Must be a demon

I feel grazes on my shoulders, hot breath prying my mouth open and forcing its way down my lungs as five sharp tips press into my neck, the pain seeming as if it would tear my esophagus if I did not gasp awake.

My eyes gradually flutter open to meet squarely with the face of a strange maiden as her fingers release its grip on my neck. She cocks her head, regarding me with a pair of unyielding gray eyes. Unfortunately for me, the full beauty of her face is shaded behind a leather mask, only leaving out her upturned eyes, pouty lips and round, jutting chin to view.

When I notice her wet hair, I realize that she is the woman who jeopardized the safety of the Shore. The only person that poses a threat to the name Coral shore seized for years.

Her mouth moves, and I hear an unclear whisper in my head. It does not sound like a pleasant statement to me, just as this strange woman standing at my front is enough to tell me that I am in cruel danger.

Everything about her screams ferociousness; from the dangerously tight gathering of her knot-bun hair to the way she flexes her hands at her will as she raises them to grasp my biceps. It is only when she stares directly into my eyes did I realize that I missed its intensity all along.

Those chilling gray eyes seem to carry a raging fire that burns mine, scaring me with the thought that she could see through my soul. However, despite the iciness in her eyes, they are still beautiful, wielding long scarce lashes and staring at me under honey thin brows.

She retrieves her hands and swims past me, leaving me with the wonder at how I am able to breathe and see clearly in the water. I am quite relieved that she let me be until I feel her hot breath behind my right ear as her slick hands snake its way around my waist.

The sweet melodious tone of her voice bashes my head, sending chills down my spine. I thought only her voice enthralls me, but then her accent is something beyond the clouds. It sounds like how a goddess would speak.

“Just say the word,” she whispers, pressing against my back. The heat from her touch prickles my skin, and I can do nothing to stop it. “Believe me, you know what you are, but you refuse to admit it. Say the word to save the shore from destruction.” She pulls back when I try to speak.

I have many questions to ask—what she wants, why she murdered my Father and why she is threatening me with the safety of the Shore. Yet, inasmuch as I can see and breathe in the water, the talking part evades me.

I hear a hiss before the sound of snapping fingers trouble the waters. It could be her, but my perception is snatched from me once again as a force toils me in the sea and I scream. The waters are probably resolute to carry me back to the Shore or somewhere worse, but despite all these, her voice resounds in my head. ‘You know what you are within you. Tell yourself the truth...’ and then it trails off.

I awake to two pairs of eyes peering at my face in the dark, which startles me. “What’s with all the screaming?” I hear Damien’s pissed voice as a pair of eyes disappears into darkness, candles lighting up the room.

Lucerne's worried eyes blink down at me as he nears the bed and crouches, taking my right hand in his. “Wayne, are you okay?” I gaze without knowing what really happened. Did I really scream aloud?

Lucerne holds my arm and tugs my quivering self out of bed while Damien leans closer with a candlestick, which he draws close to my face. I narrow my heavy eyes, watching him peer at my neck.

“You are sweating, Wayne, mind a bath?” Lucerne asks with concern as Damien withdraws the candle with a frown. I try to tug my arm from his grip, though proves stubborn and never lets me go.

I do not feel the sweat at all. I feel so cold with a thin line stopping me from literally freezing. “I am fine,” I groan as I finally free myself from Lucerne’s grip before I slump into bed, placing the back of my palm on my forehead.

My brothers just stare at me. I wish they would leave me alone. Everything is suddenly beginning to come together in a drastic way, and I do not have enough headspace to contain them. “I am fine. I need to be by myself,” I mumble, not certain that my brothers heard me.

Well, they did.

Damien huffs and places the candle on the table, muttering some seemingly offensive words as he hurries out. Lucerne however is not willing to leave.

He squats in front of me. “Are you sure that you are fine? I am always here if you need anyone.” I nod, and Lucerne sees that I indeed do not want him here. I just hope that he is not hurt as he slowly stands and approaches the door, casting me a last glance before crossing the threshold.

A feeling of loneliness surges into me, but I immediately push it aside. The witch - the things she said - did they really make sense? I am trying my best to round this off as an outcome of my fear for the Shore, or just another dream but no matter how hard I try, it keeps coming back to me. Somehow, there is a voice within me, which keeps telling me that the witch’s words are true.

My stomach reminds me that all I had to eat yesterday is a few steaks of sirloin, so I slide out of bed and make for the door.

Glancing at both sides of the hallway, I note how empty it is, which makes sense since it is just a few ticks past midnight. I had in mind to get a meal from the kitchen, but with my experience just now and the calmness of the castle, I think I will have to endure the hunger. After all, it is not as if I would eat much if the meal were before me anyway.

I shut the door and return to the comfort of my bed, cold air of predawn flushing my skin and sending chills down my spine. I rub my palms together before placing them against my cheeks to warm myself up since the candles are not doing more than lighting the room while the hearth does nothing. Maybe a change of clothes will do better.

Despite being a prince, I do my best to avoid occasions where I will have to stand beside my father and brothers. I am not the social type, so I usually prefer lowly places like the ranch, or something like it. Relating to this, all my clothes are also simple, lowly clothes that most certainly make people mistake me as a royal servant instead of a prince.

I riffle through the wardrobe, pushing aside a rubicund robe, a hoary cloak and a pair of feathery slacks. My attention grabs a knitted, full-sleeved shirt, and I know immediately that it should do. I snake a scarf around my neck, sliding on a pair of thick gloves and warm slacks as my stomach grumbles for the umpteenth time.

When I walk to the open window, I rest my hands on the sill before I lock my eyes on the half-moon that shines feebly upon earth’s surface. There is something about it, which often baffles me. It seems like it calls to me, making me feel like diving into the sky and reaching to it, and I had never laced a meaning to that until recently. Maybe, who knows, it is all I needed all along—the answer to what I am. Yet, how true could that be, how possible?

Never in my life did I ever imagine myself as a werewolf. Yes, I have crammed many books concerning those creatures ever since I read the tale of the victorious Alpha Gar, and I can tell a lot about it, but I do not want this feeling to continue. Whatever is true, I still want to believe that I am a demon.

My stomach lays a complaint once again, the match in the powder barrel.