Midnight Howl Chapter 13

The phone felt like a live wire in her hand, the cold metal casing a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from her palm. Her vision, still tinged with that unsettling gold, struggled to focus on the screen. The number—the one from the cryptic text that had simply read, "The old meatpacking district. Midnight. Come alone if you want answers."—glowed with a malevolent promise. It was Morgan’s number. Every rational instinct screamed at her to delete it, to lock the door and wait for this... this *fit* to pass. But the shredded bedspread was a silent testament to the fact that it wouldn’t. The beast was no longer a dormant passenger;

it was kicking down the doors of its cage, and she was trapped inside with it.

With a shuddering breath that burned her lungs, she typed a single word: **Where?

**

The reply was instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting, watching. An address flickered onto the screen, a location deep in the industrial wasteland south of the university. A place of rust and forgotten things. A perfect place for monsters to meet.

The journey was a blur of strained control. She avoided the bus, fearing the press of bodies and the scent of strangers might trigger another episode. Instead, she ran. Not a human run, but a loping, ground-eating stride that felt more natural than walking. The city lights streaked past, their colors bleeding together. Her enhanced senses were a cacophony—the stench of exhaust fumes, the distant chatter from a late-night diner, the whisper of a rat scurrying through an alley. It was overwhelming, yet a part of her, the part that was currently lengthening her stride and making her breath steam in the cold air, reveled in it.

She found the address: a vast, dilapidated factory complex surrounded by a chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire. A gap had been torn in the mesh, an open invitation. The air here was different. Underneath the pervasive smells of rust, oil, and decay was something else. Something wild, musky, and faintly metallic. *

Morgan stood in the center of a cavernous space where machinery skeletons loomed like prehistoric beasts. Moonlight streamed through broken panes in the corrugated iron roof, painting silver stripes on the grimy concrete floor. He wasn't in his professor's tweed and cordovan;

he wore dark, functional clothing that allowed for movement.

"You came," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast emptiness. It wasn't a greeting. It was an assessment.

"I didn't have a choice," Lena spat, her voice rough. She kept her distance, her body coiled tight. The gold in her eyes felt like it was burning.

"On the contrary, you made the only intelligent choice." He took a step forward, and Lena took a corresponding step back. A low growl rumbled in her chest, unbidden. Morgan’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Good. The instinct is strong. You feel threatened. That is your body’s wisdom, trying to keep you alive."

"Stop talking in lectures," she snapped. "The murders. The victims. You said you knew."

"I do." He stopped moving and simply looked at her. Then, the air around him *shimmered*. It wasn't a full transformation—there was no tearing of flesh or grotesque reshaping of bone. It was a subtle, terrifying flow of muscle and intention. His posture shifted, becoming more predatory. His hands, held loosely at his sides, seemed to elongate, the fingers curling slightly, nails thickening into dark, cruel points. His eyes, in the moonlight, captured the silver and reflected it back with a feral glow. It was a controlled, partial shift, a display of power so absolute it was more frightening than any full-blooded roar. The wave of dominance that rolled off him was tangible, a pressure that made the air thick and hard to breathe. Lena’s own inner beast cowered for a moment before rising in a defiant snarl.

"This," Morgan said, his voice a notch deeper, gravelly with the wolf lurking beneath, "is control. This is what you lack. And your control makes you a beacon. A danger to yourself and everyone near you."

He let the shift recede, smoothing back into his human facade with an effortless grace that terrified her even more. "The victims," he continued, as if he had merely adjusted his tie, "were not random. Each one carried the latent gene. They were *potential* wolves, scattered through the city, unaware of their heritage. Someone is hunting them. Culling the herd before they can awaken."

"Who?" Lena demanded, her heart hammering. The scent in the air—the same one from the crime scene, the same one from the robber in the fast-food joint—was stronger here. It was all around.

"A rogue pack," Morgan said, his tone dripping with disdain. "Nomads. Savages who reject the old laws and see the city as their hunting ground. They believe a pure bloodline is a threat to their chaotic existence. They smell a potential Alpha in the making, and they seek to eliminate the competition." He gestured around the empty factory. "This was one of their dens. I drove them out weeks ago, but their stench remains."

Lena’s mind raced, connecting the scraps of information. The prophecy. Her bloodline. The murders. It all pointed to her. "The robber... at the restaurant..."

"A low-level member of their pack," Morgan confirmed. "Likely sent to test you, to see if the gene was active. You surprised them. You survived. That made you a primary target."

He walked over to a dark stain on the concrete, partially scrubbed but still visible to her heightened sight. "The latest victim was dumped here two nights ago. A young man. A barista. He never knew what he was." Morgan knelt and touched the stain. "The rogues are getting bolder. They are penetrating deeper into my territory."

Lena’s nostrils flared. She didn't need to kneel. She could smell it all—the fear-sweat, the coppery tang of blood, and overpowering it all, the signature scent of the rogue wolf was identical. The confirmation was a cold knife in her gut. Morgan was telling the truth, at least about this.

"You brought me here to scare me," she said, forcing her voice to steadiness.

"I brought you here to show you the reality you are now a part of," he corrected, standing up. "Your university, your part-time job, your boyfriend... it's a fiction, Lena. A comfortable dream you can no longer afford. The war is here. And you are standing in the middle of it. You can either learn to wield the weapon you've been given, or you will be destroyed by it. The choice, ultimately, is still yours."

He turned and walked towards a shadowed exit, leaving her alone in the silver-striped darkness. "The campus library, the quad, your dorm room... they are not safe. Nowhere is truly safe for you anymore. Think on that."

Lena stood frozen long after he had gone, the feral scent of blood and rogue wolf clinging to her like a shroud. The beast within her was silent now, listening. And for the first time, she listened back.