A wolf howled in the dark caverns of the forest. “Hush, and sleep,” the grandfather told his grandson as he backed away from the boy’s hiding spot. The old wolf leader watched the boy whimper softly in his shallow hole next to the tall oak tree as the grandfather backed away. As the moon climbed higher into the ink colored sky, like a glass orb atop a scepter being raised before the sacrifice, the wolf leader signaled the other wolves to attack. The race to the feast kicked up a cyclone of dust, leaving only the sounds of tearing flesh and screams of agony to fill the forest hollows. When the dust settled, a lurid scene of fur and blood met the boy. His face drained pale. His pulse quickened as the old wolf turned to him. The boy could feel the packs’ lusty breath in the breeze, yet they dare not act without the leader’s approval. The leader made is way slowly to the edge of the boy’s hollow, paced along the edge eying him, as if trying to decide if the boy was worth the effort. He came nose to nose with the boy and then sniffed the neck, such a succulent smell of athletic youth mixed with fear. The leader clamped down on the boy’s shoulder careful not to take out any chunks, but let the sweet poison of the moon flow through his veins. This boy would be a nice addition to the pack.