Moonlit Magic

PROLOGUE

Nathan

The barber’s shears snipped close to his scalp, the whisper of falling hair louder than his sister’s relentless teasing.

"Is this some significant coming-of-age Nate ritual?" Tamara smirked, leaning against the mirror, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.

Nathan exhaled through his nose. "I’m just trying something new. Please leave me alone."

She deepened her voice, puffing out her chest in a poor imitation of him. "I’m Nathan Parker, future alpha, and I take myself very seriously—"

He swatted at her, but she dodged, cackling as she slapped his shoulder. "Mum is going to kill you."

He’d already braced for it. His mother had opinions about his hair—how it should be long, how it should flow like his father’s, like a proper alpha’s. He’d timed this perfectly, though. She wouldn’t be back from her council meeting until after he’d left for Blackthorn. By then, her dramatics would have to be delivered via furious voicemails.

The barber spun the chair around, and Nathan stared at his reflection.

Gone were the shoulder-length waves he’d had for years. Now, his hair was cropped close at the sides, slightly longer on top—sharp, clean, different. He didn’t hate it. But he didn’t recognize himself either.

Tamara whistled. "Damn. You look…" She tilted her head. "Older. Like you’re actually about to be in charge of people."

Nathan rolled his eyes, but something in his chest tightened.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was about to be in charge. Not now, not for years—but the weight of it had started pressing down on him anyway. His father’s speeches echoed in his skull: "An alpha must be strong. An alpha must be controlled. An alpha must—"

Yeah. He knew.

He tossed the barber a tip and stood, ignoring Tamara’s dramatic sigh about his "tragic loss of luscious locks."

Back home, his duffel bag waited on his bed, half-packed. He shoved in the last of his clothes, his textbooks, the obsidian dagger his grandfather had given him—"For protection, not posturing."

As he zipped the bag shut, a strange restlessness prickled under his skin.

It had been creeping up on him for weeks. A feeling like the air before a storm, like the moment before a hunt. Like something—or someone—was coming.

And he needed to be ready.

CHAPTER ONE

Rita 

The car ride was too quiet.

Rita clenched her jaw, staring out the window as the trees blurred past. Her mother’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, her dark eyes fixed on the road like she was afraid to look at her. Like she was afraid to stop—because if she did, she might have to admit what this really was.

You’re dumping me.

The words burned in Rita’s throat, but she swallowed them down. Four months since Dad’s funeral. Four months of her mother’s silent grief, of meals eaten in separate rooms, of the hollow ache in Rita’s chest that no amount of crying seemed to fill.

And now? Now she was being shipped off to her grandmother’s like a problem to be solved.

“You’ll love Blackthorn,” her mother had said, voice brittle. “It’s where you belong.”

But Rita didn’t want to belong somewhere else. She wanted to belong here, with the only family she had left.

She forced a breath. Small talk. Keep it light.

“Think Gogo will make us that spicy stew tonight?”

Her mother’s fingers twitched on the wheel. “If you ask her.”

Rita bit back a sigh.

The Farm

Her grandmother’s home was a burst of color and life against the rolling green hills—a little piece of South Africa tucked into the American countryside. Chickens pecked at the dirt near the fence, goats bleated in the distance, and the rich, earthy scent of herbs and turned soil filled the air.

Gogo stood waiting on the porch, her beaded necklaces clinking softly as she waved.

Rita didn’t wait for the car to fully stop before she bolted out.

“Hey Gogo!”

“Sthandwa!” Her grandmother’s arms wrapped around her, warm and solid, smelling of dried herbs and something sweetly familiar. “Look at you, taller every time.”

Rita buried her face in her grandmother’s shoulder, just for a second, just to breathe.

Her mother lingered by the car, hesitating before stepping forward.

“Mama.”

Gogo’s smile softened. “Pearl.”

The air between them was thick with things unsaid.

Inside, the kitchen was alive with warmth—cast-iron pots hung on the walls, jars of spices lined the shelves, and the scent of something savory simmering made Rita’s stomach growl.

Gogo tossed her a strip of biltong. “Eat. You’re too skinny.”

Rita grinned, chewing the salty dried meat as her grandmother bustled around, filling the silence with chatter about the farm, the animals, the new students arriving at Blackthorn this year.

Her mother picked at her own piece of biltong, quiet.

Rita watched her. Say something. Fight for me.

But Pearl just stared into her tea.

Later, when her mother had left—with a stiff hug and a promise to “call soon”—Rita stood in the yard, breathing in the night.

The air here was different. Thicker. Alive.

She could feel it—the hum of the earth under her feet, the whisper of the wind through the crops, the pulse of something deep and old and waiting.

Gogo stepped beside her, following her gaze to the sky.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

Rita nodded.

“Good.” Her grandmother squeezed her shoulder. “That means it’s time.”

And for the first time in months, Rita smiled.

Because whatever came next?

It was hers.