It was always raining in Gravewell.
Not the clean kind of rain that refreshed the earth, but the acidic, grey drizzle that made the rust on metal scream and turned alleyways into diseased veins of steam and filth. A city where shadows didn't need darkness to thrive—just silence. Just indifference.
Salem Rayne stood at the edge of Bridge 17, coat drenched and heavy, a cigarette burning low between his lips. His sharp, amber eyes traced the skyline, buildings like broken teeth jagging out from the throat of the city. His breath fogged, half from the cold, half from something deeper. Something wrong.
The stench of blood clung to the air.
He dropped the half-smoked cigarette and crushed it beneath a worn boot. His eyes flicked down to the scene below.
A corpse—ripped to shreds, pieces of flesh hanging off shattered bone. Torn ligaments, exposed ribcage, and worse: a badge half-buried in the gory mess. The body of Councilor Henrik Vale, one of the last human officials who believed werewolves could be reasoned with.
This wasn't a message. It was a goddamn declaration of war.
From behind him, a voice:
"So you came."
Salem didn't turn. He didn't need to. He recognized the scent even through the rot and copper in the air—Mara, with her sweet herbal perfume and faint trace of lilac and burnt sage.
"I said I was out," Salem muttered.
She stepped beside him, her coat black and sleek, eyes like stormclouds—beautiful, dangerous, and tired in all the ways he was. "You were. Until this. Until they blamed one of us and strung him up in the square like a dog."
Salem clenched his jaw. "He didn't do this."
"No," she agreed. "But they won't care. Not now."
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the distant hum of sirens and the buzz of an industrial drone above. Mara shifted her gaze to him.
"You still get the dreams?" she asked softly.
His eyes flicked to her. The rain dripping down her cheeks almost made her look like she was crying.
"Not dreams," he said. "Memories."
The Moonbite curse. Most wolves blacked out during their transformations. Not Salem. He remembered everything. Every scream. Every pulse. Every neck crushed in his hands. It gnawed at his sanity like rust through steel.
Below, lights flickered. The Enforcers were wrapping up the scene.
"Come back," she said. "We need you. The Hollow Pack's making moves. This wasn't random."
He didn't answer. Didn't need to. His hand, already scarred, flexed slightly—and she saw the hint of claws under his skin.
Hours later, Salem stood in a run-down speakeasy tucked beneath a forgotten subway line. The Barrowhound, a neutral zone run by witches, ghosts, and all things that knew better than to ask questions. The whiskey here was mixed with painkillers and spell-ash. He needed both.
He didn't drink to forget. He drank so the memories wouldn't cut so deep.
That was when Kellan showed up—young, arrogant, all sharp edges and glowing eyes. He dropped into the booth across from Salem with no warning.
"You're Salem Rayne?" the kid asked.
Salem raised a brow. "Who's asking?"
"The guy whose brother got framed," Kellan growled. "I was there. I saw it. It wasn't him. I know who did it. And I know where they're going next."
He slid over a small datachip. Salem caught the scent on it—silver, blood, and hollow ash.
His stomach twisted.
Later that night, on the edge of the abandoned meat district, Salem tracked the scent into a half-demolished slaughterhouse. He was barely through the loading dock when something hit him from behind.
He tumbled across the floor, landing hard on concrete. When he looked up—
A creature lunged.
Not fully wolf. Not fully man. A feral werewolf corrupted by the blood plague, eyes like red voids, fangs hanging out of a jaw that had split too wide. It moved like hunger incarnate, slavering, muscles twitching with unnatural spasms.
Salem dodged left, barely avoiding a swipe that tore through steel like paper. He gritted his teeth and allowed his body to shift.
Bones cracked. His spine stretched. Fur burst from skin as claws lengthened.
His vision went gold.
He didn't scream. He never did.
The fight was a blur of blood and velocity.
The feral was strong—faster than most—but sloppy. It lunged with animal rage. Salem fought with control. He ducked under the first charge, slashing across its ribs. Gore sprayed, but the beast didn't feel it.
It headbutted him into a pillar, concrete shattering.
He spit out blood.
With a roar, Salem drove his claws up into the creature's side and tore downward, spilling entrails in steaming coils. The feral shrieked, but even as it staggered, it regenerated.
Too fast.
Salem blinked. "You're not just infected," he muttered. "You're… bred."
The creature grinned, mouth too wide.
It wasn't alone.
Three more emerged from the shadows—twisted, howling, unstable.
Salem was surrounded.
What followed was hell.
He moved like a storm, teeth bared, claws flashing. For every limb he tore off, another struck him. Blood—his and theirs—splattered across rusted machinery. He bit through a throat. He lost a chunk of his shoulder. He drove a spike through a skull. His ribs cracked. His fury was not blind—it was precise.
One by one, they fell. Bones snapped. Heads crushed. A leg torn off at the joint.
At the end, Salem stood—soaked in blood, breathing heavy, body torn, eyes wide.
He was still in control.
Barely.
From the shadows, a slow clap echoed.
Salem turned, teeth bared.
Mara stood at the edge, face grim. "You still got it."
He wiped his mouth. "You followed me?"
"You think I'd let you face that alone?" she said softly.
Their eyes held—for a moment, there was something old and warm between them. Then it flickered.
Mara looked at the bodies. "The Hollow Pack is weaponizing the plague. These weren't infected. They were created."
Salem clenched his fists. "Then we burn them to the ground."
Her eyes narrowed. "You sure you're ready for that?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.