Page 130 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“I really am sorry. So sorry,” Dev said, never breaking eye contact.
“Anyway,” I ground out, before they decided to hug or something. “Back to your story. Talk us through the moment ‘they grabbed you.’” Frommy rucksack by the door, I retrieved a notepad, then dragged a chair from the table to sit on.
“So, I was walking along, trying to get a signal on my phone to look at getting a bus back to Glasgow because of Carrie being spooked, when I heard something—someone, I guess—behind me. I considered shifting, but decided to keep moving, quickly.”
I let my mental barriers drop slightly, brushing against the surface of Dev’s thoughts. Images flashed through his mind—a narrow dirt path winding through dense pine trees, the metallic taste of fear on his tongue, the weight of his mobile in his hand as he frantically searched for signal bars.
No deception there. Just the raw memory of panic.
“Go on,” I encouraged, scribbling notes.
“I got properly lost. My phone died, and though I brought a portable charger, the wire wasn’t working. Night started falling, whoever was following me was getting closer. I could hear them—boots on gravel, twigs snapping. I should have shifted. But I was scared they’d pop out any second, attack me mid-shift.”
Dev’s hand moved to press against his forehead. “Someone covered my face. There was this chemical smell, sharp and sweet. I tried to shift then, but couldn’t.”
His thoughts painted the scene vividly—hands gripping his arms, the suffocating press of fabric against his nose and mouth, his wolf straining against some invisible barrier. Again, no fabrication. Just terror, confusion, and the helpless rage of a predator suddenly rendered powerless.
“I think there were at least two of them? Or… maybe even like, four.” Dev’s gaze flicked from my notepad to me. “Obviously, I could have taken them otherwise.”
“Obviously,” I agreed dryly.
Dev’s fingers pressed against his temple as though trying to massage the memories loose. “I woke up in darkness. Concrete walls, I think. There was this bright, artificial light overhead—one of those harsh fluorescent things that makes everything look sickly. No windows.”
His thoughts remained murky, fragmented like pieces of a broken mirror.
“Everything felt hazy, dreamlike. I kept drifting in and out of consciousness.” Dev’s voice grew quieter. “I remember needles in my arm. Voices discussing ‘dosages’ and ‘compatibility scores.’ At one point it seemed like two people were arguing, but I couldn’t quite follow what they were saying.”
Static filled the spaces where his memories should have been—not the natural blur of trauma, but something artificial, deliberate.
“But, I do have this flash of memory,” Dev continued. “Carrie shaking me awake, whispering my name urgently. ‘Dev, Dev, you need to wake up. Quickly, Dev.’ But then… I think she was dragged away. I heard screaming. I tried to call out, but my voice wouldn’t work. Later, I was in a small cell, I think. Not like with metal bars, just a tiny room with a cot and sink. Plain white walls and a security door. I don’t even remember attempting to open it.”
Dev paused, his hand unconsciously moving to cover his eyes again.
“One time, I swear there was this man looking at me through the cell window. Only saw him once, but the memory stuck because of how unsettling it was. He had this cruel smile and a scar through his eyebrow. He just stood there, staring at me. I didn’t know what he wanted. But the way he looked at me…”
Rory gasped. “A scar? Through his left eyebrow?”
…Callum…
The name blazed through Rory’s thoughts like a flare.
“I think I know who that was,” Rory said, voice tight. “Member of my old pack. He got that scar from scrapping with a neighbouring pack as a teen.”
“So he didn’t come into the room? Just watched you?”
“Yeah. I think I woke up a couple more times after that. I remember my body being exhausted, like I’d just run a marathon. I had bruises all over mybody.”
Dev rolled back the sleeve of his grey hoodie, revealing a constellation of bruises that mottled his forearm in shades of purple and yellow.
“Those aren’t your clothes, right?” Rory asked.
Dev scoffed, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Definitely not. I was in my favourite jacket when they grabbed me.”
“Oh, the one with the shimmering graffiti phoenix on the back?”
“Yes!” Dev’s face lit up, and for a moment the two of them shared a look—the kind of intimate recognition that comes from knowing someone’s wardrobe better than your own shopping list.
I coughed pointedly, wiggling my pen between my fingers. “So what happened last night?”
