Book One: The Bite Of The Elder

Thirteen: The Violet Variant

Sometimes the simplest desires were the most formidable. Sometimes the instincts instructing us in how to persevere our lives were more impairing than beneficial. In some debates, it could be imputed that it was the werewolf venom; it was a curse caused to make the victim and those they care about suffer endlessly. It would remove a lot of the blame off the shoulders of humans with the curse, but it wouldn't remove the guilt of hurting someone they loved, that is, if they even cared; most lycanthropes, with time, numbed themselves to the notion of taking the lives of innocent people. There was no substantial justification for existing in liability for actions they did not commit. It wasn't them doing the slaughtering, they had their choice taken away once they had been bitten. Then there were the malevolent ones who exulted in the hunt. Those kinds of werewolves espoused the transformation, which made it quicker and painless for them. Remus Greyhound and Selene Lykos were perfect examples of how lycanthropes could think they were above everything. Destiny, the universe, and everything in between.

    The werewolf venom changed every person it infected whether they wanted to or not. Some didn't even realize they were altered until someone made it obvious. It could be pitiful to watch or empowering; every situation was different. Evan wasn't a terrible person despite critically assessing most people by their appearance alternatively to getting to know them. He tried to make the people around him happy, like Miss Sanchez or Nova, and while he could have his selfish moments, he never turned his back on his friends. The blonde was aware he could be temperamental, snappish at times when his patience was running low, but before he was bitten, he had never inherently raised a hand to attack someone with the intent to kill or hurt them beyond recognition. Not until now.

The beast aspired to seize the human to take it into its custody. It had no other desire at the moment but to possess the human to do as it pleased with him. He knew his name, yet he could not place it, nor did he care to. Killing the pale being was not its purpose, for the werewolf had other dispositions for him. Snarling, it waited for its claws to grow back before recapitulating with its endeavor to escape the silver bars that confined it to the stone cellar. Its efforts intensified when the man walked away, disappearing from the lycanthrope's sight. The wolf snarled vividly, chains of drool dripping from its open jaws as white-hot blinding anger caused the beast to go into a frenzy as it commenced slamming its entire body against the bars creating large dents in the structure. The bars shrieked as the werewolf threw its entire weight onto them, hissing viciously when they came into contact with the werewolf's flesh burning through the thick coat and onto the skin, burning through the layers of muscle until it reached the bone. The beast hardly seemed to care, only pulling back for a few seconds to heal before attacking the bars once more. The ceiling shook, cracking at the edges where the bars were threatening to collapse. Just before the roof collapsed, however, the ex-hunter returned into its line of vision, ceasing its efforts of breaking through the bars when it caught sight of the slabs of meat he carried on his shoulders.