CHAPTER 31: THE MEET UP

Eleanor’s POV

I’d left before the final debrief.

Now, back in the silence of my apartment, the reality of my situation felt heavier than ever.

My laptop glowed, illuminating pages and pages of folklore, biology, and paranoid conspiracy theories about werewolves. I’d been cross-referencing for hours, a sinking feeling in my gut as the same terrifying themes emerged again and again.

"Beatrice," I said aloud, my voice sounding small in the quiet room. "How do I stop it? How do I stop myself from getting... triggered? From becoming violent?" The memory of Priscilla’s terrified face was a brand on my mind.

You can’t, came the immediate, flat reply.

"Why not?" I asked, a note of desperation creeping in.

Because I won’t allow it, she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. That rage you feel? That’s us. That’s our nature. Suppressing it is like trying to stop your heart from beating. It’s not a flaw; it’s a feature.

"I don’t like that feature," I whispered, hugging my knees to my chest.

What you should be worried about, Beatrice continued, her tone shifting to something more serious, is the day you won’t be able to stop it because I’ll be the one in control and your primal urges will burst free.

A cold dread trickled down my spine. "What? What are you talking about?"

In all that research, she asked, a hint of sarcasm returning, did you not come across a certain... lunar cycle?

My blood ran cold. I frantically typed ’werewolf full moon’ into the search bar. The results flooded in—artistic renditions of painful transformations, stories of uncontrollable rampages, warnings of heightened aggression and primal instinct.

"No," I breathed, panic seizing me. "No, no, no. I don’t want that. I can’t do that. Beatrice, how do I stop it? How do I stop the change?"

You can’t, she repeated, her voice holding a strange mix of pity and finality. The moon calls, and we answer. It’s not something you stop. It’s something you survive.

Hopelessness washed over me, thick and suffocating. I was going to become a monster. A real one.

The only way, Beatrice said, her voice cutting through my spiraling panic, is to not be in a position to do any damage. You need to be restrained securely with silver chains. And you need to do it before the change takes hold, because you won’t be able to once it starts.

"I can’t..." I stammered, visions of chaining myself to a pipe in my bathroom flashing through my mind. "I couldn’t set that up by myself. And I can’t tell anyone." The thought of revealing this to Mira, after her reaction today, was unthinkable.

Then you need to find someone like you, Beatrice stated, her logic cold and simple. You need to find another werewolf. They won’t judge you. They won’t want to expose you, because it would expose them. It’s your only viable option.

"Where the heck am I supposed to find another werewolf?" I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. The task felt impossible.

How should I know? Beatrice retorted, unhelpfully. I’ve been locked inside you, remember? All I know is you need to hurry. The moon waits for no one.

The pressure was immense. I was completely alone in this. Well, alone with a sarcastic inner wolf who seemed to enjoy my panic. I had to do something, anything.

Just then, a pop-up ad on the edge of my browser caught my eye. ’Supernatural Encounters: Share Your Story.’ It was for a Discord server. Desperation overriding caution, I clicked it.

I was plunged into a chaotic chatroom where people were enthusiastically—and fearfully—discussing everything from poltergeists to skinwalkers. One user was vividly describing an encounter with a siren off the coast of Maine.

Taking a shaky breath, I typed a message into the general chat.

LostSoul23: Does anyone know where someone could actually... see a werewolf? Or meet one? I need to find one.

The responses were a mix of jokes and wild theories, but one user, HunterNet87, replied directly.

HunterNet87: You really want to find one? That’s a dangerous game.

I swallowed hard and typed back.

LostSoul23: Yes. I really do.

Maybe, just maybe, if I could find one, they could help me. They’d understand.

A private message notification flashed. It was from HunterNet87.

HunterNet87: Why do you want to see one? Most people are running the other way.

I hesitated. Could I trust this stranger? I decided on a half-truth, protecting myself.

LostSoul23: It’s for a friend. She’s... a werewolf. I heard they can become savage during the full moon. I just want to help her. I need to find a way to keep her safe.

There was a long pause. Then:

HunterNet87: So you’re looking for restraints. Silver chains.

My breath hitched. He knew.

LostSoul23: Yes.

HunterNet87: It’s going to cost you. Not cheap.

Relief warred with anxiety. He had what I needed.

LostSoul23: I can transfer the money. How much?

HunterNet87: No transfers. Cash only. Bring it.

I looked at my bank balance. It was manageable, but it would clean me out. I didn’t care.

LostSoul23: Okay. Where?

HunterNet87: The Kingsley Hotel. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. We can’t risk exposing their kind, you understand?

The Kingsley. It was a famously expensive, discreet hotel. The choice of location made me feel a sliver of legitimacy. This wasn’t some back-alley deal.

LostSoul23: I understand. I’ll be there.

I closed the laptop, my hands trembling. It was a risk, a huge one. But it was a plan. I didn’t feel completely hopeless.

****

The Kingsley Hotel loomed before me, a monolithic testament to glass, steel, and unimaginable wealth. Its skyscraper form seemed to pierce the evening sky, and I felt infinitesimally small standing at its base. I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady my racing heart.

Are you sure about this?

Beatrice’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a wariness I felt deep in my bones.

"What choice do I have?" I whispered back, my words stolen by the murmur of the city. I smoothed down my simple, off-the-rack dress, suddenly feeling painfully exposed and out of place among the patrons flowing in and out, clad in designer labels and casual opulence.

I entered a lobby of breathtaking grandeur. Marble floors, soaring ceilings, soft, ambient lighting. I found a secluded armchair and sank into it, pulling out my phone.

LostSoul23: I’m here. In the lobby.

Five agonizing minutes ticked by. Every person who glanced my way made my skin prickle. Finally, a low voice cut through the hushed atmosphere. "LostSoul23?"

I looked up. A man stood there, average height, wearing a plain black medical mask that obscured the lower half of his face.

"Yes?"

"The mask is for privacy," he explained, his eyes scanning the room behind his glasses. "Can’t be too careful." He showed me his phone screen—our Discord conversation. "Let’s go."

I stood, my legs feeling like jelly. As I followed him toward the bank of the elevators, that strange, sweet, addictive scent I’d noticed before hit me again, stronger now. Where is that scent always coming from?

The elevator ride was silent, tense. He pressed a button for a high floor. "You have the cash?" he asked, his voice flat.

I clutched my handbag tighter. "Yes."

The doors slid open onto a plush, silent hallway. He led me to a room door and stopped, pulling out a key card. A cold dread, a primal warning, slithered down my spine. This was wrong. This felt all wrong.

"Wait," I said, taking a step back. "I... I’d prefer if we could talk somewhere more public. A hotel bar? I just... I don’t know you. This doesn’t feel comfortable."

The man turned. His eyes, previously neutral, now held a glint of something else. Amusement? Triumph? "It doesn’t matter anymore," he said, his voice losing its previous caution.

Before I could process what he meant, he pulled a small perfume atomizer from his pocket and sprayed a fine mist into the air between us. The scent intensified, becoming cloying, overwhelming.

A wave of instant, heavy drowsiness crashed over me. My head spun, my limbs turned to lead. "Wha...?" I slurred, stumbling backward.

He moved quickly, his arm snaking around my waist to hold me up as my knees buckled. My vision blurred at the edges.

"Don’t worry," his voice sounded distant, muffled. "I’ve already gotten what I wanted."

The last thing I registered was the cold feel of the hotel room keycard in his hand before the world faded to black.

**

Consciousness returned like a slow, sickening tide. My head was a throbbing vault of pain, and a foul-tasting cloth was stuffed in my mouth, secured with something tight that dug into the corners of my lips. I tried to scream, but it came out as a muffled, pathetic groan.

I was on a bed. The luxurious decor was still there—rich wallpaper, a heavy velvet curtain pulled shut—but it felt like a gilded cage. My wrists and ankles were bound with coarse rope, lashed tightly to the ornate bedposts.

Panic, pure and undiluted, electrified my veins. I thrashed against the restraints, the rope burning my skin, the bed frame groaning in protest.

Then I heard voices not to far in the room.

"...told you she was a clean grab. Walked right into the lobby." It was the masked man’s voice.

A deeper, gruffer voice answered. "The Master will be pleased. Pretty thing like that? She’ll fetch a high price from the collectors."

A third voice, higher-pitched, asked, "How much you think they’ll pay? Fifty thousand? Sixty?"

The air left my lungs. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Human trafficking. The words weren’t just words anymore; they were the cold, hard reality of the ropes on my wrists, the gag in my mouth. My desperate search for help had delivered me straight into a nightmare. I wasn’t a client; I was the merchandise.