WEREWOLVES MAY CRY

### Chapter One – The Smell of Blood in Chicago###

(Bryan's POV)

Chicago never really slept. It just groaned, restless, like a wounded animal too stubborn to die. The city’s neon lights, late-night cabs, and the heavy sound of machines that never shut down. Somewhere between those shadows and the lights, Bryan Amarkson hunted.

He hated the word hunter. It sounded too noble. Too professional. In reality, what he did was dirtier, meaner, and paid less than minimum wage. He hunted werewolves, not because he believed in justice, but because it was the only thing that kept the nightmares quiet.

Nightmares of her.

Her scream always came first in his dreams, sharp enough to cut glass. Then her eyes, desperate, shining unsteady with moonlight, before vanishing into blood and teeth. His mother’s face. Samantha. The only person who had ever made Bryan feel like he wasn’t alone. And the face that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

He adjusted the strap of the crossbow digging into his shoulder as he leaned against a crumbling brick wall in a back alley. His boots were wet from the Chicago rain, and his hoodie clung to his back like a second skin. The stench of garbage clashed with something else, something sharper, metallic.

Blood.

Bryan wrinkled his nose and muttered under his breath. “Great. Another Saturday night in paradise.”

His partner wasn’t beside him yet. Not the kind of partner normal people had. No loyal cop, no military brother-in-arms. No, his so-called partner was Pa Clever, a greasy, balding businessman who ran more cons than Bryan could count. Pa Clever wasn’t here, of course. He rarely was. He stayed behind the safety of his liquor-stained desk, sending Bryan into the filth to do the work.

That was fine. Bryan didn’t like sharing the stage anyway.

His hand twitched slightly as he touched the shaft of one of his silver-tipped bolts. He’d carved a little lightning bolt symbol into the shaft earlier out of boredom. He liked to joke that it made his shots faster. Nerd habits.

There it was again, the scent of blood. Stronger this time. And underneath it, something wild. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He swallowed hard.

Bryan hated himself for it, but he always recognized that smell. Even though he never admitted it out loud, some part of him understood it too well.

Werewolves.

He loaded his crossbow and muttered, “Let’s play fetch, doggy.”

—

The warehouse at the end of the alley was lit from the inside, yellow glow seeping through grimy windows. Bryan crept closer, footsteps soundless on the wet pavement. His heart thumped in his chest, but not with fear. More like anticipation. Hunting was the only time he felt alive.

He slid around the corner, layed low, and peeked through a broken panel.

Inside, three figures stood over a man tied to a chair. The man’s head hunged loosely forward, blood dripping from his mouth onto his shirt. The others weren’t men at all, not anymore.

Their skin rippled in patches, their fingernails curved like claws, their teeth glinting in the low light. Their voices were guttural like a crow, distorted animal trying to crawl through human throats.

Bryan’s lip curled. “Half-shifted freaks. Guess you boys missed the memo on full moons only.”

He raised his crossbow, sighted the closest one. A thick-necked brute sniffing the air — he fired the bolt from his bow.

The silver-tipped shaft buried itself into the beast’s chest. It let out a gurgling snarl, stumbled backward, and collapsed on the floor.

The other two beasts, snarling, their eyes glowing yellow in the dim.

Bryan stepped through the broken panel like he owned the place, loading another bolt. saying. “Hey, boys. Did I crash the family dinner?”

One thursted forward suddenly. Bryan dodged sideways, slammed the butt of the crossbow into the creature’s face, and kicked its legs out from under it. The other rushed him from behind. He felt claws scrape across his hoodie, tearing fabric, missing flesh by an inch. His pulse jumped, not just with adrenaline, but with something stranger, something he didn’t understand.

It was always like this. He could read their movements before they happened, like his body already knew the rhythm of their fight. Like something inside him belonged to them.

He shoved the thought away, jammed another bolt into the beast’s throat, and twisted. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, coating his cheek.

The third creature backed away, lips curled over bloody teeth. Bryan grinned at it. “Go on, run. Tell your friends the nerd says hi.”

It ran through the back exit. Bryan let it go. Always let one go. Pa. Clever paid better when the wolves knew who killed their buddies. Fear was profitable.

The man tied to the chair groaned, lifting his head weakly. Bryan walked over, crouched in front of him, and started cutting the ropes with a silver knife.

“You’re safe now,” Bryan muttered, though his tone was dry, like he was mocking him. “Congratulations, you get to keep breathing in this dump of a city.”

The man’s eyes flickered open, pale green, sharper than Bryan expected. He whispered something, voice trembling.

“...he’ll come for you.”

Bryan froze. “Who?”

The man’s lips curved, just slightly, into something that wasn’t gratitude. More like a warning.

“Your father.”

Bryan moved back, knife slipping in his grip. “What the hell did you just say?”

But before the man could speak again, a bullet tore through the window. It hit the man square in the chest, blowing him back in the chair. Bryan turned his head instinctively, his heart hammering as shards of glass rained around him.

From the broken window above, a shadow moved. A figure crouched with perfect balance, rifle still smoking.

The moonlight caught her face.

Sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, lips curved into a smile expressing scorn. Her eyes locked onto Bryan with the calm precision of a predator who already knew she’d won.

Mayer Christabel.

Bryan’s chest tightened, but not with fear. With something hotter. Something dangerous.

She lowered the rifle and spoke, her voice cool, taunting.

“You’re in the wrong alley, hunter boy.”

Bryan raised his crossbow, even though his palms were slick. His heart didn’t know whether to race from adrenaline or something else entirely.

He forced a grin, saying. “Cute entrance beauty damsel. But next time, try knocking.”

For a second, the warehouse was nothing but silence — two predators staring each other down.

Then, outside, the faint echo of a howl cut through the city night. Long, deep, mournful.

Bryan felt it, vibrated in his bones.

And he had no idea why.