Page 4 of Wrestling With Werewolves

Striding across the pink-painted wood floor, I step out onto a long, thin balcony that runs the entire length of my suite. A breeze drifts in from the ocean, just visible across the city from the castle. Below me, tall, thin townhomes in every shade of pink, blue, purple, red, and yellow make up the village of Santa Alaya.

Soft music echoes up from somewhere below. That’s probably the wolves who own the panadería, baking conchas and all sorts of other delicious treats. I can almost smell the sugar from up here.

A noise behind me draws my attention. The doors on my turquoise armoire swing open. The castle tosses an outfit out—a long cotton ruffled skirt and fitted tank top. I smile and cross the room to pick up the clothes.

Fingering the ruffles, I let my memory pull me back to last night and the amazing green gauze bustle one of the omega seamstresses in town secretly made for me. Smiling, I change and pick my fingers carefully through my boisterous curls. Taking a quick peek in the mirror, I make sure I don’t look one-hundred-percent a hot mess before grabbing my bag and guitar and heading for the door. It’s time for the rounds I do every morning as part of my duties. Truth be told, it’s the one part of being a princess I love—connecting with our packmates in the city. Santa Alaya is so big, it’s hard to know them all well. Sometimes I wonder if living in a smaller haven feels different…

I open the door and step into a hall overlooking our center courtyard. Papá’s room is directly across the open space from mine. Palms soar up into the sky from the first story, plants spilling out of every crevice and climbing up the round white columns. Oversized agaves placed artfully around the room lend the feeling of the castle being part of the landscape itself. When Papá won the throne, he brought in a designer to bring Santa Alaya into the castle. It never fails to make me nostalgic when I look around.

Heading to my right, I wind through a myriad of sun drenched hallways toward the exit.

Colorful birds swoop in and out of the columns, cawing their delight at flying into another day. I smile as I watch them, only a little jealous that they can spread their wings and disappear into the sky. If I could do that, there would be so many places I could visit.

The guard at the exit door smiles at me from behind a newspaper. “Buenos días, Princesa.”

I wave at him as he lifts his comm watch to his lips, speaking quietly. “La princesa ya sale.”

I’ve got all of five minutes before two or three of Nuñez’s team trail me into the city. It’s a regular rotation for them, but I’ve always hated it. Maybe it’s just that nothing quite says family like armed guards going everywhere with you. I huff at the thought. I’ve never felt unsafe in Santa Alaya. Papá smothers me.

Hurrying, I leave the open front gates and jog down the cobblestone street into the residential area, heading toward the bay. On either side of the main road, Calle Santa Alaya, colorful homes rise three and four stories high. Very few monsters are out this early, which is why I like to make my rounds as the sun comes up. Less opportunity for my packmates to stare as guards trail me through my home haven.

Rounding the first corner, I smile at the open doors of La Iglesia Santa Alaya, so named for the patron wolf goddess of all wolf shifters.

“Good morning,” I croon, ascending the steps to tickle the carved wooden doors playfully.

The building responds with a series of happy groans, the double front doors shimmying on their hinges. Inside, candles flicker faintly in front of a dais piled high with offerings for our goddess.

I step into the building, my sandals slapping softly against a terra cotta tile floor. Moving past rows of intricately carved wooden benches, I pace to the dais and admire the many offerings others have left. Pan dulce, flowers, even a few plates of dried meat. There are paper notes too, folded in the traditional way to represent a star. They litter the floor, full of monsters’ hopes and wishes and prayers.

Taking a few steps to the right, I grab a candle from the offering box and drop a handful of coins in its place. I return to the dais and seat myself in front of the offerings. A small box of matches sits in a tiny hole in the floor, there for those who wish to leave a candle offering for Santa Alaya.

Grabbing a match, I strike it on the floor and light the candle, poured into a tall glass container with an image of Alaya on the front. It never fails to hit me how beautiful she is. Her wolf is black like mine, her ears tapered to long points. Her ears are bedecked with beautifully crafted silver jewelry. A silver medallion with a green gem hangs around her neck.

Setting the lit candle down among many others, I close my eyes and pray for peace and harmony for my people. I pray for good weather for the farmers and happiness for those in troubled times. And when I’m done, I sit quietly for a few minutes, basking in the tangible presence of our beneficent goddess.

Eventually, voices drift in from outside. Santa Alaya is waking up. It’s time for me to get going.

Leaving the church, I admire my haven’s tropical beauty as I stroll casually through a network of cobblestone roads, all the way to Calle Mercado, the boardwalk facing the bay. In a few hours, a lively market will pop up right on the bay’s edge. Vendors sell everything from sleeping potions to blocks of white cotija cheese to Santa Alaya’s hallmark silver jewelry. My favorite leather sandals vendor is at the far corner of this market. It’s a good thing, too. Santa Alaya’s weather is always sunny and eighty-five degrees. I’ve never worn a closed-toe shoe.

Shops and restaurants line the street, waves washing quietly up on a pink sand shore. Breathing deeply, I search for my wolf, longing for connection. I always feel her so strongly when I walk my city’s streets. Perhaps it’s the innate sense of serving my people that comes with being the king’s daughter. Maybe it’s just that she also seems to enjoy our morning rounds.

Either way, when we walk the streets early in the morning, I almost imagine I can hear her voice. Although, that’s incredibly rare for our kind. Not even my father can hear his wolf’s precise thoughts, and he’s the most powerful shifter I’ve ever met.

I head for my favorite café and order two coffees. This shop sells coffee made from the traditional Santa Alayan beans, grown in the dry hills behind the castle. The depth of flavor is my absolute fave.

The minotaur barista smiles at me as he mixes up the troll whip-infused concoction on my first stop this morning.

His sausage-thick fingers brush mine as he passes me both cups. “Lola. Take me up on that dinner offer, please. I’m learning to cook, if you can believe it.”

I beam up into his hopeful, curious gaze. “Good for you, Rafa. But you know I’m married to the music.”

His smile grows softer, like he expected the answer. Probably because every time he asks me out, my answer is exactly the same.

It’s not like I wouldn’t date, if the monster interested me. But my wolf takes no notice of the males in Santa Alaya. If she doesn’t care to pay them any attention, then, neither will I. Her instinct has always been spot on.

“Another time, perhaps,” he says carefully.

“Perhaps,” I agree, winking as I turn from him and exit the cafe’s back door. Outside and to the left, a rickety iron staircase leads to a set of luxurious residences Papá built for the older solitary monsters in our community. Most aging shifters live with their families; that’s the way of our people, having all generations under one roof together.

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