The Mask Beneath the Mask

The sun has dipped behind the jagged hills of Lagooncrest, casting long shadows across the dense forest. The air has turned sharper, colder—even for late evening. Brendon has been sitting on the old wooden steps of Grimm's cabin, elbows resting on his knees, fingers locked together.

A soft breeze is rustling the leaves. Dusk has coated everything in gray hues, and the pine scent is clinging thickly in the air. The trees are looming overhead like a council of silent watchers.

He hasn't moved in half an hour.

His eyes have remained fixed on the dark soil before him, though his mind has drifted far from here.

Nightroot.

Why has it been in the town hall?

That place has had no business keeping traces of the herb—certainly not one as volatile and rare as Nightroot. It isn't something someone has accidentally brought into an office building. And definitely not something that has been left behind, unless someone has been in a hurry… or desperate.

He is shaking his head. "Mayor Guerio…"

The man has always seemed poised, controlled. But the note from D—her voice on the phone, the timing of it, Grimm's last words, and now the plant's traces at the seat of the Isle's power—it all has pointed to something much deeper.

Something that no longer is hiding in the shadows. Something that is coming into the open.

He takes out his phone, stares at the number from the note.

Should he call D again?

He hesitated, thumb hovering.

Brendon's instincts, honed by years of trauma and clawed survival, have started screaming now.

He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

That's when the wind has changed.

A new scent.

His head twitches slightly to the side.

Movement.

A rustle in the underbrush—too synchronized to be an animal. And too quiet to be a coincidence.

He has realized he is no longer alone.

Brendon is straightening, slow and casual, ears attuned to every noise. His heartbeat is slowing, the way it always does before trouble.

His hand is sliding across the stair beside him until it touches the handle of his dagger, resting in its leather sheath.

A whisper through the leaves. Another. Then one more.

They have surrounded him.

The brush behind the trees has parted.

Brendon stands quickly.

Five figures have emerged from the dark, moving like smoke. Their faces are partially covered with black scarves or torn fabric, the same way those cultists have dressed before. Makeshift masks. Their eyes are gleaming beneath the coverings—some golden, some silver, some a feral crimson.

Hybrids.

His breath is steaming in the cold air. They have circled him, silent and steady. One is holding a metal bat, his knuckles white on the grip. Another is swinging a chain that clicks menacingly. The others are flexing their claws—longer and sharper than any normal human's.

Predators.

Brendon tilts his head, slowly backing toward the wall of the cabin, so none can get behind him.

"You've picked the wrong place," he mutters.

No answer.

Only the low growl of one of them.

The chain whips across the air. Brendon dodges left. The bat comes down—he rolls under it and drives his shoulder into one of the Hybrids' ribs.

The man gasps, falls, but has gotten back up in seconds.

Brendon unsheathes his dagger.

A claw slashes toward him—he ducks and slices across the attacker's thigh. Blood sprays. The Hybrid howls, but isn't retreating.

Another comes from behind.

Too slow.

Brendon twists, grabs their wrist mid-swing, and elbows them in the temple. They drop, dazed.

But there are still three.

Brendon is backing up into the clearing, breath coming heavy now. He can feel the air humming in his ears—the tingling in his fingertips. The warmth behind his eyes.

The wolf has begun stirring.

He hasn't tapped into the form in days— not since the last time he nearly lost control. But these aren't men looking to scare him. They have come to end him.

And something about their silence—about the way they attack—has made it clear: this isn't a petty attack.

It is a mission.

An order.

That realization has unlocked the floodgates.

Brendon's shoulders are flexing. His jaw tightens. He is letting the shift begin—slow and controlled.

His pupils have thinned. His fingernails are hardening into claws. Canines are extending from his gums, and hair has sprouted along his forearms. The change doesn't come all at once—it never does. It is a painful dance of muscle and magic.

The pain comes first.

Always the pain.

Bones are crackling. The Hybrids hesitate for the briefest of moments.

That is all Brendon needs.

He lunges.

The bat-wielder swings—Brendon catches the weapon with a clawed hand, yanks it free, and slams his elbow into the man's throat. He drops like a stone.

Another comes at him with a wild claw—Brendon parries, grabs the attacker's arm, and flips them into the mud.

He can smell their sweat now. Their fear. Their animal instincts are flaring.

One Hybrid tries to run.

No.

He leaps forward, tackles the last one, and pins them to the ground with a knee.

"Why are you here?" he snarls, voice distorted by his half-shifted vocal cords.

No answer.

Brendon pulls down the cloth mask—

And freezes.

"...Liam?"

The Hybrid beneath him blinks rapidly, blood running from a cut over his eye.

Brendon stares in disbelief.

Liam Mayers. Police officer. Lagooncrest native. The man who once bought him all the files regarding the disappearances during the investigation. Jovial, sharp. Talkative. Always polite.

Brendon's claws retract.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, breathless.

Liam doesn't answer. He is still panting—half-defeated, but something is simmering in his gaze. Not shame. Not fear.

Conviction.

Brendon grabs the collar of his jacket and yanks him up to his knees.

"Talk. Now."

Liam coughs. "You… shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, well. Too late."

Brendon drags him back toward the cabin. The others either have vanished or are lying unconscious.

He shoves Liam onto a chair and stands over him, every nerve screaming.

"How deep are you in this?" Brendon asks. "Why the hell are cops dressing like cultists now?"

Liam's breathing is slowing.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it."

But Liam just looks at him, unmoving.

Brendon growls. "Who's behind this?"

A long silence.

Then finally—soft, quiet—Liam says, "You're not supposed to find him."

"Him who?"

Liam closes his mouth again. Stone.

Brendon paces. His hands are shaking—not from rage, but from the fading shift. His muscles still ache. His heartbeat is thundering in his chest.

He turns to Liam. "You're going to start talking, or I swear I'll—"

"They'll come for me," Liam interrupts. "If I talk, I'm dead."

Brendon leans forward. "If you don't, you'll wish you were."

Liam looks away.

Brendon's jaw tightens. Something is deeply wrong here. Deeper than he ever has guessed.