Chapter Two:

Raven's Warning

A gruff voice from downstairs and a layer of smoke makes me shoot up out of my sleep. I reach for my phone like I still have one, but my hand meets the small pool of heat of the candle rather than fragile object of glass and metal. It's still a habit I have.

Tor must have snuck in at some point to light it. I snuggle back down with glassy-eyed Bertie, the blankets wrapped tightly round me like a clingy kitty .
Mum's necklace nestles in my chest. The four-pointed silver star holds four different coloured, dazzling gems – red, shaped like a flame; blue, shaped like a snowflake; yellow, shaped like a lightning bolt; and ivory, shaped in the fine swirls of a tornado. An old Visku heirloom of her family, apparently. I only take it off to wash and to exercise. It's one of the only things I have left of her.

Dad's back at least. I heave myself out of bed. Outside through the attic window, darkness weighs down the land. I start rummaging through my drawers for something fun to wear for tonight. Cilka said I better look good. Besides, this is partly an early birthday party for me – as I'm leaving in a few days, Cilka and Em want to celebrate with me beforehand. Cilka had pouted, saying it's such a shame she can't take me out to the local bars as she turned eighteen herself nearly exactly a month ago. So, we're going to a big snow party instead where at least half of our year group will be.

I take my time browsing my drawers, eventually settling for skinny black trousers that allow a lot more mobility than impractical human jeans and still cup my arse, and a long-sleeved black top and jumper fluffed with dyed black Owka wool. I barely have any clothes from Earth now. I turn to the mirror on my dressing table, streaked with clay and ash marks. I dab a clay pen into the white pot of clay – the colour Rylvans typically wear during winter parties. Starting with a squiggly line going down from the corner of my eyes to my cheeks, I then power up both sides of my face white along with my eyelids. Then with another pen I dab it in the pot of dark grey charcoal and powder it above the crease of my eyelids, layering it on thicker the higher up I go, so it looks like the white is gradually darkening like a winter atmosphere. And lastly, I stick on my sticky light blue crystals around my eyes and on the sides of my face, resembling the stars of winter. My naked palette from Earth sits gathering dust on the dresser. I haven't touched it in yonks. I do still use my mascara and add that to complete my look.
And finally, to fit right in, I take out my long thick wolf-style braid. My hair falls in waves down past my chest. I can't stand my hair even slightly curly, let alone in its natural state. Groaning, I first use the hair gel that's sold here to make my hair straight again. It's made out of a warm magical clear goo that coats my fingers like warm castor oil and is sold by a local Visku hair enthusiast, which is a life saver as there's no way for me to use straighteners here. I've only glimpsed over the label on the bottle which states that it's made out of unicorn blood – which apparently isn't actually that, but a plant. My heart stopped when I initially caught eyes on it until I learnt the truth from that same Visku the next day. Then I take the top layers of my hair and put them back in a braid, adorning it with emerald hair pins and letting the rest of my hair stay down.

I stand on my black, Owka wool rug, which protects my feet from little thorns of wood sticking out of the rough floorboards. I draw some white stripes from my waterlines like some weird freaky eyelashes. Between them, I draw some blue, diamond-shaped patterns. I then underline my eyes with the black clay and add on mascara, not that my large, sharp eyes need opening up anymore. A draught wails through, shooing away the little warmth there is. It's November, and I already want winter to fuck off. A cobweb blemishes the corner of my room, right up where I can't reach it. Even now, I hate spiders, and I just want carpet and wallpaper that will seal them away where they can't freak me out with their alien bodies and their thirsty black eyes watching me.

I take a moment to examine all angles. My jawline's looking a lot sharper than it did – my cheeks used to be all puffy like a baby's, and my jawline soft in my heart-shaped face, but now my cheeks have completely deflated and it all looks so good. My lips are about as full as can be, one of my few features I like other than my thick hair and large, sharp eyes. I don't look so baby-faced anymore. It feels good to look like a grown-up. I grab my gloves, fluffy snood and bag – stuffed with a bottle of Dad's Banshee, thought I would help him out a bit with his little addiction – shove on my cherry Docs and my Hellbunny Elvira coat (what I like to call my Red Riding Hood get-up) and head downstairs. The latter two are only clothes I've kept from Earth, apart from the gloves and snood. Red's the best colour there is. The boots are warm and trusty in their "cherry red" leathery embrace. The coat ripples out from the waist like a dark, budding fruit. The fluffy black cuffs cuddle my wrists, and the coat is of a thick enough material to keep me all snuggly, even in Lapland-Rip-off-Land. The fluffy black hem brushes past my knees, exposing only boots and no skin like a little Disney princess. You could try taking either of them off me – but be prepared to be bitten.

Two plates smeared with gravy and little shreds of meat are on the table. Thank God they've both eaten. The rest of mine, however, remains untouched. Sighing, I put it away for later. I wished they'd eaten it – I really don't want my catch wasted.
Tor must be cosied up in his room. Dad's chucking some of the empty bottles of Snarling into the bin finally. It's a small start, but it's a much-needed one. Seems he hasn't noticed the missing bottle of Banshee yet.

'So, you're finally getting your shit together?' I say, my heart rising with hope in my chest despite my harsh words.

He glances at me, his eyes already popping when I haven't even done anything. 'Where do you think you're going?!'

'Out with friends,' I say, rolling my eyes. 'To celebrate my birthday early, or have you forgotten that too?'

He grips the table, his veins popping through the taunt, scarred skin of his hand. The sleeves of his coat – lined with his own wolf fur – hide more of these. I'm yet to get my own wolf fur coat.
His eyes pierce my gaze, glowing ochre. He doesn't sneer or snarl. For the first time in about forever, his thick mess of a beard is washed. If he was human, it would be greying already, but it stays darker than night. 'No.'

'Oh, you really have forgotten, haven't you?' I turn on my heel, laughing incredulously. 'I mean, it's not like you're gunna be there for it. According to you it's my last night here.'

His eyes reek of sadness but I don't care. He's just shy of six feet, but he's a bloody unit all right with those stupid biceps. His hair is heaped in a dark curly bird's nest on his head, as dark as ever without so much as a wrinkle on his face, belying his forty-one years. Muzha age slower than humans.

'You aren't setting one fucking foot out of that door,' he says, his strong jaw clenched. 'I'm not losing you. Not tonight. You've heard of the unrest here – rumours of a wolf killer cracking our skulls.'

Okay, the last bit is true – there's been a few humanoid corpses and wolf carcasses found in the wood – all found with their skulls cracked open like jam jars. So zombieish. No but seriously, it does shake me to the bone a little.

But I can't not see my friends for what could be the very last time. And not even rumours of a wolf serial killer can stop me.

He jabs a finger at me. 'Your Aunt Elle's picking you up tomorrow, and who knows what that friend of yours will get you into. There's a wolf killer out there, there's not really much to celebrate!' He doesn't invade my space. There's no spit spraying in my face, there's no wild screaming. It's just his deep, growly voice that's raised a little more than normal, and his strong, sharp features tempered like steel. I feel like the little girl who would freeze and listen whenever his voice went up even slightly. He's acting like my dad again, even if I hate that he thinks he can control my choice in friends. I just can't let him win this time.

The words, 'fuck off,' tumble out of my mouth.

His glare deepens. 'You what?'

I take a step towards him. 'Fuck. Off.'

'You dare talk to me?-'

'FUCK OFF! I can't believe you would actually forget your own daughter's birthday! What have you got for me, huh? Some more of your mess to clean? Because that's all I've done since Mum died! Is clean up your shit!'

'Other than getting into trouble with that bleeding ginger fiend?'

I hold my hands up in protest. 'Okay, that's just offensive.' It's true. Foxes suffer enough discrimination as it is.

'What?! She's turned you into a nightmare of yourself. I don't know where you are half the time, who you're hanging out with.' Oh, sweet weeping baby Jesus – or sweet weeping dragon tears as Rylvans would say. He thinks I'm screwing around, doesn't he?

So what if I was?

I turn the front doorknob, snapping back at him over my shoulder. 'She's my best friend actually! I only get into trouble with her after I've made sure you don't choke on your own vomit for the night.'

'Like stealing from your own dad? Remember?!' Ouch. That one I…may not have forgotten about – the reason she's banned from the house. I admit it. We stole some of his Banshee on a mad one. Hardly a crime. He owes me after everything he's done.

'At least she's actually there for me! Her and her mum! It's embarrassing, Dad, relying on the charity of others!' Whenever I'm there, I try not to eat too much as I feel guilty taking food from them like some needy orphan. Food is hard to come by here, especially now and winter. Besides, I feel full rather quickly these days. 'And then I have to deal with your stinking bullshit! And now you just want to get rid of us!'

'I want you to be safe! The situation with the Nocturnal is getting critical and I care about you! You and your brother!'

'Aaww, that's sweet.' My sweet voice twists into a snarl. 'What about you Dad? What? Is it your plan to get killed out there? is it? You want to die? Why can't you just be there for us!' Tears brim within the corners of my eyes, but I squeeze them dry. I can't let him see that I care.

'Just shut the fuck up,' he says, then he gets right into my face. 'SHUT THE FUCK UP! Maybe it is!'

The words pierce my heart and lungs. I can't breathe. Silence spreads through the moment like a disease.

He's sick. He's so sick. He leans against the bannister, drooping like a zombie.

'I am fucked up. I can't protect you.' Oh, boo hoo. Sympathy is for angels, not that I believe anyone's truly good anymore.

'Fuck you,' I say, the cold embracing me as I open the door. 'I hope the Snarling kills you before anyone else does, because I can't watch you destroy yourself anymore Now, I'm going to see my friends.'

Dad's head snaps up, his ochre eyes burning like an inferno. I shriek as he lunges at me, and I would be completely paralysed by fear if I didn't notice the tears swelling up around his fiery irises.

'It hurts,' he begins. I shut my eyes so his look of twisted pain can't haunt me. My heart hammers in my chest. 'The pain I feel, it never stops; it never lets you go. Even when it's over, it's got its jaws on your leg like a rat trap, and you're constantly fighting to break free and taste more blood.' What the hell's he talking about? His snarl shudders right through my bones, to the point where I truly think he'll eat me alive.

Pain shoots up my arm as he drags me from the front door. I claw the air, the darkness of the night growing lighter as I'm dragged up the stairs past candles and stone walls. He carries me in my flurry of kicks and screams and shoves me in my room. He slams the door shut, hard enough for a crack to almost split it in half.

Fire courses through my veins as I bang and kick and scream. I hear him drag something heavy to place in front of it.

'FUCK!' I shoulder-barge the door. Pains blooms through my shoulder, and the crack widens. My body, drained, slides down. My head finds its way into my hands. This is so pathetic. My fist slams the floor. It shakes like it does on the odd occasion it's thundering outside. Fuck. I have to get out of here. It's stupid – I can't go back out there and face his wrath. What if he actually hurts me? Hits me? Punches me? I can't stay here another minute.

I want so badly but to scream and cry. I have wanted to do that ever since Mum died – to scream how unfair it all is – how unfair now it is that I'm going to lose the only parent I have left.

The window creaks open – I must have not shut it properly. The white paint on the frame's cracking and peeling off. Kneeling on my bed, I wedge it open all the way and squeeze through the small gap, tumbling onto the roof. It's bloody freezing and I yank my fluffy snood round my neck and pull the black fluffy hood of my coat over my head and ears. I slide down to the edge on my bum. My palms sweat in my gloves as I glance over to face the drop. It's by no means a huge house, but it's still a way down. I tentatively reach with my foot for the pipe going down the wall. Nope. It's too thick for me to get a good enough grip, and I'm afraid of slipping. I glance over again. I could jump it – I have slightly stronger bones than even a human male, after all. Closing my eyes, my legs dangle from the edge, and I place my hands either side of me. I don't know if it's the right way to do it. I squeal as I push myself off. My limbs flail through the air like a mad chicken and I land on a soft cushion of snow, the impact knocking me off balance and making me fall flat onto my arse. Just as I suspected – no pain and no blood. Could be a parkour champion at this rate. Shivering, I get up and begin the dangerous, forbidden adventure to Cilka's house.

A half-hour walk later and surprisingly I'm not gobbled by a bear Muzha, or fallen through the icy river, or had my throat slit by a lurking human. Opening the gate, I climb up the steps to Cilka's, using the bronze fox knocker on the door which greets me with a high-pitched yelp. It hisses and growls at strangers who attempt to break in; I'm a welcome visitor. What isn't welcoming is the smell of rotting meat that invades my nose from the football-pitch sized gardens, including hers. I slap a hand to my nose, gagging.

The door flies open and my best ever friend bursts out, her gorgeous ginger locks blazing from her scalp. She grins like the fiery bundle of energy she is. The smell of melting wax wafts from inside, thankfully overpowering the rancid smell of meat.

'Red! Happy birthday!' She squeals, then rolls her eyes. 'You know I have an open-door policy.' She bounces upstairs, past the warm candles on the little table.

It's ironic that Cilka calls me Red – considering her own ginger head. As a kid, the nickname Little Red Riding Hood drove me nuts; my mum thought she was being clever just because I rocked red clothes. She said the colour red suited me. It warms me that Cilka's picked it up – sort of, she doesn't know of the tale after all.

Past the stairs is the kitchen, where her mum stands smiling – warm and welcoming. She's quite friendly – always wanting to talk, and always leaving me feeling like I've been gutted afterwards. I return the greeting before rushing after Cilka, my stomach twinging with guilt. It's not that I don't like her, I just want to avoid any lingering feelings of sadness.

The stairs twist in an almost circular motion, the smooth mahogany bannister curling round, leading to the landing. They're even rich enough to possess carpet. Cilka's room is large, with a double bed covered in big fox fur blankets. A layer of a thick musky smell with the smallest hint of Honeyberry hair wash wafts ontop of it like a slab of cooked meat.

Cilka grabs her long black winter coat lined with her own fox fur, a big fabric bag and then my wrist with a cheerful smile. I catch a glimpse of her pretty green leaves tattoo that circles her wrist. 'Come on! We've got to meet Emily!' God, I want her charisma. She truly is a wonder, and I want to be more like her. We already mirror each other, flaunting the same Gothic outfits and black make-up, except it all looks lush on her curvy body and pretty face. Really, I just had to be cursed with the body of a pencil while she's gifted with the body of a goddess. I'd give up my middle finger to possess the cleavage she has.

The top layers of her hair are also braided, adorned with silver gems. She is a forest nymph.

'Ready?' Cilka says. Without waiting for a reply, she bounces down the stairs and out of the doors, so I hurry after her. 'We're going now, 1Musha!'

Popping her head round the door, her mum peaks around the corner at us. 'Are you sure this is the best idea, sweetleaf? There's a wolf killer out there; I'm sure you won't be targeted but Rav will.'

Cilka's head flops to one side in exasperation. 'Come on, Musha, I wanna spend time with my friends. We'll be fine, I don't see what all the fuss is about.'

'And what's your dad going to say when he gets home?' She looks at me, shaking her head. 'Honestly, what does your dad say about this, Rav? It really isn't safe out there anymore, why not have a girls' night in together instead? I know it's your birthday, dear, b'

I shrug. 'He's fine with it. There's always a snow party at the end of the academic year.' I went to the one last year and it was a bit awkward as I barely knew anyone – Cilka and I hadn't been friends for too long by that point, but that wasn't the first party she invited me to. You need an invitation from one of the few alpha students to attend, and Cilka knows people.

Cilka laughs, sensing my awkwardness. 'Don't bother Rav, Musha. I'll be home before midnight.'

She sighs. 'Home before midnight.' Then, putting on a wavering smile, she says, 'Alright girls, you have a good time.'

'Thanks, Musha.' Cilka puts on a sweet smile, but I can't tell whether it's genuine and sarcastic. The way her mum looks at her is what I miss about having a mum. She's just so…loving and normal. I would do anything to have my Mum back; she was so much nicer than Dad is. She actually looked after us for a start.

As soon as we're out the door Cilka whispers, 'No we won't be,' and we both giggle. The cold shreds my cheeks. As my best friend closes the door, the black hole of the night sucks us in. A conspiracy of ravens flies above, their bodies blending into the dark, their caws scarring the skin of the night. Their sounds are the only real things right now, rattling out Dad's warning about going out, about how it's not safe anymore. Dad has always said that, for wolves, ravens direct, while eagles defend.

Probably for the best as Dad can't keep us safe.

I can't help but stare at them. Cilka must have noticed my fright because she nudges me and laughs, saying, 'we'll be fine. Seriously, we're night creatures.'

The snow crunches beneath our feet as we cross the bridge and head into the woods with only the glow of the gorgeous Lady Lunes lighting the way, having bloomed from what were previously the dead stalks. A starry path of glowing yellow buds, illuminating their white, diamond-shaped petals – full of hope in the doom and gloom of winter. The wind's wails have been silenced for now. There's no other footsteps, no chattering, nothing. And they say our kind come alive at night.

It's about ten minutes until cheers, laughter and the crackling of fire form a lively soundscape as we get closer, Cilka wriggling her hips with the confidence of a dancer while I stumble with the ineptitude of a long, rickety marionette. Our friend Emily's pleasant, horsey-like smell beckons us. The ravens caw, and I can't get them to stop.

Cilka flings an arm round my stiff body, laughing. 'Those ravens didn't seriously get to you, did they? Perk your ears, have a drink.'

That's a common saying here, "perk your ears." I suppose it's fitting, considering what we are. Her own elf-like ears wiggle. That's one thing that makes me seem a little more like them – both mine and Tor's ears stick out like thin pale turnips. But then Visku also have pointy ears – they just don't have the fangs of the Muzha. She slides out a bottle of Blakkfrost from her bag, dangling it in front of me. 'This will cheer you up.' My eyes cling to it, unable to tear them away. I snatch it, snapping it open and necking it down. Her lemony eyes sparkle with delight.

'Yes, Red!' she says, weaving her arm through mine and dragging me along, the alcohol sloshing about in the can. It's lush, sweet like Kopparberg and other ciders from Earth. This is as good as it gets here. The heat welcomes us, the brightness of the bonfire lighting up the bodies of half of the school; bodies huddling round the fire in their coats, fluffy with moulted wolf fur, bodies downing cans of Blakkfrost and raspberry Banshees; bodies shimmying in the light of the fire. I smile at the wintry havoc; it'll be a miracle if one of them doesn't burn to death. The one thing I truly miss from back in my loser days is music blasting out, and it irks me. It jolts me with a buzz to dance, and without it, it's weird.

'Oi, losers!' Emily slides over. 'Happy birthday, Rav!' Normal girl, normal name; she's padded in normalcy, making everything less surreal. Her hazel eyes beam with a twinkle, and her skin is almost as pale as Cilka's, freckles dotting over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. She's dressed in a coat that isn't made from moulted wolf fur, because if it was it would look like she's killed one of us. Underneath she wears a jumper, scarf, and jeans all wrapped in that distinctive horsey smell. The unicorns on her boots gallop under the light of the fire. She's a magnificent shoe collector.

'Hey!' Cilka suffocates her in a hug. 'You gunna drink with us or what?'

I squeeze onto the edge of a log already crammed with people. It's hard and bumpy, crushing my bony bum into a pancake. The damp smell mixed with the smoky smell of burning firewood soothes me. I'm with friends, I'm safe.

'Budge up,' Cilka says to the other girls with a click of her fingers. They smile nervously before moving along. No one argues with Cilka.

I wink at her, sliding the bottle of Banshee out of my bag. 'My dad will be thanking me later.'

Cilka squeals. 'Red! You savage!'

Emily raises a brow at me. 'You sure that was a good idea?'

I finish off the can and grab the big glass wooden flask of Raspbans and a few paper cups, filling them almost half-way with the Banshee. The smell of the spirit claws inside my nostrils, oozing down my throat like cough medicine and I have to fight back the urge to vomit. But I can't let Cilka down. I top them up with the Raspbans and we each take a cup, even Emily, despite her disapproval. My teeth chatter as the putrid, cool liquid burns my throat, followed by an afterwash of raspberry sweetness. The snow soaks through my boots. I clutch the thick paper cup between my gloved fingers. God, I won't be able to move at this rate. Maybe if I drink and drink and drink, I'll turn into a statue, and Dad won't be able to make me move a muscle. Sounds like a plan.

Around me the trees are bare, twigs protruding from the branches like millions of little knives armed with Dad's warning. The shadowy silhouettes of the trunks loom over us like dark phantoms. I bet those ravens from earlier are watching us out there in the dark, conspiring with them. A shudder sweeps through me. It's like something out of Little Red Riding Hood.

For God's sake, Rav, you're celebrating your birthday – possibly the last party you'll ever go to for the foreseeable future – so cheer the eff up.

'Love the coat,' Emily says, her fingers playing with the corset lacing. 'I think I may have seen it somewhere before?'

'Probably,' I say. Things like this are our own, secret code. I love it, as we can relate to each other about music and celebrities and all the normal things in life – human things. It's one of the reasons I'm friends with her, as I would usually ignore such a plain girl, though ever since she's started hanging out with us, she's been wearing more make-up, and she got her limp, mousy hair cut into stylish shoulder-length layers. It's horrible, but it's true. If I want to remain friends with Cilka, I can't just make friends with whoever I want, and I can't abandon her. She's the first person to have truly accepted me because she's never left me. Thank God she approved of the friendship. 'And I like your sense of style.' I nod to the blue boots patterned with rearing white unicorns sporting bubblegum pink manes.

Emily grins, her amazingly thick eyebrows dancing on their own. They're her best feature by far, distracting me from her rather plain face, the layers of her hair shiny in the moonlight. She has a fringe like me, and it frames her round face. She leans her foot to one side for inspection. 'You know, we'll just go for unique.'

'A special kind of unique.' We laugh, and it's nice, hanging round with friends, relieving me of all the havoc spinning me round and round like a carousel while the world fuzzes over in mockery.

Next to me, Cilka cuddles up to Flint, and I frown at them. I hate it when she pushes us aside for some loser. She's meant to be spending time with us. The guy's in the year below us, and I first met him at her place when she decided, out of the blue, that we were going to be friends and that I would go to hers after school. Took me by surprise – wasn't exactly popular back on Earth. A year later, and I couldn't imagine life without her.

School lasts for 3 years here – usually you join the following April after you've first shape-shifted. Somewhere between fifteen and seventeen. Some fourteen or even thirteen. I was fourteen, and I was still on Earth, which made it even more awkward than it already is.

Emily examines the couple, and I practically hear her crazy brain tick, elaborating a plan to disrupt them. Then, like a dainty little elf, she squeezes between the two, and the laughter comes naturally. She sits upright, legs crossed, eyes darting round, pretending to be oblivious.

'I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?' she says, leaning slightly towards Cilka.

'Congrats, Emily, you're officially a third wheel,' Cilka says. Emily turns, pursing her lips together, eyebrows raised. When Cilka pouts, Emily laughs.

'I'll have you know I'm a very sexy third wheel,' she says, stroking her own hair. 'Cilka. Sorry.' She purses her lips and sticks out her tongue. Only Emily can get away with this, and not just because she's our friend. I can't help but giggle at her antics. God, she's probably the most genuine of us all, even though her family and origins are stuffed in an unlockable chest of mystery.

''Course, that's fine, Emily,' the guy says, winking at Cilka. 'Now, there's no need to get jealous.' They laugh, and Emily sits back down next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Cilka and Flint slink off into the forest together. Typical.

'So, when are you leaving?' Em says.

I raise a brow, scoffing. 'Fuck that. I'm staying.'

Concern strains across her face. 'Your dad just wants to keep you safe.'

I don't want to argue with her, not at a party. I hate arguing with my friends anyway, especially with Cilka. 'Aren't you supposed to be pissing off somewhere yourself?'

Emily shrugs. 'Yeah…like you, I don't have a choice. It's not safe here anymore.'

My thumbnails dig into my index fingers. 'It's not safe for you, you mean.'

Dad's just paranoid, as usual, and now Emily's agreeing with him? Why the hell is he so concerned with my safety anyway; sure, things are building up in the Den of Betas, but things aren't truly serious. Alright, plenty of people hate humans, especially the Fellheart Pack; truly, she's lucky most people here in 2Kani accept her. She doesn't attend school with us, but she met Cilka and I – and subsequently plenty of cool people. Not even the Fellheart Pack has poisoned Kani with their anti-human and anti-Visku propaganda.

'They will get here eventually, Rav,' she says. 'By staying I'm putting you all in danger. You're my friends, and I'm not using you as shields.' I hate how she makes it sound like our deaths are inevitable.

You reek of the Visku, Rav. My eyes squeeze shut, blocking my tears. They won't get us. I won't let them hurt anyone I love.

It's ridiculous – it's only humans they hate, they won't be able to tell. I can transform, same as the Muzha. Dad's just using this as an excuse to get rid of us.

'I'm gunna miss you.' I fling my arms round her. In some ways, she's more understanding than Cilka. She would kick my arse into a sense of false joy, but Emily listens. She's honest.

No, Cilka is my best friend, no one else.

Emily stands up and offers her hand. It's so small and slender, and I could easily break it if I wanted to – not that I would ever do that – humans are so fragile. 'Come on, let's have some fun.'

After a moment's hesitation, I take it and we dance together around the fire with the others. I gaze around me. There are so many good-looking guys right now. Sex is good fun alright.

Emily twirls me around and I twirl her. We throw our arms around each other, laughing as we dance to the music that another human starts playing on his guitar. I continue taking sips of my Blakkfrost, the alcohol brewing a good ache in my stomach.

A pair of arms flail into my eyes. One of the guys saunters close, a gangly drunk mess.

'You're cold,' he says, his hand squeezing mine. The smell of beer bounces off his tongue and lands on my nose. It smells like nail varnish remover and I almost choke. Probably Krakenberg or something. I flick my tongue, trying to expel the particles from my mouth.

The gap between Emily and I widens and she's forced away awkwardly. I can feel the lament in her eyes as she watches my arms flop clumsily around his neck. My movements are slow and clunky, although my mind still feels fairly lucid. It's pretty good. Life's pretty good and he seems like he'll be fun.

But you can't. You can't risk it.

Oh, shut up, I want to. I've done it loads of times before.

'Hey, she's with me,' a sharp voice says from behind him, and he's spun around. 'Leave, shitleaf.' The girl's fangs glisten.

My eyes brighten. 'Cilky!'

The guy backs off, and the three of us – Emily, Cilka, and I – dance together.

'So, you actually attracted attention for a change,' Cilka says, giggling. 'Too bad he was such a dickhead.' My jaw clenches. That's not true.

'Yeah,' is all I can say in response.

You actually attracted attention for a change. You actually attracted attention, for a change.

Even if she didn't mean it like that, she makes it sound like I'm ugly – like no guy would ever look at me.

Even so, I can't get bring myself to get mad at her at a time like this. I want to. I want to growl at her and tell her to shut up, that's it not true, but she – along with Emily – are the only ones who have been there for me this past year. I can't throw her kindness back in her face.

After a while, we end up hugging each other as a massive goodbye, swaying in time to the slow tune of the guitar.

'Come on, I'm sure we'll see each other again!' Cilka says, rolling her eyes. Our bodies press together like the thorns and petals of a rose – Emily in the centre – and my eyes squeeze shut so I don't cry. I can't cry. Dad can't scatter us into the wind if we stick together. My stomach fills with warmth; their kindness squashes the loneliness I previously felt. Moving here was a way of starting over and undoing the curse of death, a way to be happy, and I intend to keep it that way.

'You're all I have.' My voice is muffled by Cilka's silky orange hair on my cheeks and lips, smothering me in her sweet, meaty scent. I squeeze my friends harder. 'I won't lose you guys.'

Emily shakes her head. 'That's not true. You have your dad, you have your brother. You have a family. But we're always here for you.'

Not all my family. I don't have Dad either – not really – but Tor...his innocent face and chubby cheeks. I can't let him get hurt, I must protect him like I have this past year.

'We're here for each other!' Cilka says with one last squeeze before bouncing away from us. 'Now come on, we're getting slaughtered!' Her way of saying drunk.

Now I truly can't mess up the good mood. It slips out anyway. I gaze at the snow, my shoulders slumping. 'Dad doesn't want me anymore.' My can of Blakkfrost hangs from the tip of my finger through the hole in the lid.

The ravens shriek as they soar overheard, and my muscles paralyse me as the wind gushes towards us. My nose twitching, I turn to the darkness of the trees while Cilka's giggles continue. Everyone around us stops whatever the hell they're doing, staring in the same direction.

'They're just ravens, Red!' she says, chucking up her drink in a deadly shot, the berry-red liquid spattering the snow.

Ravens are a deadly omen.

'What is it, Rav?' Emily treads forward.

I hush her, my ears pricking as I listen. The sound of light paws in the snow edges closer and closer. The smell of blood swirls about in the air. People are already fleeing. For some reason unknown to me, I freeze. My heart thuds. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Why am I so afraid – it can't be the wolf killer, nor can it be anyone else who could be dangerous.

No, seriously, it can't be the wolf killer – a wolf who kills other wolves wouldn't be specifically branded as a "wolf killer" would they? They would just be branded as a regular old murderer. Besides, the way their victims were killed wasn't the work of wolves. We always go for the jugular.

'Rav, come on, let's go,' Cilka says, tugging at me. I stumble backwards a few steps as she's fairly strong for how tiny she is, but it's too late anyway.

A pair of burning ochre eyes illuminate the darkness, revealing the body of a tall, lanky wolf. My skin prickles. His fur shrouds him in a black, well-fluffed shadow, like he's had a canine makeover. Emily springs back while I almost die inside. Sadly, it isn't from destroying my throat and liver with Banshee, like I was hoping.

In the distance, the bell in the clock tower of the temple rings once – not for midnight, but for one in the morning.

His lips slither back, exposing his fangs in fiendish delight.

'You – you're the Roskktmarit.'

Alfontzo Lovell

Age: 42

Nationality: Rylvan

Race: Grey wolf Muzha

Birthday: 23rd Desert Sunwrath 5957EY (23/07/1977)

Height: 180cm/5'11"

Cilka Trickyleaf

Age: 18

Nationality: Rylvan

Race: Red fox Muzha

Birthday: 25th Fullmoon Howl 5981EY/25/08/81 (25/10/2001)

Height: 155cm/5'1"

Emily Carruthers

Age: 17

Nationality: Caillean

Race: Human

Birthday: 19th Fullmoon Howl 5982EY/19/07/82 (19/10/2002)

Height: 165cm/5'5"

Flint Lowmoon

Age: 17

Nationality: Rylvan

Race: Grey wolf Muzha

Birthday: 13th Desert Sunwrath 5982EY/13/04/82 (13/07/2002)

Height: 185cm/6'1"

1 Musha, the Rylvan word for Mother/Mum.

2 Kani – Pronounced Kay-nigh