"Well." I work hard at keeping my voice from shaking. "You're uglier than the witness reports suggested."
It pauses, head tilting with predatory curiosity. Good. Confusion means hesitation, and hesitation means time.
"Documentation was incomplete." I take a careful step backward, not fleeing but repositioning. "Nineteenth-century accounts focused on the violence, missed the intelligence. You're not just hunting—you're studying."
The lead creature takes a step forward. Its comrades fan out, but slowly. They're listening.
"That's why the cycles. That's why the patterns." Another step back, drawing them further into the clearing. "You're not randomly feeding. You're learning how we respond to fear."
Caleb appears at the forest edge, silent as smoke. No dramatic entrance, no challenge roared across the clearing. Just presence, steady and sure.
The creature looks at him, then back at me. Divided attention. Exactly what we planned.
"The problem with studying humans," I continue, voice carrying across the space between us, "is that we're remarkably good at adapting. Especially when we stop fighting each other and start working together."
The attack comes fast—but not faster than we're ready for.
The silenceafter the howling stops feels louder than the chaos that preceded it.
I sit on the sheriff station's front steps, laptop balanced on my knees, documenting everything while the details remain sharp. My arm throbs where fresh claw marks shine, but the pain keeps me focused. Keeps me present.
"You're really writing all of this down?"
Thomas Reed approaches cautiously, his librarian's cardigan torn at the shoulder. Behind him, a cluster of townspeople mill around the street, voices carrying fragments I catch and transcribe.
"—saw it with my own eyes?—"
"—bigger than any wolf should be?—"
"—Sheriff Hart, he just changed right there in front of?—"
"Every word." I don't look up from the screen. "The whole story. No more buried files or missing records."
Thomas settles beside me on the step. "People are scared."
"Good. They should be." I save the document, then meet his gaze. "Fear means they're paying attention. Means they can't pretend this didn't happen."
Across the street, Mara Hale emerges from the clinic, blood on her scrubs. She spots us and crosses over, exhaustion etched in every line of her face.
"How many injured?" I ask.
"Seven. Could have been worse." She glances at my laptop. "You're documenting this."
"Someone has to."
"The pack won't like it."
"The pack doesn't get to decide anymore." I close the laptop and stand, wincing as my arm protests. "Secrecy is what made this possible. What let those things hunt here for decades without consequence."
Mara studies me with tired eyes. "You understand what you're doing? What this means for all of us?"
"I understand that silence never protected anyone. It just made the truth someone else's problem." I tuck the laptop under my good arm. "Where's Caleb?"
"Coordinating cleanup. Making sure nothing dangerous was left behind." Thomas points toward the forest edge where figures move through the trees with flashlights. "He's been out there since dawn."
The morning light reveals what darkness had hidden. Gouges in tree bark. Patches of disturbed earth. A section of Main Street where asphalt buckled under forces that shouldn't exist in any official report.
"This can't be explained away," I mutter.