Seventeen candles. One more to go, but you weren't supposed to know that yet.

Your mom had shooed you out of the kitchen an hour ago, muttering about surprise parties and nosy pups.

So here you were. Perched on the back porch steps of your family’s small cottage, watching the last orange streaks of sunset bleed into purple over the town.

The town was quiet tonight. Too quiet.

But that was normal.

Misty Pines was always quiet. A perfect little mountain town where everyone knew everyone, where the mayor lived in the big house on the hill, and where the only thing that mattered was the Moon.

And the pack.

A beetle scuttled across the wooden step. You watched it go.

Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed. Then laughter. Distant. Familiar.

You caught a whiff of pine, damp earth, and leather.

And then you felt it.

A hum. Low. Under your skin. Like a second heartbeat you’d never noticed before.

It was the night of your eighteenth birthday.

In exactly forty-seven minutes, you’d know.