Howl at the Moon

HOWL AT THE MOON An Urban Fantasy Fairy Tale DEBORAH WILDE Copyright © 2023 by Deborah Wilde. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. Book Cover Design by Croco Designs Issued in print and electronic formats. ISBN: 978-1-998888-01-6 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-988681-72-6 (EPUB) Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Excerpt from Blood & Ash Become a Wilde One Acknowledgments About the Author Chapter 1 I hurried through the industrial park double-fisting takeout cups, visions of Pumpkin Spice dancing in my head. Not the flavor—I was a two-shot mocha latte woman—but the digital subject at my research lab. Early versions of my loyal simulated patient had rendered her as speckled with burns as the traditional fall latte was with cinnamon, and, morbid though it was, I chose to make light of it. Thus, Pumpkin Spice, the Virtual Colleague, was born. Listen, if our mega-comet-sporting, black-hole-toting universe could taste like raspberries (true fact!), then my virtual 3D lab subject with disturbingly lifelike renditions of severe burns could have a cute name like Pumpkin Spice. A checkerboard of beige and red loading bay doors dotted the corridor of long brick buildings that ran from my lab to the café. I held my breath as I passed by a herd of blue dumpsters, and a hopeful rat waddled out from between them before disappearing under a forklift. The sodium-vapor streetlamps kicked on, infusing the cool evening with a warm reddish-yellow glow. Should everything go well in the next hour, my rapid regeneration formula for burn victims would be in clinical trials with actual people soon. It would mark almost half a lifetime of work training my magic, attaining my PhD in chemical genetics, and further developing my research at this lab, but my promise would be fulfilled by the time I turned thirty next year. I drank deeply, savoring the very real joy of chocolate and caffeine. A coyote’s howl drowned out the grinding noises from the metal fabrication workshop a couple blocks over. Those furry bastards roamed like gangs in a turf war around here, so I picked up my pace. The only contrast to the concrete and asphalt was a scraggly patch of half-wilted purple asters poking up from a crack in the low retaining wall. They were so bright and colorful they almost seemed fake. I smiled. One more underdog beating the odds. I balanced the takeout cups one on top of the other in my right hand and engaged my Weaver magic. My specialty was light, specifically weaving precise targeted beams from the red light and infrared end of the spectrum. Even when I couldn’t see that light with the naked eye, I sensed it. While I could also manipulate light with a higher Kelvin count, like blue light or sunlight, handling the wide spectrum was tricky. I was unwieldy at best and dangerous if I lost control. I brushed the pads of my fingers, now glowing pale orange, over the asters. Weaver magic manifested in a variety of ways. Some could manipulate thread so deftly that they unraveled a garment to reform a cocoon or even a solid spike to impale a person. Others wove plant material while a very rare few could weave water or fire. It all depended on power level and training. A low-level Weaver might be able to stitch a fallen hem with their magic and not much else. The most common professional use was ward building, magically stitching a client’s blood into thresholds. I had better things to do with my abilities than keep corporate towers and dictators safe. The purple petals bloomed into fat, lush blossoms as I deftly wove light into the cellular structure of the flowers, speeding up photosynthesis. I gave them a final pat and rounded the corner, my anxiety battling it out with excitement as the sleek façade of Perrault Biotech came into view. My second home was a two-story T-shaped structure. The offices, conference rooms, and break areas formed the short part of the letter “T,” while the labs occupied the longer section. It reminded me of a superhero HQ: totally unremarkable from the outside while behind those doors we were secretly revolutionizing the world of medicine. The research lab I worked at was home to many magical and scientific breakthroughs for the advancement of healthcare, one of the top in the Toronto area. Would I be adding to those achievements tonight? I’d soon find out. I swung the front door open and entered the lobby to the mellow bossa nova of “Girl from Ipanema” streaming smoothly out of inset ceiling speakers. Ella Fortose, the research facility’s office manager, was busy signing files left for her by our receptionist, Kaitlin. From Ella’s neat chignon to her elegant all-silk ensemble and impeccably color-coded calendar, the sixty-something brunette effortlessly held our office together. “Celebratory coffee?” She placed the last file on top of the pile. “Garden-variety stimulant.” “If anyone can leap this last hurdle, it’s you. From day one you put your head down and didn’t let any setback derail you.” She pulled out her phone and swiped at the screen, her French manicure flawless. “You’ve nailed this. A fact I’m so