As I ran, the darkness welcomed me into the night. Shadows reached out to grasp and pull me faster. If I had only listened, I might not be running for my life right now. Since I didn’t, I suppose that it’s only my fault. If only I could go faster. If only...

Unfortunately, if only’s weren’t going to keep me from dying tonight. The soft thumps of padded feet closed in from all around me, and I wished that I could run beside them, blending in once again. But if I Changed, they would kill me while I was defenseless. The blue moon came out from the protection of the cloud it had hidden behind. Shining a clear sapphire, the irony struck me like lightening. Once in a blue moon, a lycanthrope was killed, this time more literally than figuratively.

Our pack wasn’t as big on sacrifices as many other packs were. Usually peaceful, it took a great occurrence for us to rise up and massacre one of our own. Like telling the outside world of our existence.

I shuddered. My own stupidity had gotten me into this mess. It was a rather harsh punishment, since noone was exactly chasing after us with any large guns, but I had to pay for my sins. If I could only make it to the border of the territory, I could slip into the next pack’s domain and be safe. At least until they found me.

I’d have to leave. Get off of the continent. All for telling that I could transform into a giant dog. My home, my family, my love, were all here. I could ask them to move with me, but what kind of life would we have on the run?

No, I wouldn’t ask them to come with me. They would stay and live normal lives, never having to worry about whether I’d rip their throat out if they said something to piss them off. As if I ever would.

But I precede myself. I suppose I should tell of how I came to be fleeing for my life.

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My name is Raven Masen, and as you may have guessed, I am a lycanthrope. A werepanther, to be exact. Sounds pretty cool, right? If you answered yes, you’re not a lycan. Our lives are...hectic, you might say. It’s easier with a pack, but still stressful.

Packs provide protection from the outside world by the alpha, a warm sense of security after a long night of running, and a guarantee of waking up after said run with your face in someone else’s neck. These things are often hard for a lone wolf (no pun intended), and the pack makes finding food easier.

Still, we try to exist as humanly as possible, going to school and work, making the rent, and not ripping off our skin and running so far into the woods that we would never be heard from again. Keeping a secret that big from the ones you love is hard. Ever try making an excuse to a worried mother because you had to miss Christmas because it was on a full moon?

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Not pretty, let me tell you.

I have been a werepanther since I was sixteen. I was young, naive, and in love. His name was Luis, and he was gorgeous. Six foot one, black hair and vibrant green eyes. Brazilian in ethnicity, werepanther in secret. My bad luck got in the way of his instincts and my humanity when one night I brought him a can of chicken soup after he had been looking ill earlier that day. I walked in the front door, hung up my jacket, and was nearly ripped into little pieces by my boyfriend. As I fell, the chicken soup splashed him in the eyes, causing him to retreat to his bedroom to lick his wounds until morning. The next day, he remembered what he had done and had held me in his arms until the wounds healed themselves and the last shred of my humanity disappeared, him apologizing the whole time. I was now just like him, a lycanthrope.

Since then, I’ve grown up. His guilt didn’t get in the way of our relationship, and we now spend full moon nights together with the pack, hunting side by side and curling up together to sleep off our own personal drug. Now twenty four, we’ve decided to get married, but that’s not the point of this story. No, that would have to do with me and my big mouth.

Being a writer of the supernatural in our world was unprecedented. I was regarded with speculation by the humans and wariness by my own kind. It was hard not to be too realistic, to remind myself of long hunts and even longer runs, the feel of the wind in my fur as I ran a two minute mile, and the feeling of fresh blood sliding down my throat as the last glimmer of life left my prey’s eyes. If I were as realistic as I would have liked, my readers would have caught on quickly, and my kind would have been exposed.

So I fudged things a little. I went more into the realm of fact than anyone would ever know, revealing my true life. The humans would never notice, Hollywood had convinced them too throughly of what it was to be lycan. That probably saved me before, but not anymore.

ℑ

It all started that one day in May, when Full Moon Night came out in hardcover, the first book that I had written about myself and my own exploits. Luis was just as excited as I, since I could finally pay my share of the rent. Making it to a New York Bestseller, Full Moon Night was a story of a young girl named Ulie who was accidently changed by her boyfriend into a werewolf. So far from the real story, isn’t it?

I was recognized on the street, a dangerous thing for my kind. No one knew what I was yet, but it was still a problem. So many warm bodies in one area was almost overwhelming. Book tours were almost entirely out of the question. I couldn’t afford to be away for more than a month, and never on a full moon.

This intrigued my fans, making them wonder if it was a publicity stunt that I was never available on the nights of the full moon. My alphas, Russ and

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Laila, were constantly on my tail, telling me that I was not to write another book on all things lycanthrope.

That was no problem, I moved onto vampires. My pen moved furiously for thirteen months. Blood Rose came out nearly a year after Full Moon Night. No werewolves or any other were- involved. Unfortunately, this pissed off the vampire Family that coexisted in the city with our pack. The master, Edward, was demanding blood, but his mate, Lillian, persuaded him to let me slide. I was safe again, but I wasn’t allowed to write about vampires or their Families ever again.

Running out of subject matter, I moved into elves. A safe territory. As far as anyone knew, there were no elves. Tree Singing was yet another installation in my rapidly growing popular collection. I decided to take a break from writing for a while, letting my brain cool and my creative springs again regenerate themselves.

And that was when I got the call from Behind the Night, a late night radio station that revealed more than it should on the existence of the supernatural. That call was my death sentence.

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