The Bull

“The Bull”

*~ Game Warden Pete POV*

The bull was spread open like a book.

Ribs cracked wide, steam still lifting off the torn muscle. Flies already circling, fat and slow in the morning heat.

Pete stood just outside the perimeter of blood, squinting in the sun. His boots crunched over crushed thistle and disturbed gravel. Something had charged the barbed wire fence, snapped it clean, and torn through two acres of hard-packed pasture like it was nothing.

Behind him, Clay Hobbs spat a dark streak into the dirt and folded his arms. His boy, Levi, was pacing. And Sarah—the quiet one—just stared at what was left of the animal like she was memorizing it.

“That’s the third one this year,” Clay said, voice low. “But this one? This one was my stud bull. Cost me fifteen grand.”

Pete didn’t speak yet. He crouched down, examining the ground. Tracks. Deep. Wide. Not quite cat. Not quite wolf either. But fast. He could feel it in the churned earth. Whatever did this had momentum.

He stood.

“You sure it wasn’t dogs?” he offered, even though he didn’t believe it.

Clay’s mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“Don’t insult me.”

Levi stopped pacing. “This is that reintroduction bullshit, isn’t it? You dropped wolves back in last winter.”

“I didn’t drop anything,” Pete said. “That was the feds. And they only released two females with collars. One died. One left the range.”

“Then what the hell’s this?” Levi snapped, gesturing to the ruin in front of them. “Coyotes don’t do this. Cats don’t go for bulls. Only thing big enough out here with that kind of bite is a goddamn wolf.”

Sarah finally spoke.

“Or something worse.”

The others looked at her. She didn’t flinch.

Pete felt the back of his neck prickle. He kept his face neutral.

“I’ll set cams. Check the perimeter. If it’s a rogue predator, we’ll track it and relocate.”

“No.” Clay’s voice hardened. “No more relocate. No more paperwork. This is our land. If you won’t handle it—”

“We will,” Levi cut in. “Hunt starts tomorrow. Unofficial, if it has to be.”

“That’s illegal,” Pete said.

“So’s letting our stock get butchered.” Levi stepped forward. “You want to protect the wolves? Fine. But if you don’t stop this thing, we will. Bullets first. Questions never.”

Pete didn’t answer right away.

He looked out at the trees beyond the pasture. They stood still, too still, like something was watching from inside.

And maybe it was.

“Give me forty-eight hours,” Pete said finally. “If I don’t have answers by then… I won’t stop you.”

Clay nodded once.

Levi didn’t.

Sarah looked up at the sky. Just a sliver of moon, already fading in daylight.

She said, quietly, “It’s still hungry.”

⸻

“Forty-Eight Hours”

*~ Pete POV*

The video started at 4:17 a.m.

Infrared lit the trees in ghost white, all branches and silence. For a while, there was nothing but wind and mist.

Then movement.

A figure stepped into frame from the left. Barefoot. Staggering. Skin bright as bone under the lens.

Pete leaned in. Froze the frame.

It was Grace.

Naked. Mud-streaked. Blood on her thigh. Hair matted, purple streak like a war flag in the dark.

She walked like someone carrying weight. Not on her shoulders—in her bones.

She didn’t look at the camera. She just passed by. Slowly. Head down. Hands clenched.

The timestamp flickered.

4:17:52

4:17:53

4:17:54

And then—just before she vanished into the trees—she stopped.

Turned her head.

Looked straight at the lens.

Not startled. Not confused.

Just a glance. Calm. Focused.

Like she knew he’d be watching.

Pete exhaled. Sat back. Rubbed a hand over his face.

Then he grabbed his keys.

⸻

“The Warning”

*~ Grace POV*

She was splitting wood behind the cabin when she heard the truck.

The axe froze mid-swing.

Grace wiped her hands on her jeans—borrowed, too big, cinched with a rope—and turned as Pete stepped out of his dusty pickup.

He didn’t wave.

She didn’t either.

“Grace,” he said, voice neutral. “You got a minute?”

She nodded. “If this is about the burn permits, I already filed—”

“It’s not.” He took a step closer. “You been out walking lately?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Pete looked tired. Jaw tight. One hand on his belt, near the radio but not touching it.

“I’ve had cameras up near Hobbs Ranch,” he said. “Something’s been killing livestock. A bull this time. Big one.”

She said nothing.

“Ripped through a fence like it was twine,” he continued. “Didn’t eat. Just killed. Blood everywhere.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

He reached into his jacket. Pulled out a photo. Held it up without handing it over.

A grainy still. Her. In the trees. Bare and blank-eyed.

“Trail cam caught this yesterday. You heading home?”

Her eyes flicked to the image. Then away.

“I was out,” she said softly.

“No clothes?”

She shrugged. “I was sick. Fever. I’ve had… episodes.”

Pete nodded like he already knew. Like he just wanted her to say it out loud.

“The Hobbs family is angry. Levi’s ready to start a hunt. Said if I don’t stop it, he will.”

Grace looked past him, toward the trees.

“And will you?” she asked.

“Stop it?” he echoed.

“No. Hunt it.”

Pete didn’t answer right away. The wind moved between them, dry and restless.

Finally, he said, “I don’t know what you are. But I saw your eyes in that frame, Grace. You weren’t lost.”

She looked back at him.

“I’m trying,” she said. “I really am.”

“Try faster,” he said, voice flat. “Because next time it’s not a bull—it’s going to be someone’s kid. And then it won’t be me up here. It’ll be rifles. Dogs. Traps. No questions.”

She flinched.

Pete turned to leave.

Stopped.

“One more thing.”

She looked up.

“You ever hear a wolf cry without opening its mouth?”

She didn’t answer.

He nodded, like he didn’t expect her to.

Then he got in his truck and drove away.

⸻

“Submarine Races”

*~ Lake Larkspur – 11:43 p.m.*

The lake was glass, black and silver under the moon.

Two kids sat on the hood of a battered Toyota Camry, half-dressed, limbs tangled. Radio low. Windows fogged. Breathless laughter drifting up with the mosquitoes.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, pulling back.

The boy froze. “No. Just the water.”

She sat up, squinting at the tree line. A shape moved there. Fast. Low.

The boy reached into the glove box, pulled out a flashlight, clicked it on. The beam barely reached the brush.

“Probably a coyote,” he said. “Or a deer.”

She didn’t look convinced. “That wasn’t a deer.”

A low rustle behind them. Then—thump. The sound of something heavy landing on dirt.

They both turned.

A shape stood at the edge of the fire road. Tall. Naked. Gleaming in the moonlight.

At first, it looked like a woman.

Then it moved.

Too fast. Too smooth. Too silent.

Eyes caught the light—pale and sharp like broken glass.

“Who the hell—” the boy started.

The girl screamed.

The thing snarled.

Then it was running.

⸻

Everything broke at once.

The boy scrambled to the passenger door, yanked open the glovebox again—this time pulling out his dad’s old revolver.

The girl was already halfway into the car, fumbling for the keys, sobbing.

Grace lunged—claws dragging a furrow across the hood, denting the metal. Her body twisted, not quite human, not quite wolf. Limbs too long. Teeth flashing.

The boy fired.

BANG!

The bullet hit her dead center.

She staggered—then stood tall again.

No blood.

BANG! BANG!

Two more shots. Both center mass.

Nothing. The rounds passed through her like mist. No wound. No cry. Just a low growl like gravel in the lungs.

“They’re not silver,” Grace hissed, voice not fully hers.

The girl shrieked. The car roared to life.

Grace leapt—left claw smashing the side mirror, right hand raking down the door. But she didn’t follow.

Not all the way.

⸻

The car tore off, fishtailing down the gravel road, taillights disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Back at the lake, Grace stood alone.

Breathing hard. Shaking.

She looked down at her chest. No marks. No pain. Just skin cooling in the night air.

The wolf wanted to chase.

Wanted to finish it.

But something in her held back. Just barely.

She turned and sprinted into the trees, swallowed by the dark.

⸻

“Later…”

*~ Game Warden Pete’s Desk – 2:12 a.m.*

Police report on his desk. Scribbled notes. Half a drawing. Girl’s voice trembling on the 911 recording:

“It was a woman—no, a monster. We shot it. We shot it three times—nothing happened. It looked at us like it was bored.”

Pete rubbed his temples.

Then underlined the last word she’d said before the call cut out:

“Smiling.”

⸻

“Talk of the Town”

*~ Morning – Grace POV*

The coffee shop was louder than usual.

Not with music. With voices.

The whole town buzzed like a beehive kicked too hard.

Grace sat in the corner, hoodie up, hands wrapped around a paper cup she hadn’t sipped from. She stared through the window at the street—people moving faster than normal, eyes flicking toward the woods like something might leap out at any second.

“—three shots and it didn’t go down—”

“—huge, like a bear, but upright—”

“—teenagers lie all the time, but not like this—”

“—werewolf, I swear to God, Steve saw it too—”

She shrunk into herself.

Her reflection in the glass didn’t look like her anymore. Her cheeks were hollow. Her eyes too sharp. Every sound was too loud.

She hadn’t slept.

“You hear they found claw marks on the Ranger station back door?”

“—wild dogs, my ass—”

She stood and left before she screamed.

⸻

“The Letter”

*~ Grace’s Cabin – Dusk*

The envelope was wedged in the doorframe.

No stamp. No return address.

Just her name. Scrawled in dark ink.

Grace turned it over. Opened it with numb fingers.

Inside:

You’re not the first.

You’re not crazy.

Meet me. Midnight. Old mill road.

Come alone.

— R

She stared at it. For a long time.

Then read it again.

⸻

“The Mill”

*~ Midnight – Grace POV*

The air smelled like rot and rust.

The old mill had been shut for twenty years—tin roof collapsed, floorboards warped, moss swallowing the stone foundation.

Grace stepped into the clearing slowly, heart pounding. Her bare feet moved like she was expecting to be watched. Or hunted.

Then—

“Glad you came,” said a voice from the dark.

She spun.

An older man stood at the edge of the trees. Lean. Weathered. Dressed in layered flannel and old canvas, like he hadn’t left the woods in years.

He lit a cigarette. The flare of the lighter caught the edge of his face: scarred jaw, one eye milky.

He didn’t step closer.

“You don’t smell like death yet,” he said. “That’s good.”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Roy. You can call me that or not. Doesn’t matter.”

She tensed. “Why are you following me?”

“I’m not,” he said simply. “I followed the blood. You just happened to be at the end of it.”

He took a drag. The smoke curled like a signal.

“I know what’s happening to you,” he said.

Grace said nothing.

“You think you’re going crazy. You think maybe this is all in your head. But it’s not. You’re turning.”

“Turning into what?”

He tilted his head. “You already know.”

She looked away. Grit her teeth.

“You’re not the only one,” he said. “Not now. Not ever. And you’ve got two choices, girl.”

He flicked the cigarette into the dirt. Stepped forward—just once.

“You learn to live with it… or you die fast and ugly when they come with torches.”

⸻

“The Shape Beneath”

*~ Two Nights After the Letter – Grace POV*

The moon wasn’t full. Not yet.

But she felt it anyway—low and humming behind her ribs, like it had teeth.

Roy led her up an overgrown trail behind the mill, past birch trees and moss-covered rock. Neither spoke. The only sound was the snap of twigs and the dry whisper of her own breath.

They stopped in a clearing. Moonlight slicked the stones like silver oil.

“Sit,” Roy said.

She did.

“You feel it?”

She nodded. “Always.”

He crouched beside her. Tossed a tin flask into her lap.

“Tincture,” he said. “Yarrow, nightshade, crushed bone. Helps you change without losing the thread.”

She looked up. “What if I don’t want to?”

He smiled, not kind. “Then run. And hope I don’t come looking.”

Grace drank.

It burned. Cold, then hot, then everything. The forest tilted. Her skin crawled like it wanted to leave her body.

“Let it happen,” Roy said softly.

And it did.

⸻

Her teeth ached. Her spine rippled. Her breath came fast, shallow, sharp.

She felt her fingers stretch, bend, claw. Bones grinding under skin. Not pain. Not really.

Revelation.

She didn’t black out.

She stayed there. Inside.

She could feel her skin turn to fur. Her jaw pull forward. Her thoughts sharpen, not fade.

And across from her, Roy—

—was already a wolf.

Not a Hollywood beast. Not snarling. Just watching.

Huge. Still. Familiar.

And in his eyes: not menace.

Memory.

She didn’t run.

Not this time.