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The Moonlit Claws

The Moonlit Claws

Diana Lane

Last update: 1970-01-01

Chapter 1 The Hollow Moon

  • Elara Morrin jolted awake, lungs dragging in air like she'd surfaced from deep water. Smoke—ghostly, acrid—clung to her senses. Her skin was slick with sweat, her fingers curled into the mattress like claws. Behind her eyes burned the same image: a silver-eyed girl standing in a forest of flames.
  • Every night, the dream hunted her. A wildfire devouring ancient trees. Inhuman howls weaving through smoke. And that feeling—raw, animal terror—clawing up her throat.
  • She threw off the blanket and sat up, heart pounding like war drums. The early Ashridge chill seeped through the thin windowpane, but it couldn’t douse the heat coiling beneath her skin.
  • Nineteen years had taught Elara to keep her strangeness hidden—her unnatural strength, the sharp instincts that flared like warning sirens, the low hum under her skin that felt alive, electric.
  • Uncontainable.
  • The creak of the floorboards under her feet was grounding. Familiar. This tiny room—cramped and impersonal—was just one more foster stop, just one more place she’d never call home.
  • Ashridge was a sleepy speck of a town at the edge of the brooding Blackwood Forest. People liked it for its quiet. Elara hated it for the same reason. Stillness always made the storm inside her louder.
  • Downstairs, the unmistakable scent of burnt toast meant Liam was awake.
  • Of course.
  • Liam Gray—her best friend, her brother in every way that counted—was the only person who never asked too many questions. He had been her anchor since they were kids, surviving foster care together. Where Elara was storm and steel, Liam was warmth and chaos.
  • "Morning, sleepyhead," he called from the kitchen table, his mouth full, his breakfast blackened beyond salvation. “Another cinematic nightmare?”
  • Elara reached for a glass of water, voice dry. “Same dream. Fire, furry monsters, screaming. A real bedtime classic.” She let out a low sigh. “You’d think after a decade, they would get less intense.”
  • Liam didn’t joke this time. He looked up, concern threading through his features. He’d seen the changes—seen the mug shatter in her grip last week, seen her jump a six-foot fence without breaking a sweat.
  • “You look exhausted,” he said softly. “And... the neighbor’s cat hissed at you again. What did you ever do to it?”
  • “Nothing,” Elara smirked, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Maybe I just smell like burnt toast, it’s an acquired taste.”
  • But as she caught her reflection in the window glass, her smile faded. Silver-gray eyes, too bright, stared back—unnerving even to her. Sometimes they shimmered. Sometimes they didn’t feel human at all.
  • And the crescent-shaped birthmark on her collarbone? It pulsed faintly, like a warning light.
  • Liam cleared his throat. “Heading to the library. Need to dig into some old Ashridge Gazette archives. You in?”
  • The library was dusty, quiet, and free of Mrs. Gable’s lectures about “young lady decorum.” Elara hesitated. “Maybe later. I need to walk off the crazy.”
  • By afternoon, the air had thickened—heavy, charged, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. Elara tried to busy herself, but her skin prickled. The energy beneath it surged, restless and wild.
  • When a delivery truck backfired outside, a low growl rumbled from her throat—instinctive, wrong. She clamped her hand over her mouth, heart stuttering. That hadn’t been human.
  • As dusk fell, so did the rain—slow at first, then relentless. Liam had left hours ago. The house felt too quiet, her skin too tight.
  • She needed to move.
  • The Blackwood Forest loomed at the town’s edge like a living thing, and Elara found her feet pulling her toward it. The air grew colder, the trees thicker. The whispers came—soft, eerie, like the echoes of forgotten voices. The deeper she walked, the more it felt like coming home to a place she'd never been.
  • Then: headlights. Screeching tires.
  • She turned.
  • A black sedan roared around the bend, too fast, too wild. Her body locked. She moved to leap away, but a root caught her foot. She hit the ground hard—
  • —and the car hit harder.
  • Pain exploded through her—but it wasn’t the end. It was a beginning.
  • Her body didn’t break. It ignited.
  • Agony tore through her bones, but beneath the searing fire, something else stirred. Her vision sharpened, transformed. The forest exploded into color and scent—every raindrop, every heartbeat, every trembling leaf.
  • Her spine arched as her bones cracked and reshaped. She screamed—a sound that splintered into something feral.
  • Claws burst from her fingers, shredding denim. Her teeth split, elongated, becoming weapons. Her muscles rippled under her skin, coiling like a predator’s.
  • She stumbled forward, deeper into the woods, each step a war. She wasn’t imagining it anymore. The dreams, the instincts, the birthmark—they were real.
  • She hit her knees in the mud, trembling, choking on a scream that was no longer human. The earth split beneath her fists. Blood—hers? Not hers?—filled her mouth.
  • And then it came.
  • A howl—deep, primal, ancient—ripped from her throat, echoing into the storm-slashed sky.
  • It was a sound not of pain, but of awakening.
  • When it ended, silence fell—thick and reverent. And Elara Morrin understood, with bone-deep clarity:
  • She was no longer just a girl.
  • Something old had claimed her.
  • And the world would soon feel it.