For a long time now, my wandering lifestyle has quietly morphed into the very shape of my existence. Still, I prefer to call myself a nomad—it sounds more dignified, less tinged with that bleak, hopeless despair.
I made a conscious choice to roam the world, opting for a bittersweet kind of freedom. Freedom… huh.
Every decision comes with its pros and cons, and mine was no exception. The downside? Loneliness, and a self-imposed ban on love—or, more specifically, on long-term, stable relationships. Sometimes, I literally howled from the crushing emptiness inside me, without even shifting into my other form.
Truth be told, I rarely take on my other shape. I stubbornly avoid tapping into my true nature. It’s not that I’m ashamed or tormented by it, no. I have what I consider a damn good reason—I desperately want to be normal, just like regular people. Or at least to seem that way to outsiders.
I’ll say without any false modesty that I’m pretty good at controlling myself. I know the tricks of blending in, and someone who doesn’t know better would never peg me as anything other than your average girl.
Lately, I’ve gotten so used to this act that even other wulfen or hunters can’t spot the wolf in me at first glance.
…Yeah, that’s right. I belong to the tribe of half-humans—wulfen. And as if that wasn’t enough, I’m also an alpha female, which is incredibly rare for my kind. Female leaders are few and far between, maybe one or two in a generation. But I’ve renounced that leadership destiny. I don’t want the burden of responsibility, don’t want to form attachments, don’t want to live in fear or worry. Because losing someone hurts, and for an alpha, losing a pack member hurts a hundred times worse.
Wulfen have existed on Earth since the dawn of time, hiding in the shadows of civilization, masking our true selves, slipping through the twilight with nothing but a rustle. Humans see us, but they never suspect there’s another branch of humanoid beings living right under their noses. Caution is in our blood—it’s our cardinal rule, our cornerstone, our Bible. Even a three-year-old wulfen pup knows self-preservation on an instinctual level. My kind prefers to stay under the radar—we don’t take high-ranking jobs, don’t meddle in politics, don’t make waves in the arts, don’t start religious cults, don’t play the superhero, and don’t even get involved in charity. Any extra attention from the public is deadly for us. Since I was a kid, it’s been drilled into my head that I’m different, that my emotions could put me at risk, that my natural abilities could expose me and land me in danger. So I tiptoe through life, always ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
Our tribe has its own laws, and even as a nomad, I have to follow them. Otherwise, the hunters might track me down and hold me accountable. They don’t mess around—they’ll take me out without a second thought, staging it as some tragic accident.
Hunters are the initiated among humans, a kind of legislative authority in my world, where knowledge is passed down from father to son through generations. They’re meant to serve both sides. Hunters ensure wulfen don’t harm each other and don’t cause trouble for humans.
I grew up in my grandmother Ember’s pack. It was a small community, just a couple of wulfen families like ours. Grandma was born an alpha, just like me. She taught me so much about life, right up until it was my time to leave. Thing is, my family wasn’t exactly straightforward. Sure, everyone says that about their relatives, but I think we were marked by some dark, fateful shadow.
Let me try to explain. I want someone to feel what it’s like to be me, to understand. I dream of someone, even just for a moment, stepping into my skin, seeing through my eyes, and feeling what’s in my heart.
…My parents were ordinary wulfen, and both Mom and Dad unquestioningly followed Grandma’s lead. The alpha gene skipped a generation and passed to me and my older brother, Terry. That meant we were always ranked above the other adult wulfen in the pack, not to mention the kids. I wouldn’t say my childhood was all freedom and no rules—Grandma Ember was strict. I didn’t dare disobey her, or I’d be punished harsher than the other children. But thanks to her care, I learned the lessons of survival well. Everything I know and can do—and it’s a lot—comes from her. Our parents died in a horrific car accident when I was ten. Or rather, they sustained injuries incompatible with life, yet lingered in agony. A wulfen can’t die from illness or injury, can’t pass naturally even when the body can no longer heal its wounds. Our unique brain won’t let us cross over to the other side. To die, a wulfen’s head must be severed, or in a more brutal method, the heart must be torn out. If a wulfen somehow reaches extreme old age, fading and weakening day by day, the pack must still, with all due respect, separate the head to release the soul to rest. Rarely, among our kind, there are suicides, where a wulfen rips out their own heart. To humans, this is horrifying, but for shifters, it’s just the way things are.
Grandma took my parents from the hospital, gathered our pack, drew the ritual sword, and personally severed their heads. First her daughter—my mom—then my dad. …That was when I experienced my first true horror and profound loss. Terrifying. …You feel their pain in every cell of your body. I can’t even put into words what I felt then. My brother barely held me back, nearly breaking the bones in my arms. On one hand, I understood this freed them from suffering, but on the other, I held onto hope until the very last second. They were my mom and dad.
…The second loss was my brother. No, Terry didn’t die—he just grew up. The thing is, two adult alphas can’t coexist in the same territory. It sparks rivalry; the beast within can’t tolerate a competitor. In cases where a family has multiple alphas, the younger ones either leave or kill the older ones. Naturally, Terry couldn’t raise a hand against Ember. She was our teacher, she replaced our parents, and I think he loved her. So he left.
As I watched him go, Grandma told me it was best if Terry and I never met again, that for our own safety, we shouldn’t cross paths, despite being brother and sister. Adult alphas can’t control the urge to eliminate a rival—family ties mean nothing compared to that bloodthirsty instinct.
I missed my brother. I grieved, paced like a wounded animal. I still miss him. Since then, there’s been no calls, no letters. Terry became another piece of me that was torn away.
Then it was my turn—I came of age. It’s a terrible feeling when a member of your family, the closest person, your own blood, drives you up the wall with rage. Their voice, their comments, their walk, their habits, their gestures, even their scent becomes repulsive to you. It drives you insane. You stop feeling warmth or love for them and start to hate, slowly fantasizing about getting rid of them, sinking your fangs into their flesh. To prevent the worst from happening, I had to leave my home too. Forever. That was my third loss.
Adapting to my new way of life wasn’t easy, even by inhuman standards. For weeks, I tried in vain to outrun my own shadow, rarely lingering on my reflection, especially avoiding my own eyes. They’re the one thing that doesn’t lie to me—in them, I see my true nature clearly. Not human, not beast.
Covering my tracks, trying to avoid encounters with my own kind, I drift through small towns, never staying anywhere too long, scraping by with odd jobs. In essence, I’m always searching for something, waiting for something, though I don’t even know what it is myself.
In the evenings, when I have some free time, I like to wander the streets, gazing wistfully into the windows of houses. In those moments, I feel like an abandoned dog, but I can’t stop myself from peeking into other people’s family happiness. Sometimes, I creep as close as I can, watching with bated breath as a family prepares for dinner. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as badly as I want a normal, ordinary human family. A home, parents, siblings, a boyfriend. To be able to run to him for dates, hang out with friends, and do all the things you regular folks take for granted. But I’ll never have that kind of steady life. Not in my case. I was never meant for it from the start. I’m just a semblance of a human, a rough draft of the Creator’s work. I’m a shifter.
By all outward appearances, no one in their right mind would suspect they’re standing next to a monster. But looks can be deceiving. Don’t you agree?
Moderately graceful, moderately attractive, with thick, dark chestnut hair down to my shoulders and green eyes. On gloomy days, or when boredom weighs me down, my eyes seem ash-gray, but when it’s bright and I’m feeling joyful, they turn emerald.
I look like your typical sweet, defenseless girl, nowhere close to a shifter. But that’s not true. I’m a genuine predator. Though, to my credit, my tally only includes torn-apart rabbits and deer.
My kind has been called many names, but no one truly knows how we survive.