The Wolves The Walking Dead Novels & Stories

Yes, the werewolves who insult their pack's Alpha are immediately tagged as rogues. Standing behind Brendon, I witnessed the nerve chilling massacre of House Mcdman's family. The two wolves were torn apart into pieces by Brendon's warrior wolves. Remaining three were bleeding, had their flesh hanging around and broken limbs. After a few minutes of bloodthirsty battle, the remaining three wolves accepted the defeat and shifted back into their true form. The middle woman and two children were the ones alive. I think her two sons are dead, including her daughter-in-law. The remaining two are her granddaughters. She and the two girls were brutally injured, bleeding and sobbing in pain.

When they land on me, the biggest one nods in my direction and the four males cross the room like they owned the bar. Strike one. This is my bar. I didn’t like these wolves. They didn’t even need to open their mouths before deciding that. They walked with false confidence like their shit didn’t stink. “You the Alpha of this shit hole?” The biggest one asks once they have reached our booth. Strike two. This shit hole was my home. I look him in the eye. Sizing him up, knowing I could waste the piece of shit. Rolling my shoulders I easily hold the ranked wolf's gaze. I could feel Jamerson and Killian behind me ready to back me up if shit went down.

Her voice was quiet, but heavy. “The wolves of the Eclipse.” Luka frowned. “What about them?” She lifted her gaze, and for the first time since waking, she looked truly, deeply unnerved. “According to this,” she murmured, “they weren’t just wolves.” She slowly turned the book around, revealing an aged illustration. Two wolves stood beneath an eclipsed moon—one black, one white. Tangled together. Bound. She took a slow breath. “They were more than mates.” Theoden’s jaw clenched.

The witches flopped back onto the ground, tired and wheezing. The oldest one—a woman so wrinkled she looked like a skeleton—spoke up, her voice rough as gravel. “I’ve got bad news,” she said. “Werewolves are being killed like chickens these days. A new kind of vampire—strong ones—hunts werewolves as though they lives depends on it.” Another elder, her eyes milky and blind, chimed in. “Ninety of ours are gone. Twenty-three alphas, the rest betas and omegas.”

Ten years had passed since the day the fire fell like the wrath of gods on the quiet village of Wolfsong, but the memories still seared through Nia’s mind as though they had been born just yesterday. She had been a child, barely ten, clinging to the smell of pine and the sound of her parents' voices, safe in the isolation of the borderlands. But the world outside had come crashing in with banners of iron and flame.

The woods are silent. Someone mutters, “Thought this place was supposed to be crawling with different abominations.” “It was,” I say. All heads turn towards me. I hop down from the truck and walk past them. I didn't take permission and I didn't hesitate. Jaxon lets me. I look up the trees where werewolf skulls are being hung as a reminder of the dead. It was a forbidden tradition but I did it anyway. The first skull hangs from a tree branch. It had been bleached, clean, and polished by time and weather.

Her voice cracked. “I do.” He swallowed but didn’t argue. They reached the gate. The bodies of her pack were laid out in silence. Three wolves, each killed quickly. No torture. No struggle. They hadn’t even shifted. Lyra fell to her knees in the snow. Her breath shook out of her in a broken sob. “No—no, no, please—” Rylan knelt beside her instantly, hand hovering near her back—close, but waiting for her to accept him.

Chandeliers that were once the bringer of light were now lying shattered on the ground; thousands of shards littered the bloody floor. ‘Five… Twelve… Twenty-three…’ Diana counted the number of wolves around her with one scan of the room. Black-furred wolves filled the room along with corpses of residents’ deltas. She could easily differentiate which wolves were which since the black-furred wolves reeked of rancid smell, a pungent odor that could only be smelled by the rogues. Rogues were werewolves who lost their sanity after they turned their back to rationality. But rogues were supposed to be extinct.

Chapter 114: The morning’s light broke over the battlefield with a fierce intensity, as if the sun itself had risen to witness the final act of this bitter conflict. The Blue Moon Pack’s defenses, though battered by the relentless assaults of the exiled werewolves, still held firm. Every wolf was on high alert, hearts pounding in unison as the enemy’s forces began to press their advantage in a desperate bid for victory. The air was charged with the electric mix of adrenaline and grief—a solemn promise that every sacrifice made would lead to redemption.

All around us, wolves screamed and howled. Nyra’s pack held their ground, but barely. They moved in their groups, coordinated like teeth in a biting jaw. They took down a Wraith, then moved to the next. But the Wraiths were built for death, their hide unnaturally thick, their bloodthirst too much. Two wolves got crushed under a single stomp just behind me. One was flung into a tree so hard the bark cracked with him. Another unit circled a Wraith whose leading leg was ripped off by Nyra.