17 Blue Moon Pack

Becca

Jason steps next to me as I hide behind a tree. He peeks forward, sniffing for any danger again.

“Yes, I know. But only a human,” he replies with a frown on his forehead.

There’s no one in sight. Everything is silent, but the creaking of the fire and the scent of stew cooking.

We move forward, slowly and carefully, looking around. The forest is the same wild as all day: animals scrape about without fear of being hunted down.

As we reach the back of one bungalow, and as Jason touches it, his face turns sour. His shoulders slump, and his head falls over sadly. “There aren’t any werewolves here,” he whispers with conviction.

I frown at his statement. We’ve already established that. I can smell only one human, a male, to be precise.

“If there aren’t any werewolves here, why do we smell them?” I ask in a hushed tone.

Jason frowns before answering and caresses the bungalow. “Is it possible to smell the memory of someone?” he asks, still in a daze.

“The memory?” I ask, copying his move