Werewolf Hands Novels & Stories

The memory is so clear that sometimes I feel like I'm again there, standing in the same spot surrounded by fences, and before me, was a blood-red-eyed boy. This pair of eyes showed the wasn't an ordinary boy, he was a werewolf. He was a cruel creature that enjoys killing humans like me, by ripping our throats and leaving us for dead. I was horrified when I saw him in his human form. It is unusual for a human to see a werewolf in its human-like form. They are always in their most cruel and scary form, but this one was hurt and was very young, only about 4 years older than me. His blood-red eyes should have been the most terrifying but at that moment they weren't so to me. What I saw in his ey

They were not the thick claws of a werewolf, but the thin long claws of a siren… My skin seemed to have changed, a faint hue of silvery blue covering it. I lunged at him, digging my claws into his chest. He grabbed my wrist, but I refused to remove my hand from his chest, not caring as blood spilt down my hand and his body. He was looking at me as if it was the first time he had seen me.

And Deya felt a sharp pain where he held her: as if something sharp had dug into her wrists. The girl screamed, trying to escape. She pulled out one hand, hissing in pain, and immediately hit the werewolf in the face. The swing was small, but fear gave strength. The man's head tossed to the side, and Beria seemed to wake up. His eyes brightened, assuming a meaningful expression. He pulled away, looking at the girl with incomprehension. He looked at his hands and his face showed fear. Animal-like nails lengthened, bent, turned into sharp dark claws.

Logan's sudden movement blurred the scene as he tightly clenched his fists. Wild Wolf's expression transformed dramatically. He instinctively reached for his gun but noticed his wrist had turned cold. A surge of pain shot through his head, causing him to wail and stagger backward, his gaze dropping to his right arm. To his shock, his entire hand was missing at the wrist. Wild Wolf gasped for cold air and glared at Logan. He noticed another young man in white standing beside Logan now. He was cold and expressionless as he held a person's right hand in his own.

I asked Mia. She seems to think for a few seconds, until she tells me, “They were cold.” “Exactly, Mia. Werewolves or Lycans never have chilly hands, because of their high body temperature. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” She frowns and then says to me, “What creatures have cold hands? Because clearly that man is a supernatural being, but a wolf? Wolf, it is not.” After my conversation with Mia, where more doubts than certainties arose, I went to sleep. With each breath, I felt my questions drift further and further away from me and a feeling of well-being and security enveloped me.

It respected my choice. The infected werewolves around me roared madly, tearing at the chain-link fences. But as I approached, they fell silent for a miraculous moment. Perhaps even these mindless beasts could sense my grim resolve. I stood on a high point of the ruins and closed my eyes. I summoned all the power within me. Not just my spiritual energy, but my life force itself. This was the final gambit for a werewolf with the "Hands of God" gift—a life sacrifice.

In one of the droplets that caught the light, I saw my reflection in great detail. Neither pale nor trembling. But different. Black-sclera eyes, glowing ocean irises. The wolf reached me as I turned. My hand moved of its own accord, claws forming in mid-air as I swung. The impact crushed his snout sideways, teeth flying like cracked porcelain. He hit the ground and didn’t move. I stared at my hand. It wasn’t shifting in pieces like before. It was changing. Fully. Finally. My bones cracked as if answering a call they’d ignored my whole life.

And all around him were millions of small pink lights. Each one was a hand. Reaching down. Touching wolves. Wiping tears. Holding paws. Planting petals. He woke up crying. “The sky is learning to touch,” he told Mara the Second. “She is 15 now. She has two Sky Hands. Mara the Second smiled. “Then we should learn to let it.” The Sky Hands grew stronger. When a wolf was bleeding, a Sky Hand would appear. It would hover over the wound. Not heal it. Just sit with it.

She writhes in pain when I try to clean the wound. “Sorry,” I said, blowing on the wound. “Luna, your hands are also red, it must be from the whip you held earlier,” she points at my hand. I took a look and it's true. My hands are a little red, if werewolves had grasped that whip the way I did, his hand would have turned to toast. “I guess I do have some werewolf genes after all, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt at all,” I said, tending to her wounds. And I didn't lie, it really does not hurt.

My wolf's furs and my fingers became claws, my palm a paw. One of my hands had literary turned into a wolf's hand. How was that Freaking possible? I drew her back and the fur disappeared right under my Watch. I panted heavily, my heart beating so fast it was painful. My hand was shaking as I brought it down and I gripped my sheets hard as I tried to steady my nerves. I wasn't a werewolf. I am not a freaking Werewolf. That makes lots of sense. But what am I then?