Derek sat on the couch staring at his phone, the screen displaying Joe’s last text message from two nights ago: Good seeing you, bro. Let’s do it again soon. The news report on the TV droned on about another animal attack, another victim found in the sugar cane fields outside the city, another family destroyed. Derek’s hands were shaking. He set the phone face down on the coffee table and pressed his palms against his thighs until they stopped trembling.

  The front door opened. Sheryl walked in carrying shopping bags from the mall, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, wearing a cream blouse and dark jeans that looked freshly pressed. Her eyes swept across the living room and landed on Derek’s face, pale and hollow, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cables.

  “My condolences,” she said.

  The words came out flat, like she’d practiced them in the car on the drive home. Derek looked up at her, waiting for more, waiting for her to ask what happened, to sit beside him, or to do any of the things mothers were supposed to do when their son lost a friend. Instead, Sheryl walked past him down the hallway, shopping bags rustling against her legs, and closed her bedroom door with a soft click.

  Derek sat there for another ten minutes, staring at the blank TV screen, listening to his mother move around in her room. Drawers opening and closing. Inside her bedroom, Sheryl laid the black leather outfit across the bed and ran her fingers over the material. The pants were form-fitting, designed to move with her body, the top cut low enough to draw attention. She pulled the clothes on piece by piece, zipping the pants, adjusting the top, and sliding her feet into black heels that added three inches to her height.

  She walked to the closet and pulled down the red gym bag from the top shelf, unzipped it, and looked inside at the white robe folded neatly at the bottom. Her fingers touched the fabric for a moment, feeling the weight of what it represented, then she zipped the bag closed and set it beside her purse on the bed.

  In the bathroom mirror, she studied her reflection. The leather fit perfectly, hugging curves and highlighting the muscle tone she’d developed over the past month without consciously working for it. Her eyes were bright, pupils slightly dilated. She smiled at herself and watched her canines lengthen just a fraction before retracting back to normal. Control. She had it now—complete control over the transformation, over the beast, over everything the virus had given her.

  She grabbed her purse and the gym bag and walked back into the living room. Derek was still on the couch, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.

  “Going out again?” he asked without looking up.

  “Just for a little while.”

  The door opened and closed. Derek listened to her car start in the driveway, listened to it back out and drive away, listened to the silence that filled the house after she was gone.

  Talons Night Club sat on the east side of Bayou Mounds, a converted warehouse with a glass roof that let moonlight pour through onto the dance floor below. The parking lot was packed when Sheryl and Karen arrived, cars squeezed into every available space, music thumping so loud it rattled windows. They walked toward the entrance in lockstep, black heels striking pavement in perfect rhythm, heads high, expressions calm.

  The bouncer was massive, six-foot-four and built like he’d been sculpted from granite. His head was shaved smooth, reflecting the streetlight overhead. Calus Jones. He stepped forward as they approached and leaned in close to Sheryl, his nose nearly touching her neck. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, pulling her scent into his lungs. His eyes flashed yellow for half a second before returning to brown. He nodded once and pulled the velvet rope aside.

  Inside, the club was a riot of sound and motion. Colored lights strobed across the crowd, bass so heavy it vibrated through the floor and into their chests. Bodies moved in waves, grinding against each other, hands in the air, faces slick with sweat. Sheryl and Karen moved through the crowd like sharks through shallow water, people parting instinctively without knowing why.

  Near the bar, a woman in a crimson silk dress stood watching them. She was tall, slim, with dark skin that caught the light like polished obsidian. Her hair was pulled back severely and elegantly, her posture radiating confidence and control. She smiled faintly and tilted her head toward the stairs leading to the VIP section.

  Sheryl and Karen followed.

  The VIP lounge was quieter, the music muted to a dull throb that pulsed through the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the dance floor below, and beyond that, the Bayou Mounds skyline stretched away in clusters of light. The full moon hung enormous overhead, visible through the glass roof, casting everything in silver-white brilliance.

  Monica Scales stood at the window with her back to them, one hand holding a champagne flute she hadn’t drunk from. She turned when they entered, and her smile widened.

  “It’s great to meet both of you finally,” Monica said. Her voice was smooth and precise, each word measured and deliberate. “We have huge plans for this city, and you two will play a huge part in it.”

  Sheryl and Karen stood side by side near the doorway, watching Monica with eyes that had already started to shift toward predatory focus. Monica set down her champagne and walked closer, her heels silent on the carpeted floor.

  “The people of Bayou Mounds have no idea what’s breathing beneath their streets,” Monica continued. “They built this place on old ground. Cursed ground, if you believe the stories the Cajuns used to tell. Burial sites. Battlefields. Places where blood soaked into the earth so deep it never really washed away.” She paused, studying their faces. “The explosion didn’t destroy anything. It awakened what was always here. What was always waiting.”

  Karen’s expression didn’t change. “And what exactly do you want from us?”

  “I want what you’ve already given. Loyalty. Strength. Instinct.” Monica moved to the window and gestured at the city below. “Bayou Mounds is growing. Tech companies. Oil refineries. Corporate headquarters. Money is pouring in from all over the country. In five years, this city will have half a million people. In ten, maybe a million. That’s half a million potential hosts. A million vessels waiting to be filled.”

  Sheryl stepped forward. “You want to infect the entire city.”

  “I want to claim it.” Monica’s reflection in the glass showed yellow eyes glowing faintly. “Not through chaos. Not through random attacks that bring the National Guard down on our heads. Through infiltration. Through control. We place our people in positions of power. Police. Government. Hospitals. Schools. Every institution that matters. And slowly, methodically, we convert the ones who are strong enough to survive the change.”

  “And the ones who aren’t?” Karen asked.

  “Casualties of evolution.” Monica turned back to face them directly. “The virus is aggressive. You both know that. Most people die within seventy-two hours of infection. Heart failure. Organ shutdown. Neurological collapse. But the ones who survive become apex predators. Everything humanity was supposed to evolve into before civilization made them soft.”

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  Sheryl’s hands clenched at her sides. “How many of us are there right now?”

  “In Bayou Mounds? Forty-three. Across Louisiana? Maybe two hundred. The virus is spreading faster than I anticipated. Every full moon brings more transformations. More first-time changes. More people discovering what they’ve become.” Monica’s smile was cold and calculating. “But most of them are operating on instinct and killing randomly and drawing attention. That’s why I need you. Both of you. To bring structure. To organize the pack into something functional.”

  “What’s our role?” Sheryl asked.

  “Enforcers. Recruiters. Leaders.” Monica walked to a small bar cart in the corner and poured herself another glass of champagne. “Between the two of you, you can build an entire network of new pack members without anyone realizing what’s happening.”

  Karen’s jaw tightened. “You’re asking us to turn our jobs into hunting grounds.”

  “I’m asking you to be strategic.” Monica took a sip of champagne. “The alternative is what’s happening now—random attacks. Bodies piling up. Curfews and police crackdowns. Eventually, someone will figure out what’s really going on. A scientist. A detective. Someone who puts the pieces together. And when that happens, they’ll come for all of us with fire and silver bullets.” She set down her glass. “I’d rather control the narrative before it gets to that point.”

  Sheryl and Karen exchanged a glance. Something passed between them, unspoken but understood.

  “What happens tonight?” Sheryl asked.

  Monica’s smile widened. “Tonight, we remind this city what fear feels like. Tonight, the pack announces itself. And tomorrow, when the bodies are counted, and the news reports start spinning their stories about terrorists or gang violence or whatever lie they need to tell themselves to sleep at night, we’ll already be ten steps ahead.” She walked back to the window and looked down at the dance floor below. “Calus has already locked the exits. Security is in place. Everyone down there is trapped. And when the moon hits its peak in twenty minutes, the transformation will be unavoidable for anyone carrying the virus.”

  Karen’s eyes widened slightly. “How many people down there are infected?”

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty. Some know what they are. Most don’t. They’ll find out soon enough.” Monica turned back to them. “This is a demonstration—a show of force. By morning, the entire city will know that something has changed. That the rules they lived by no longer apply. And fear will do what fear always does. It will make them easier to control.”

  Sheryl’s pupils dilated, the yellow creeping in around the edges. “And what happens when they fight back?”

  Monica leaned in close, her breath warm against Sheryl’s ear. “Then we remind them what their ancestors used to know. That there are things in the dark that don’t negotiate. That doesn’t forgive. That doesn’t stop.” She pulled back and smiled. “Tonight, the pack breathes. And Bayou Mounds learns to submit.”

  The three women stood in the VIP lounge, looking down at the crowd below. The music pounded. The lights flashed. The moon climbed higher in the sky, pulling at something primal in their blood.

  When they descended the stairs, the club had reached peak capacity. Bodies packed the dance floor so tight there was barely room to move. The glass roof overhead framed the moon perfectly, white and enormous, bathing everything in silver light.

  Sheryl noticed the security guards moving along the perimeter, quietly sliding deadbolts into place on the exit doors. One patron, a young guy in a polo shirt, walked up to the front entrance and pushed. The door didn’t budge. He pushed harder, then turned and looked for a bouncer.

  “Hey, excuse me,” the guy called out, waving at Calus. “The door’s locked. Can you—”

  Calus turned. His eyes were already yellow. He crossed the distance in three long strides, grabbed the guy’s face with one massive hand, and twisted. The snap was audible even over the music. The guy’s body went limp. Calus dropped him and threw his head back, roaring.

  The sound cut through everything. The music. The conversation. The laughter. For three seconds, the entire club went silent.

  Then Calus’s muscles began to swell. His shirt split at the seams. His pants tore. Bones cracked and reformed. Fur erupted across his skin in thick black waves. His face pushed forward into a muzzle, jaw unhinging, teeth lengthening into fangs. Within thirty seconds, he’d transformed completely.

  Screams filled the club. People ran in every direction, slamming into each other, trampling anyone who fell. The exits were locked. There was nowhere to go.

  Across the dance floor, other transformations began. A woman in a cocktail dress doubled over, her spine arching, vertebrae popping one by one. A bartender dropped the bottle he was holding and clutched his chest as his ribcage expanded with wet cracks. A DJ in the booth above the crowd screamed as his hands twisted into claws, nails punching through his fingertips.

  Sheryl felt the pull. The moon’s gravity is working on her cells, demanding the change. She didn’t fight it. She’d learned to embrace it, to let the transformation flow through her like water finding its level. Her leather top split as her shoulders broadened. Her pants tore at the seams as her legs restructured. Fur spread across her skin in smooth waves, black and sleek. Her face pushed forward, nose and mouth merging into a snout, ears migrating upward into pointed triangles.

  When the change was completed, she dropped to all fours and moved through the crowd like a hunting cat.

  A man ran past her, eyes wide with terror, phone in his hand, trying to call 911. Sheryl pounced, driving him to the ground with her full weight. The impact shattered his ribs. Before he could scream, she grabbed his head in both hands and twisted until his neck separated from his spine with a grinding crunch. She tossed the body aside and moved on.

  Two women were huddled behind the bar, clutching each other, sobbing. Sheryl vaulted over the counter and landed in front of them. They screamed. Sheryl grabbed the first one by the arm, her claws sinking deep into flesh, and swung her into the mirrored wall behind the bar. Glass exploded. The woman’s skull caved in on impact. The second woman tried to run. Sheryl caught her by the hair, yanked her backward, and drove her face-first into the bar top hard enough to crack the wood. Blood and teeth were scattered across the polished surface.

  Across the floor, Karen was experiencing her first full transformation in public. The agony was intense, every bone breaking and reforming, every muscle tearing and rebuilding itself stronger. But underneath the pain was something else. Euphoria. Power. Freedom from every constraint she’d ever known. When the change finished, she looked down at her new body and felt complete for the first time in her life.

  Her first kill was instinctive. A man stumbled into her path, and she reacted without thinking. Her jaws closed around his throat and tore it out in one savage bite. She swallowed and lunged at two more people trying to climb over tables toward a fire exit. She caught them mid-leap, one hand on each, and slammed them together with enough force to pulverize their skulls. Brain matter splattered across her fur. She dropped the bodies and howled.

  Monica’s transformation was almost elegant. Her silk dress shredded as her body expanded, but the change itself was controlled, measured, and practiced. She’d done this hundreds of times. Within sixty seconds, she stood fully transformed, a towering beast with sleek black fur and eyes that glowed gold.

  A young man was pounding on the emergency exit near the back, his palms bloody from slamming against the steel door. Monica moved toward him with fluid grace, her claws clicking on the tile floor. The man heard her coming and turned, pressing his back against the door.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  Monica lunged forward and grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him off the ground and pinning him against the wall. Her free hand drove into his chest, claws punching through sternum and ribs like they were made of cardboard. She felt his heart beating against her palm for three seconds before she closed her hand and crushed it. The man’s eyes went wide, then empty. Monica pulled her hand free, heart still clutched in her claws, and leaned in close. She dragged her tongue slowly across his cheek, tasting his fear and his death, then tossed his body aside like garbage.

  The massacre lasted twelve minutes. When it was over, seventy-three people were dead. The dance floor was slick with blood, bodies scattered everywhere, tables overturned, glass shattered. The music had stopped. The lights had gone out. Only the moonlight remained, pouring through the glass roof, illuminating the carnage.

  Sheryl, Karen, and Monica stood in the center of the floor, their fur matted with blood, chests heaving. Around them, fifteen other werewolves had fully transformed, standing among the bodies, waiting.

  Monica raised her head and howled. The sound was deep and resonant, echoing through the club, carrying out into the night. One by one, the other werewolves joined in. Sheryl and Karen added their voices last, harmonizing with the pack, announcing their presence to the city.

  Outside, sirens began to wail. Police. Fire. Ambulance. All converging on Talons.

  But inside, the pack stood united beneath the full moon, baptized in blood, ready for war.

  Bayou Mounds would never be the same.