The First Shift

POV: Olivia

The storm came without warning.

One minute, the house was breathing its evening rhythm—bathwater running, pyjama drawers sticking, Daisy scolding the pink toothbrush as if it had betrayed her. Next, the wind shouldered the eaves hard enough to rattle the frames. Rain blurred the treeline into a black smear. Thunder rolled up through the ground and shook the walls. Somewhere far off a transformer blew; the lights dipped, then steadied with a strained hum.

Storms never used to scare me. Not before. In Red Moon, storms meant strength—wolves running under a sky that bared its teeth. After I ran, storms became omens. The old instinct in me always lifted its head and listened.

“Do we have to sleep?” Hyden asked, toes sneaking toward the rug with the racetrack on it.

“It’s raining,” Harvey added, as if that was proof bedtime was unreasonable.

“Rain means bed faster,” I said, towel in one hand, comb in the other. “Tomorrow’s school. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“What’s big?” Lily asked, tucking her fox under the blanket with surgical care.

“You are,” I said, kissing her forehead because the truth would wobble my voice.

Daisy sat on her pillow throne and scowled at the thunder. “Tell it to be quiet.”

“I’ll put in a request. Might take six to eight weeks.”

She sighed. The storm growled again, louder. Harvey grinned. Hyden’s eyes flicked toward the back door, and my stomach twisted—danger doesn’t always walk on two legs.

“Books,” I said. “One each.”

“Two,” Lily bargained.

“One.”

We read under the hall lamp, its glow pooling over their blankets. When the last page turned, I smoothed hair and left the door almost—almost—closed. The house was that kind of quiet where you can hear your own pulse.

Locks: checked. Front. Side. Windows. Finally the back door—the one that opened to the yard and the trees beyond. I pressed my palm to it, felt the storm breathe through the seam.

“Twice,” I murmured, turning the deadbolt again just to hear the click.

The power flickered. The kettle hissed. I leaned on the counter, pretending to be steady.

A floorboard creaked.

“Mama?” Harvey’s voice cracked. He stumbled into the kitchen, Hyden right behind him, pale and trembling.

“What is it, loves?”

Harvey rubbed his arms hard. “It feels…wrong. My skin. It’s too tight.”

“Me too,” Hyden gasped, fists against his chest. “It hurts.”

Alarm spiked sharply in my throat. I crouched, hands on their cheeks. “What hurts?”

“All over, Mama!” Harvey sobbed. “Please, make it stop!”

“Everywhere,” Hyden gritted, jaw clenched. “It’s burning.”

The bottom dropped out of me. Not fever. Not growing pains.

“Oh God,” I whispered. “You’re shifting.”

“Shifting?” Lily gasped from the doorway, clutching her fox so tight its seams strained. Daisy dropped her doll, wide-eyed.

“No,” I choked. “Not now. Not at five. Not without the moon.” I looked out the window again just to be sure—no silver glow, no pale disc. Only storm. Wolves shift under a full moon. That’s what I’d been told. That’s what I’d read. So how were mine changing now, on a night with no moon and rain tearing the sky in half?

“You’re only babies.”

Another thunderclap. Harvey folded with a cry. Hyden collapsed to his knees with a sound that was half-sob, half-snarl.

“Mama!” Harvey screamed. “It hurts!”

“I know, baby, I know.” My arms went around them, though their small bodies writhed like they didn’t fit inside themselves anymore. “Don’t hold your breath. Breathe it out. Always breathe it out. I’ve got you. Mama’s here.”

Their spines bowed. Joints popped like distant firecrackers. Their skin rippled as if something beneath pressed hard against it.

“Why are they screaming?” Lily cried, trying to push past Daisy.

“Stay back!” My voice cracked. “Stay with your sister.”

“They’re breaking,” Daisy whispered, eyes wet.

“No.” My heart shredded. “They’re becoming. Too soon, too strong—but not breaking.”

I clawed through memory—snatches of overheard lessons, forbidden books, whispers at Red Moon. Keep them breathing. Keep them moving. Touch if they’ll let you. Don’t let fear scar them.

“Listen to me, loves!” I cried, forcing steadiness I didn’t feel. “It hurts, I know. But you’re not alone. Your bodies are remembering what they are. Don’t fight—let it come. If you fight, the pain lasts longer. Trust me. Just breathe.”

The boys shuddered. Harvey whimpered, Hyden gasped. Their hands stretched wrong, then right. Their shoulders rolled as if new joints had decided where they belonged. Heat poured off them.

“Outside,” I gasped, hauling them toward the back door. “We can’t—inside—come, loves, come.”

I bent close, my lips against their damp hair. “Just breathe, and don’t fight it. It will feel like it’s tearing you apart, but it’s only making room. Don’t fight. Mama’s here.”

We burst into the yard. The storm slammed us with rain and wind. Lightning split the sky, and in the white flash I saw it—limbs bending, spines arching, faces stretching, jaws pushing forward. Their cries split into raw sounds that weren’t human anymore.

“No, no, no.” My tears mixed with rain. “This isn’t how it’s meant to be. Not like this.”

Then fur tore through—dark, slick, relentless. Skin shivered, reshaped, sealed itself into something new.

One blink: my sons, my babies with milk still dried at the corners of their mouths.

The next: wolves.

Too big. Too strong. Their shoulders brushed my chest. Their eyes—gold, burning, Luther’s eyes—cut through me.

“Mama?” Lily cried, panic sharp. “What are they?”

“They’re wolves,” I whispered, though the words tasted like grief.

“They’re only five,” Daisy said, voice small.

They’re only babies.

The words burned through me like fire.

The boys staggered, whimpering, confused by new bodies. They pressed into me, heat rolling off sodden fur, hearts beating like hammers.

“You’re okay,” I crooned, stroking their coats with shaking hands. “Easy now. Slow steps. Breathe with me. Just breathe. You’re not alone. You’re never alone.”

Their ribs heaved under my palms. Their whines softened, though their bodies still trembled. Behind me, the girls clung together, eyes flickering gold, fear painting their faces.

“Don’t be afraid,” I told all four of them at once, though my own fear tasted like iron. “This doesn’t make you monsters. You’re mine. Always mine.”

Then Harvey tipped his head back and howled. Thin at first, cracking, then stronger, carrying. Hyden joined, lower, rougher. Together, they filled the night.

“Quiet!” I begged, tears choking me. “Please—you’ll draw them—you’ll draw him—”

But the howl didn’t stop. It rose and rose until even the storm seemed to bow.

And I felt it. The bond. A wire plucked taut across a distance I couldn’t measure.

He will feel this.

He already does.

I buried my face in Harvey’s wet fur, clutching both boys with everything I had.

“I love you,” I whispered into the storm. “Always. Whatever comes, I love you.”