Hour of the Moon

Chapter 8: Severed Ties

Waya

Morning came gray and too quiet.
The kind of quiet that remembers thunder.

The forest had followed me home. Its scent clung to the cab of my truck—wet pine, iron, and the ghost of lavender smoke from Akita's altar. I could still taste his words, metal-bright and bitter, caught behind my teeth. A benediction. A curse.

The vial at my throat throbbed faintly, a blue flame trapped in glass. The bond was supposed to be gone—cut clean, forgotten.
But I could feel it.
A phantom limb that still twitched.

Every sound bit sharp as glass. Every heartbeat in town thudded too loud. Even the silence felt charged—alive, expectant, like the pause between lightning and the strike.

Freedom wasn't silence after all.
It was absence.
And absence hurt like hunger.

I caught my reflection in the truck window: eyes almost black in the dim light, but stare long enough and gold surfaced beneath, like embers waking under ash. The wolf wasn't gone. He was just waiting, patient, prowling the edges of my restraint.

I started the engine, but my hand lingered on the wheel.
Something moved—faint, electric—down the bond I'd thought was dead. A quicksilver ache, a migraine that wasn't mine.

Her pain.

It hit like déjà vu through someone else's skull.

⸻

Keiran

It started as a pinprick behind my eyes, then split into lightning.

I dropped the knife before it dropped me. Groceries spilled across the counter—onions, cheese, tortillas. The domestic ritual undone by a pain that didn't belong to this world.

"Shit," I gasped, pressing a hand to my temple. The kitchen spun sideways. The hum of the fridge turned into a roar. I gripped the counter to stay upright, the blade glinting on the tile below.

Not the coffee. Not the diner food.
Something else. Something alive.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, shoulder scraping the wall, and ripped the cabinet open. Bottles crashed into the sink. I swallowed two, maybe three painkillers with tap water that tasted like pennies.

Head between my knees, trembling, I tried to remember how to breathe.
"Deep breaths, Keiran," I whispered, echoing my mother. "This too shall pass."

The words were a lifeline to something softer, long gone.
Birthday candles. Laughter. Light.

Minutes dragged until the pain finally ebbed, leaving only the taste of metal and fear.

When I lifted my head, the mirror showed a stranger—eyes wet, skin flushed, pulse still frantic.

Dinner was abandoned. The onions lay uncut.
The apartment smelled faintly of mint and smoke though I'd cooked nothing with either.

I told myself it was stress, but I still called Savannah.

⸻

Keiran

Savannah answered on the first ring, her voice a blanket.

"Hey, Keiran! You okay? You sound... off."

"Sorry to call late," I murmured. "Migraine. I'm fine now."

"Oh honey, no. You don't sound fine. I'll get my doctor to see you tomorrow—and I'm bringing tea tonight. My Nana's cure-all."

"That's really not necessary—"

"Nonsense. My husband's on bedtime duty. I need an excuse to flee."

Half an hour later, her tires crunched the drive. A soft knock, and there she was under the porch light—barefaced, glowing, wrapped in a black tracksuit that looked sinful on someone so kind. She smelled like sugar and spearmint.

"You look pale," she said, concern clouding her voice. "How's the head?"

"Better," I lied.

Savannah handed over a blue grocery bag. "Tea. Balm. Water. Pills. And your doctor's appointment for nine-thirty. Don't argue."

My throat tightened. "You didn't have to—"

"Sweetheart," she said, squeezing my shoulder, "you're alone in a new city. Don't be brave. Be human."

When the door closed, I unpacked her kindness. Tea. Tiger balm. Sleep mask. Painkillers. Water.
And a folded note: Heat the tea first. Ginger mint. Nana's magic.

I smiled despite myself.

Later, I showered until the mirror blurred, slipped into a black lace nightgown that felt like confidence and confession, and brewed the tea. The scent of ginger and honey wrapped around me like a prayer.

I dabbed balm on my temples, drew the pink mask over my eyes, and let sleep take me.

⸻

Keiran

Rain.
Hard, silver, endless.

I was running barefoot through the forest, silk clinging to my body, hair plastered to my spine. The ground bled water, the air smelled of cedar and storm.

Behind me, something howled. Not animal. Not human.
Something older.

Lightning tore open the clouds, revealing the cliff ahead—the black lip of the world. Beyond it: ocean. Chaos.

I turned.

He stepped out of the dark—a wolf vast as a storm, fur slick as oil, eyes the color of molten gold. He moved like a secret the earth had tried to bury.

My fear trembled with something else—recognition.

"Please," I whispered, the word barely breath. "Don't kill me."

The wolf stilled. Its ears flicked. Then it whined—low, mournful, almost human. It tilted its head as if sorrow lived behind its gaze.

He came closer. I felt the heat of his breath roll over my thigh.

And then—change.

Fur dissolved into skin, the body reforming under the rain, spine straightening, muscle stretching. The air hissed around him, thunder breaking into silence.

Where the beast had stood now was a man—tall, bare, the storm written across his chest. His eyes were dark, almost black, but a sun flickered deep inside.

Waya.

The name rose in me like memory.

"Found you," he murmured, his voice the sound of rain on fire.

The world contracted to a single breath.
The cliff hummed beneath my feet.
The moon burned white.

⸻

Waya

I jolted awake.

Rain hammered the windows though the sky was dry.
The vial at my throat burned white-hot, herbs within blazing like stars. My pulse thrashed against it.

Her dream had crossed the severed bond.

She had called out to me—in sleep, in fear, in recognition.

And no matter what rites Akita had performed,
some things are never undone.