Rising of the Moon Claws

FBI Agent Luna Blackwood's hands shook as she read the case file during her flight to Silver Ridge—not from fear, but from the wolf inside her recognizing the scent of home even from 30,000 feet up.

Three murders in two weeks. All members of the founding families. And all torn apart by something that left claw marks no earthly predator could make.

"Welcome to Silver Ridge Regional Airport," the pilot announced over the intercom. "Local time is 6:47 PM, and it's a clear October evening with a full moon rising."

Through the small window, she could see the Rocky Mountain peaks surrounding the valley, unchanged after fifteen years. But everything else would be different now.

Everything except the monster sleeping in her chest.

The rental car still smelled of the previous driver's fast food and anxiety. Luna rolled down the windows as she drove through downtown Silver Ridge, letting the mountain air flood her lungs. Immediately, her senses exploded with information—pine sap and wood smoke, the musk of deer in the surrounding forests, and underneath it all, the distinctive scent that made her stomach clench.

Pack.

They were still here. Still watching.

Fifteen years earlier

"Luna, stop! You're hurting him!"

Her mother's screams cut through the red haze of her first transformation. Seventeen-year-old Luna looked down at her hands—no longer hands, but claws—and saw what she'd done to Bobby Chen, her prom date.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice already changing back to human. "I didn't know"

"Get her out of here," her father's voice, rough with authority and fear. "Before someone sees."

"I can't control it, Dad."

"Then you can't stay."

Her mother was crying as they loaded Bobby into the car, his shoulder torn open but healing faster than any human wound should heal. The bite had changed him, too.

"You have to leave," her father had said that night. "It's not safe for you here. Or for anyone else."

"What about the pack?"

"The pack isn't your family anymore."

Luna had left that night and never looked back.

The Silver Ridge Sheriff's Department occupied the same white brick building she remembered, though the parking lot now held more vehicles. Luna sat in her car for five minutes, gathering courage to face the man who'd sent her away.

The desk sergeant looked up when she entered. "Can I help you?"

"Agent Luna Blackwood, FBI. I'm here about the murders."

"Oh, right. Sheriff's been expecting you. He's in his office."

Sheriff Robert Blackwood had aged well for a man in his sixties. His hair had gone silver, but his shoulders were still broad, his presence still commanding. When he looked up from his paperwork and saw her in his doorway, his face went carefully blank.

"Luna."

"Sheriff Blackwood."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then he gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Close the door."

Luna complied and sat down. "You look good, Dad."

"You look like your mother." His voice was rougher than she remembered. "Why did they send you?"

"I'm the best they have at this kind of case."

"What kind of case?"

Luna met his eyes. "The kind involving things that aren't supposed to exist."

Robert's jaw tightened. "Luna, you shouldn't have come back."

"Three people are dead. That trumps family drama."

"It's not drama. It's survival." He leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what you've walked into?"

"Enlighten me."

"The pack is divided. Half want to welcome you home. The other half wants you gone before you expose us all."

"And which half do you represent?"

Robert was quiet for a long moment. "The half that knows you never should have left in the first place."

The first crime scene was in the woods behind the old Methodist church. Luna followed the trail of police tape through pine trees that towered overhead like cathedral spires, their scent so familiar it made her chest ache.

Detective Marcus Stone was waiting at the scene—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of steady presence that made people trust him immediately. Luna felt an unexpected flutter of attraction that had nothing to do with supernatural instincts.

"Agent Blackwood? Marcus Stone, lead detective on the case."

His handshake was firm, professional. When their skin touched, Luna caught his scent—pine soap, coffee, and something uniquely male that made her wolf stir with interest.

"Detective Stone. Show me what we're dealing with."

Marcus led her to a clearing where crime scene markers dotted the forest floor. "Victoria Hartwell, sixty-three, was found three days ago by a hiker. Retired schoolteacher, member of one of the founding families."

Luna knelt beside the outline where the body had been found, immediately picking up scents the human investigators had missed. Victoria's fear and pain, yes, but also something else. Something wild and familiar.

Werewolf. But not a pack scent. Something rogue. Something wrong.

"Cause of death?" she asked, standing.

"Officially? Animal attack. Unofficially?" Marcus glanced around to make sure they were alone. "I've been hunting in these mountains my whole life. I've never seen claw marks like these."

Luna examined the photos from the file, noting details that would be invisible to human eyes. The spacing of the claw marks, the depth of the wounds, and the pattern of the attack.

"This isn't random," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at the wounds. Precise. Calculated. This wasn't a feeding frenzy or territorial dispute."

"So what was it?"

Luna stood, her enhanced senses picking up the faint trail that led deeper into the forest. A trail only she could follow.

"Execution."

They drove to the second crime scene as the sun set behind the mountains, painting the sky deep purple and gold. Luna kept the windows down, cataloguing every scent that drifted through the car.

"You're not what I expected," Marcus said as they pulled into the parking lot of Hartwell Lumber Mill.

"What did you expect?"

"Typical fed. Suit, attitude, complete dismissal of local law enforcement."

Luna smiled despite herself. "I'm wearing a suit."

"Yeah, but you listen when I talk. Most federal agents treat us like we're barely qualified to write parking tickets."

"Maybe I'm not most federal agents."

Marcus studied her profile as she scanned the mill yard. "No, I don't think you are."

The second victim, James Morrison, had been found in his office after hours. Another founding family member, another brutal killing that defied logical explanation.

But as Luna examined the scene, her enhanced senses painted a clearer picture. The killer had entered through the window, thirty feet off the ground. Had moved through the office with inhuman grace. Had killed Morrison quickly and efficiently before disappearing back into the night.

"Agent Blackwood?" Marcus was watching her carefully. "You seeing something I'm missing?"

Luna realized she'd been following scent trails invisible to human senses, her body moving in ways that might seem odd to an observer.

"Just getting a feel for the space," she said. "How many founding families are there in Silver Ridge?"

"Seven original families settled the valley in 1887. Hartwell, Morrison, Chen, Silverton, Marsh, Blackwood, and Reeves."

"And how many are left?"

"What do you mean?"