bastard think I'm easy meat."

Scritch. Scritch.

She ground the metal down, stroke by stroke, working until her wrists ached and her fingers bled from scraping against the rough stone. The blunt iron gradually tapered into a needle-sharp spike capable of piercing armor if driven with enough force. She tore a strip of canvas from her spare apron and wrapped it tightly around the dull end, creating a firm, non-slip handle.

She slipped the makeshift stiletto up the right sleeve of her dress, testing the speed with which it dropped into her palm.

Outside, the ambient noise of the encampment died completely. The shouting, the laughter, and the clattering of weapons ceased and a heavy silence settled over the mountain peak.

A second later, a deep, mournful horn blast shattered the quiet, echoing across the snowy valley.

Evangeline unlatched her door, pulled her threadbare wool cloak tightly around her shoulders, and stepped out into the cold.

The Hunt was on.