The smell of so many dens burning until they were ashes blowing in the breeze was something she would never forget. Mariah’s world as she knew it was gone. They’d been warned not to look back. She did anyway. The horizon in the darkness was a mixture of yellow, orange and red melting together and rising at varying heights with a darker backdrop of the mountain range she knew by heart. Mariah was staring at where her pack had hunted, played, mated and lived their lives in peace for years. Now most of that pack was dead, including her sire and mother. She’d fought tooth and claw to save them and failed. The humans wouldn’t kill her too. Mariah would survive. One of the older females running next to her bit her shoulder, and Mariah snarled at her but then obeyed the previous warning and looked ahead into the darkness. She ran with the pack. Make that her new pack. Her pack in Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory, had been burned out by humans. Whoever had decided it was a smart idea to tell humans werewolves lived among them, and always had, must smell like the worst idiot ever.
