werewolves

The sun hung low above the clouds, casting a soft gold across the sky as a solitary Qantas A380 cut through the winter air. Far below, Sydney sprawled beneath a veil of mist, the city just beginning to stir. It was a cool morning—eleven degrees and rising—mostly clear, a few scattered clouds.

In the cockpit, Captain John Simms sat comfortably in the left seat, greying hair neatly trimmed beneath his cap, moustache framing a worn but kind face. Beyond the windscreen, sunlight glittered on the Pacific. First Officer Susan Wilkinson, blonde hair pinned tight beneath her cap, watched the descent with steady hands and a practiced calm.

“Well, it’s that time,” Simms said, flicking a switch. “Let’s get home without a hitch, Susan.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Simms pressed the comm: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve begun our descent into Sydney this fine winter morning. Current temperature is a crisp eleven degrees, skies mostly clear with a few scattereds. If you’re on the right side, you might catch some views of the harbour on final approach. On behalf of the crew, thanks for flying Qantas. We’ll be on the ground in about fifteen minutes. Please fasten seatbelts, stow trays, and switch devices to flight mode. We hope you enjoy your time in Sydney—or wherever your final destination may be.”

He released the button and settled back as the coastline emerged beneath thinning cloud.

The landing was textbook. Tyres kissed the tarmac; reversers roared; the aircraft decelerated cleanly and rolled for the exit. Dawn bathed the apron in gold. Baggage crews in reflective vests moved with brisk purpose.

A familiar chime, then Simms again: “Welcome to Sydney. We’ve arrived on schedule. Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign is off. We wish you a wonderful stay—or a joyful reunion if you’re returning home.”

The words washed over Jake Michaels like a warm current. He stared at the seatback for a beat, held somewhere between relief and hesitation. When the soft ding released the cabin, passengers unfolded like dominoes—stretching, reaching, murmuring.

Jake stood, joints stiff from the long haul. He adjusted his pack straps and slid the bag from the overhead with practiced ease. A sun-faded tattoo peeked from under his sleeve as he shouldered the weight.

Home. Finally.

He joined the slow shuffle forward. Children bounced; parents juggled; phones lit with messages as the plane latched to the jet bridge with a metallic clunk. A flight attendant waited at the door, smile bright and professional.

“I hope you enjoyed your flight,” she said.

Jake’s return smile was small but genuine. “Thanks.”

He stepped into the bridge and followed the crowd toward the terminal. Cool air slid along the passage; the buzz of arrival settled over him like a weight—familiar and foreign at once.

Inside the terminal

That’s when he saw her.

A woman ahead in the crowd cut a clean silhouette: wide-brimmed white hat with a black ribbon, oversized sunglasses, trench collar high. Dark, chin-length hair. She moved with precision, slipping through gaps like smoke, pace brisk—urgent.

In her gloved hand: a bright red specimen freezer box with a biohazard stripe and a government seal. A label flashed as she passed a light.

Endangered, dangerous plant: Lycotonum.

Lycotonum? The word hung like a whisper. He’d never heard it. Dangerous plants didn’t usually fly commercial.

She kept her head down, skirting camera sightlines, angling off from security like a trained operative. She passed within metres of Jake. As her coat shifted, a pendant flashed at her throat—silver, two wolfsbane branches twisted into a loop around a pair of clashing helmets: one ancient, Roman-style; one modern, angular, unmistakably military.

Deliberate. Symbolic. Unsettling.

Then she was gone, swallowed by the flow.

Sound rushed back: reunions, announcements, the clatter of roller bags. Jake blinked, scanned for familiar faces. Nothing. His shoulders dipped.

“Typical,” he muttered. “Forgot… or something came up.”

He slid wireless headphones over his ears. A guitar growl kicked in—Metallica’s “Of Wolf and Man.” He smirked at the coincidence and let it play. The song stirred something primal, a feeling that had followed him from desert heat back to steel-and-glass Sydney.

At the carousel he hauled two army duffels—well-worn, heavy. Dust, uniforms, memories.

Outside, the air smelled of fuel and coffee. Taxis and rideshares wove in the crush. Jake stepped to the rank and flagged a cab.

Outside the terminal

An electric Toyota glided to the curb. The driver unfolded from the seat—tall, wiry, weathered, a fluffy black beard like a tangled hedge and a stubborn combover fighting the breeze. Beach trousers, loud red-and-yellow floral shirt, and a chunky gold pendant with the energy of a B-grade gangster’s court day.

He popped the boot and shouted, “Need a hand with the bags?”

Metallica drowned him out. Jake blinked, tugged an earcup back. “What?”

“YOUR BAGS!?”

“Oh—sorry. Yeah, thanks.”

The driver tossed the duffels in with practised efficiency. Jake slid into the front passenger seat. They pulled into the artery of airport traffic.

In the cab

“So—where to?” the driver said before the wheels straightened.

“North Shore. Cremorne,” Jake said, scrolling past old photos without seeing them.

They took Reginald Ansett Drive, winter fog smudging the skyline. The hum of tyres. The sterile drone of highway.

“You in the army?” the driver asked, side-eyeing the duffels.

“Was.”

Memories crept in uninvited—dusty tarmacs, the reek of jet fuel at Al Minhad, five years of doing what he was told and surviving anyway.

“What brings you back to this shithole?” the driver went on. “Tourists think Sydney’s the bee’s knees—clean beaches, nice people, sunshine, blah blah. Live here long enough and you see through it.”

Jake let the words pass. They merged onto Ross Smith Avenue. Warehouses gave way to polished new apartments beside fibro holdouts.

“I’ve been driving this bloody taxi too long,” the man continued. “Twelve-hour shifts. Back shot. Arse numb. Nobody tips. Everyone’s in a rush to nowhere.”

For a burnt-out bloke, he had the energy of a Greek wedding.

“Bad day?” Jake said.

“Aren’t they all?”

The driver drummed the wheel. “Name’s Charlie.”

They swung onto Mill Pond Road, the skyline lifting like steel fingers.

“So what brings you back, soldier boy?” Charlie said.

“Family.”

“You got a girl?”

“Been through all that.”

“Right.” He chewed the word, then barreled on. “Life’s never been the same since my wife left me. For my sister.” He snorted. “Didn’t even know either of ’em were lesbians. If I’d had a clue, I’d’ve bought a camcorder and—”

“Ironic,” Jake said, turning to the window.

Silence, then a thin voice on the radio: “People are advised to get their flu and COVID shots early this winter…”

They took the Harbour Bridge. Fog curled around towers; the Opera House gleamed in a break of light.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Jake Michaels.”

“Well, Jake Michaels, welcome back to the grind. Rug up. It’s gonna be a cold one.”

They exited the M1 and rolled into a leafy Cremorne street. The Toyota nosed to a stop before a two-storey house behind a low brick wall—terracotta roof, whitewashed walls, the quiet wealth of a place bought when the market was low and life was young.

“Right here?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The boot popped. Charlie heaved the duffels out with a grunt.

“Your place?”

“No. My parents’.”

Charlie whistled, already circling to the driver’s seat. “Not bad at all. Nice talkin’ to ya.”

The taxi slid away. For the first time in years, Jake stood on home soil. Quiet. Alone.

Not sure what waited beyond the door.

The Michaels house

He climbed the porch steps and rang the bell.

Leslie Michaels opened the door. Light brown hair streaked with grey, tied back neat; effortless, maternal elegance in jeans and a blouse. Her face softened at once.

“Jakie?” Her voice cracked on the word. “Come in, darling. I thought your father was picking you up. Why didn’t you call?”

Jake hugged her tight, kissed her cheek. “Was expecting one of you,” he said as she ushered him in. “Where’s the old codger?”

Leslie’s smile tightened. She didn’t answer straight away.

The foyer smelled faintly of lavender. Polished timber floors, high ceilings, a bureau lined with photos: Jake and his parents; Mark, younger brother now in Melbourne, with his family; the two boys as teens, nearly indistinguishable except for Jake’s straighter posture. And Kimberly—brunette, striking, a warm smile and quick intelligence in her eyes.

They’d met at a local bar while she was pushing through her MBBS. For a time, it worked.

“Didn’t expect you so soon,” Leslie said gently. “Everything alright?”

Warm light from the chandelier pooled on pale yellow walls.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” she said, slipping on a jumper. “Come in, out of the cold.”

Jake stepped over the threshold. Something about the foyer felt subtly different.

“Been fixing the place up?”

“Since your father retired, he can’t sit still. A bit of this and that.” She followed his gaze to the photo. “How’s Kimberly?”

“We broke up,” Jake said, blunt.

Leslie folded her arms, displeasure soft but clear.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You know what she was like.”

She’d always thought they were the sure thing.

“I was hoping you’d settle like your brother,” she said.

“Mum, not now. Long flight.” He exhaled. “She couldn’t handle the pressure—being with someone in the military. Being a nurse herself didn’t help. Too much.”

He looked once more at the Christmas photo—two people laughing in another life.

“You looked happy,” Leslie murmured.

“It’s over.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

She let it go. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Come on. I’ll make you something.”

The kitchen was new—sleek marble island, white tiles, spotless benches. The scent of fresh food still hung in the air. Order everywhere.

Leslie assembled a sandwich with the speed of a practised hand: ham, lettuce, tomato, cheese, mayo on fresh sourdough.

“Things have changed around here,” Jake said. “And not just at home.”

“Times change,” she said, passing the plate. “Been a while since you were here.”

“Ta.” He bit in. It was perfect. After rations and airline meals, he wasn’t about to complain.

“I wonder where your father’s gotten to,” Leslie said, flicking on the kettle.

Jake unlocked his phone. “I’ll call him.”

He dialled. It rang, then clicked to voicemail: You’ve reached Tom Michaels. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.

Jake set the phone on the stone.

“He’s not answering.”

They shared a look. Unease settled between them.

“Where could he be?” Leslie asked quietly.

Jake shrugged, but his mind was already moving.