Chapter 2

The next morning, I went back to Blackwood Manor.

The gate was covered in red spray paint. The words "murderer" were scrawled crookedly on the door panel, the paint running down the wood grain like undried blood. Trash had been thrown onto the pebble path in front of the gate, and the mailbox was smashed and lying on its side in the flower bed.

I pushed open the unlocked gate. A little girl, about eight or nine years old, stood in the yard, holding a doll. She saw me, paused for a moment, and then backed away.

"Mom!" she called back, "The monster is back—"

A woman rushed out of the neighboring villa, picked up the child, and ran away without looking back. The little girl, perched on her mother's shoulder, glanced at me curiously again, before her mother covered her eyes with her hand.

I went into the living room. The family crest was still there, hanging above the fireplace, hand-carved by my great-grandfather two hundred years ago. I took it down, wiped off the dust, and put it in my backpack. It was the only thing worth taking with me.

I went into the study. On the third shelf, inside the cover of an old copy of the Code of Coexistence of Species, there was a hidden compartment. I pulled out a micro-memory card. Five years ago, during a mission, I accidentally intercepted a batch of encrypted communications from within the council, some of which involved financial dealings between Vincent Hargrave and an elder. At the time, I didn't think these things were particularly useful, so I just kept them and never showed them to anyone.

I put the memory card in the inner pocket of my backpack, together with the family crest.

Then I sat down. There was an address book on the table, and the page was open to Selena's handwritten number. I stared at that number for a long time.

I picked up the phone. A dial tone came through the receiver.

My finger hovered over the button for three seconds.

Then I hung up. I tore that page out of my contacts, folded it, and put it in my pocket along with the memory card. Not to call her—but to make sure these things didn't fall into anyone else's hands.

It wasn't left for her. It's for myself, in case I need to prove something in the future, to leave myself a way out.

As for where that road leads, I don't know. And I don't plan to think about it now. I just feel I can't just leave without doing anything.

My phone vibrated. A news notification popped up on the screen—"Ashford heiress marries into the Hargrave family; the marriage of the century is set for October 25th." The accompanying photo was of Selena and Vincent standing in the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel, with thousands of white roses behind them.

I stared at the photo for ten seconds. Then I pulled out the SIM card, broke it in half, and threw it in the trash can.

The bank account has been frozen, which is standard procedure in Parliament. Exiles cannot own property or use any resources of the werewolf society. I retrieved emergency cash—five thousand dollars—from a hidden compartment in the backyard of the manor, put it in a waterproof bag, and buried it under the flowerbed twelve years ago.

The owner of the used car dealership was a bald, middle-aged man. He stared at the silver flame mark on my chest for a long time—even through my shirt, the silver sheen of the mark was unmistakable.

"Exiled?" he asked.

Where are we going?

"Canada."

He was silent for a moment, then pushed over the keys to an old, rusty pickup truck. "Three thousand dollars. Fill up the tank."

He lost at least a thousand dollars buying this car. But he didn't say anything, only muttered under his breath as I took out my money: "What were those bastards doing? My brother got locked up in Parliament too."

I took the keys. He took two steps back, looked me in the eye, and said, "Be careful. Those guys specialize in hunting lone wolves."

As the car drove out of New York, the radio was broadcasting Selena's engagement ceremony. I reached out and changed the channel.

Eighty kilometers out of the city, my tire blew out on the highway.

When I got out of the car to check, the first silver arrow pierced my left shoulder.

The arrow pierced beneath my shoulder blade, the burning sensation of silver instantly spreading across my entire arm. I turned around. Five men emerged from the roadside woods, all wearing matching dark jackets with silver bullet badges pinned to their collars.

Silver Bullet Brotherhood.

"They've arrived as expected." The leader was a blond man in his forties, holding a crossbow. "Exiled fellows always run north. We've long known your habits, you beasts."

I pulled the arrow from my shoulder. My flesh clung to the shaft, the silver arrowhead gleaming. Pain radiated from the wound like an electric current to my fingertips, but I made no sound.

"Hand over all the money," the hunter leader said, "and maybe we'll let you die a quick death."

I didn't say anything. I even smiled slightly.

Then I transformed.

My half-wolf bones shifted beneath my skin, my spine cracked, my nails turned into sharp claws, and my teeth became razor-sharp. My grey-blue eyes turned dark gold. The silver flame mark on my chest burned even more intensely during the transformation, but I couldn't care less about the pain.

The hunter fired a second arrow. I dodged to the side, the arrow grazing my ribs and taking a shred of my shirt. A third man rushed forward, brandishing a silver dagger. I grabbed his hand holding the knife and twisted it hard; the sound of bones shattering and a scream rang out simultaneously.

Silver arrows shot in from all directions. One pierced my thigh, another grazed my ribs, and yet another sank into my back. The burning sensation compounded, the pain almost unbearable. But at the same time, I knocked down the third man, shattered the kneecap of the fifth, pinned the leader to the ground, and pressed my claws against his throat.

"Shall we continue?"

The hunter leader, his mouth full of blood, laughed. "A monster is always a monster. Killing me won't change the fact that you're a monster."

I let him go.

It wasn't out of mercy. It was because the sound of more footsteps approached from afar—at least a dozen more. The Silver Bullet Brotherhood's reinforcements had arrived.

I dragged myself, covered in silver arrows, onto the pickup truck. The engine roared horribly, the wheels spun a few times, and then it shot off. In the rearview mirror, the hunter chased for dozens of meters before gradually being left behind.

As night fell, I drove to the Canadian border. The car reeked of blood. I counted the arrow wounds on my body—six. Combined with the burning from the branding marks, every breath carried the stench of blood.

Then the blizzard came.

The pickup truck's engine stalled in the snowstorm. I pushed open the door and stepped into the knee-deep snow. The wind howled like knives, snowflakes blurred my eyelashes, and visibility was less than five meters. The silver flame mark on my chest glowed faintly with a blue light in the snow, like a will-o'-the-wisp in the wilderness.

I walked for three hours. The arrow wound in my leg made me limp badly, and I couldn't lift my left shoulder at all. Finally, I collapsed to my knees in the snow, unable to stand up again.

A light flickered faintly in the distance.

It is an artificial light source.

I mustered my last strength and crawled forward a short distance. Before I was completely engulfed in darkness, a tall figure blocked the wind and snow. The man was wearing a bearskin coat, thick gloves, and carrying a kerosene lamp.

He squatted down, lifted my eyelids, and looked at the brand on my chest.

"Lone wolf?" he said with a British accent. "That's pathetic."

I moved my lips, making sounds that I couldn't even understand myself. He must have understood, because he sighed, pulled me up, and carried me on his shoulder.

He walked steadily through the wind and snow, his boots crunching on the snow with each step. I leaned on his shoulder, my consciousness fragmented. At one point, I smelled the smoke of burning firewood and heard the creak of a wooden door being pushed open.

The room warmed up. Someone poured hot water into my mouth. Someone was cleaning my wound.

"You've got a tough life, Blackwood."

The voice was unfamiliar.

But he called out my last name.

I opened my eyes and saw an old and stern face. White hair, deep wrinkles, but bright eyes.

"Who are you……"

“Thomas Wells.” He pressed a hot towel against my shoulder. “You saved me. Five years ago, in that building, the Silver Bullet Brotherhood’s ambush. You disobeyed orders and carried me out of the fire. I owe you my life for that.”

He paused, his hands continuing their work, but his voice turned colder.

"But let me make this clear first—I saved you to repay that life. I don't trust werewolves. I know everything your council has done. Once you're healed, we'll be even."

“That’s perfect,” I said. “I don’t plan to stay too long either.”

I took the memory card out of the inner pocket. It had been frozen in the snow and wind for tens of degrees below zero all the way, and the casing was a little deformed, but it should still be readable.

“Keep this for me.” I placed it on the table. “There are some things inside. If someone comes to me in the future—whoever it is—give it to her. If it’s not her, don’t give it to her. If I’m still alive, keep it with you. I don’t need it now. But maybe one day… some things will need to come to light.”

Thomas picked up the memory card and looked at it from the inside. He didn't ask who "she" was. He simply put it into a locked metal box on the corner of the table. The sound of the lock closing was soft, but clear in the quiet room.

“There’s one more thing,” I said.

He turned to look at me.

"Don't contact her. Don't tell her I'm alive. Whatever you hear in the future, about me, about New York—don't tell her."

Thomas looked at me for a moment. There was something in his eyes that was typical of veterans: a calm that came from having seen too much death, and a tolerance for the foolishness of young people.

"You took the blame for her and you want to keep it from her forever?"

“It’s not on her behalf,” I said. “It’s my own choice.”

He didn't say anything more. He pressed a hot towel on the arrow wound on my shoulder and then checked the wound on my thigh.

“You won’t live much longer.” He pointed to the mark on my chest. Under the light, the silver flame’s luster was no longer as bright as when it was first branded; it had turned into a dull gray. “Six months. A year at most. That’s how the Silver Flame Curse normally progresses—the toxin will erode the heart within a year.”

He paused, looking out the window at the endless wind and snow.

"However, you've chosen a good location. The essence of the Silverflame Curse is the continuous burning of moonlight energy within the body. Winters in the Yukon can drop as low as minus forty degrees Celsius, and the extreme cold will suppress the activity of moonlight energy. I've seen cases where Lone Wolves have survived for several more years in the north. With the help of some herbs, it might slow down the progress by two or three times."

"But it only slows things down. The curse won't disappear. Heart failure is inevitable."

I lay on the old sofa covered with a blanket, staring at the wooden beams above my head. The firewood crackled in the fireplace.

"It's taking longer than I expected," I said.

Thomas paused for a moment, then shook his head.

"You're a really strange person."