Page 91 of The Midnight Death Match

We pass the blacksmith’s forge where I once watched Master Torgeir shape steel, the inn where Gunnar and my mother would take us for festival meals, the market square where I learned to haggle for supplies. Each familiar sight feels like looking at a memory through glass—recognizable but unreachable, separated by the chasm of what I’ve become.

A group of children playing in the square stops to stare as we pass. One of them, a girl of maybe seven with corn-silk hair, points at me with wide eyes. “Mama, is that the wolf lady?”

Her mother quickly pulls her inside, but not before I catch the fear in the woman’s face. Not anger or hatred—just pure, primal terror. The kind that comes from stories told in whispers about monsters that steal children in the night.

Eventually, the farmhouse looms ahead. The same weathered wooden walls, the same crooked chimney that Gunnar never quite got around to fixing, the same herb garden that my sisters tended with such care. But there’s a stillness about it now, a heaviness that wasn’t there before. The silence of a family fractured.

Runa opens the door before I can knock. She’s paler than usual, her freckles standing out like copper coins, but her sharp, storm-gray eyes light up the moment she sees me. “You came.”

“Of course.” I step forward, but she throws her arms around me before I can say more. Somehow she’s grown taller since I last saw her, nearly reaching my shoulder now, but she still feels so young, so fragile.

“I was so scared,” she whispers against my shoulder. “The things people are saying?—”

“I know.” I stroke her hair, so much like our mother’s. “It’s going to be all right.”

Brynja appears behind her, stiff and wary. Her dark blonde braids are perfectly neat despite the chaos that must be swirling through the household. “The town says Father’s dead and you killed him.”

“They’re not wrong,” I say, voice steady. “But they’re not right either.”

Her brow furrows at my words, but she steps aside to let us enter. The farmhouse feels smaller, its walls heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. The main room where we all used to gather for meals and stories now feels like a cage. The air reminds me of the night of our mother’s death. My throat tightens at the memory.

We move deeper inside. The others are already gathered in the main room, arranged like defendants awaiting judgment. Torvi sits near the hearth, hands folded in her lap, knuckles white with tension. At sixteen, she’s always been the dreamer of the family, the one who sees beauty in everything. Now her blue eyes are shadowed with worry.

Helga, almost eleven now, hovers near the window as if ready to flee. She’s the quietest, the one who prefers books to people, but there’s a sharp intelligence in her gaze that reminds me of Father.

My brothers cluster on the other side of the room like a wall of suspicion. Bjorn, at twenty, has appointed himself head of the household in Gunnar’s and Leif’s absence. His jaw is set with the stubborn determination I remember from childhood arguments. Behind him, Orin glares like he’d throw me out if Harek weren’t standing behind me like a shadow. The younger boys—Erik at fourteen and Ketil at twelve—watch with the wide-eyed uncertainty of children who don’t understand why their family is breaking apart.

“I’m not here to argue,” I tell them, my voice carrying the authority I’m learning to wield. “I’m here to tell you the truth. And to offer you a way out.”

“What?” Brynja squeezes one of her braids, a nervous habit she’s had since childhood.

I draw in a deep breath, steeling myself for the words that will change everything. “You’re all halflings. Werewolves. Our mother kept the secret from us. She?—”

“You’re lying!” Orin surges to his feet, his face flushed with anger. “Mother would never?—”

“IwishI was lying.” The words come out harder than I intend, but they need to understand. “Leif already knows, and he’s triggered his curse.”

The room goes dead silent. Even the fire seems to have stopped crackling.

Runa’s eyes grow even wider, storm-gray filling with unshed tears. “You mean…?”

I nod, giving her my most sympathetic look. “Yes, he’s killed someone.”

My youngest sister looks gutted, and I hate that I’m the one who gave her the news that has changed her life forever. She sinks into a chair, her hands shaking as she covers her face.

Torvi shakes her head, muttering that it’s unnatural. “Mother would’ve told us. She would’ve warned us.”

“She thought she was protecting us,” I say softly. “She thought if we never knew, we’d never trigger the curse.”

“But you did,” Bjorn’s voice is accusatory. “You triggered it, and now look what’s happened. Father’s dead, and you’re here talking about curses and monsters.”

I meet his gaze steadily. “I triggered it saving lives. And I learned to control it. I can teach you.”

“Control?” Orin laughs bitterly. “You call what happened to our father control? You call leaving a trail of bodies behind you control?”

“I call it survival.” My voice carries the wolf’s growl beneath it, and several of my siblings flinch. “I call it protecting the people I love.”

“By killing our father?” Bjorn’s accusation hits like a physical blow.

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