Warning shudders raced over Lyssa’s body as the senses usually muted by her mortal façade sharpened to a near painful degree.  Her eyes narrowed against the flickering flash of the lights, the music blared tinny and loud against her sensitive ears, and the smell, a stench of too many bodies crammed into too small an area, was repulsive. 

The microphone in her hand felt foreign and intrusive.  She looked at her fingers, no fur yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.  Her skin felt too tight and she fought back an urge to tear off her clothes to relieve the pressure.  Since she couldn’t do that, she seated the microphone in its holder then whirled around, dancing out of the light and into the shadows that crowded the back of the stage.

Her eyes darted, searching frantically for an escape.  She needed to get off this stage and out of the nightclub.  One song, she just had to finish this last song and then she’d run for the door as fast as she could run.

And hope the shift would hold off until she got there.

This was not supposed to be happening.  Her shift cycle was as regular as clockwork and she never shifted when it wasn’t her time of the month.  Unlike the accepted stories and myths which said werewolves only came out during the full moon, she shifted during a new moon and she always—always!—scheduled her appearances around those times.

She’d learned years ago how to control the shift to a certain degree.  She knew when her body and mind were at their weakest, knew the warning signs and could usually hold them off until she was alone but this time was different.  Too fast and too strong, coming completely out of nowhere, it overwhelmed her and she was afraid no amount of willpower or determination would stop it.

The audience ratcheted up their cheers, calling she knew, for her to come back into the light.  She stayed in the shadows.  Let them scream until their throats were raw, she wasn’t going back out there until she gained some kind of control.  Okay, that was a lie, she hadn’t ever left a gig before it was finished and she wasn’t going to start now.

But if she didn’t get off the stage and out of there fast enough, they would be screaming for an entirely different reason.  Fear had a tendency to turn even the bravest and most steadfast people into screamers.  They would scream louder, not because they’d just witnessed a kick-ass concert by their favorite Queen cover band, but because they’d just seen a man, um, make that a woman, change in front of their very eyes into a wolf.

By tomorrow morning, the story of the incredible shape-shifting, cross-dressing Freddie Mercury impersonator would be splashed all over the Asheville Citizen Times and the local TV news.  It would probably go viral on the Internet too because somewhere out there in that mass of humanity—she’d bet her life on this one—someone had a cell phone or a digital camera pinned on her, capturing her performance. 

They were about to get more than they bargained for.

Damn it!

She grabbed one of the bottles of water sitting on a small table set up behind the drummer, wrenched the top off and downed half of it before she realized it wasn’t water.  Some fool had replaced the water with vodka or gin or maybe even the local moonshine.  She didn’t know because she didn’t drink alcohol, not even during the “normal” times in her life, the times when she wasn’t in shift-mode.  She didn’t care for the taste and hated the feeling of being out of control when she did indulge in a drink or two.

Alcohol on top of an uncontrolled shift couldn’t be a good thing.

Catching the opening bars to the last verse, she set the bottle back on the table and then danced her way back into the light to finish the song.

Please god, let her finish the song.

The shudders increased, running like shockwaves through her body and when she leaned into the mike, her voice cracked on the first word.  The crowd reacted with a collective gasp, straining forward for a moment as if sensing the change running through her.

She kept singing.  What else could she do?  When her hands came up to hold the mike, she saw the first sprouts of fur on the backs of her fingers.  Tucking them out of sight behind her back and throwing her chest forward—a little touch of Mick Jagger—she growled to clear her throat before the last line of the song.  Probably squeal like a stuck pig, and wouldn’t that be fun?

Tugging the sleeves of her shirt down over her hands she grabbed the mike again, blasted out the final lyrics.  As the hot brilliance of the stage lights dimmed, she eased back, seeking the shadows before her cover was blown. 

The last word of “Somebody to Love” came out sounding more like a howl than a pleading croon as it was supposed to and she hoped the audience’s cheering was loud enough to drown it out.

Dancing toward the back of the stage and staying as concealed as possible, she tossed the mike to a stagehand, darted to the left and bolted, ignoring the people she almost bowled over.  Teddy, as he did every night, stood like a giant rock beside the stage door to keep the sometimes zealous fans from coming in without paying the club’s exorbitant cover charge.  He saw her coming and pulled the door open for her.  Bless his Cro-Magnon heart.

She smiled at him, saw his eyes widen when the best she could do was a snarl, and then she leaped for the back alley.  The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the noise and the light as she darted for the dumpster.

Safe, but not really, not yet, she still had miles to go till she reached total safety.  Dark and deserted, the shadows in the alley gave her a minute to try again to control the shift, but her rebellious body had other ideas.  What the hell was up with that?  She moved behind the dumpster, stripped and felt the cool night air sweep briefly over her skin before it was buffered by the fur.  At the last minute, she remembered the fake mustache, dislodged it with a swipe of her paw then did the same with the short wig.  Her hair tumbled free for only a second before it too disappeared to be replaced by fur.

Looking up at the sky she noticed the absence of the moon and got her first clue to why she’d lost control of the shift.  New moons usually happened once a month, but apparently March this year was one of those rare months when a new moon occurred twice.  The lunar opposite of a Blue Moon, most people called it a Black Moon, though she’d heard some refer to it as a Dark Moon, a Finder’s Moon, or a Spinner’s Moon.  She preferred her grandmother’s name, a Secret Moon because secret described her life and what happened to her every month when the moon was dark to a T.

How the hell had she missed that?  Beyond that, this shift was different, usually she could control it to a certain extent but this time her control had slipped unusually fast and there’d been nothing she could do except run.

It didn’t make sense and dear God; she hoped no one had noticed.  If they had, she prayed they’d be too drunk to remember it the next morning.  Or at least drunk enough to think it had only been a hallucination brought on by too much booze and whatever else they might have swallowed prior in their search for a good time. 

Thank goodness she’d made it through the last set.  She’d hate to lose her job over this.  The job fit her perfectly and suited her lifestyle.  What other job could she hold that would pay enough to allow her to take a good portion of the month off while she was in shift-mode?  But the money was only a small part of it.  The major thing about this job was it offered the distinct advantage of dressing up as someone else every night she worked.  No one, not even the members of the band, knew she was actually a woman in a man’s, er, make that a wolf in Queen’s clothing.

Pretending to be someone else was something else that suited her to a T.  She’d spent her life hiding her strange ability and sometimes when she was pretending to be Freddie, she almost felt normal.

Creeping out of the shadow of the dumpster, she kept her nose up, her ears pricked and her eyes in constant motion, checking for danger.  Well, really, the danger existed more for any unsuspecting people who might cross her path.  Not that she would eat them or anything, but she’d learned a long time ago that her wolf persona was catlike, she didn’t kill so much as entertain herself playing with those less threatening than herself.

Perhaps it was a she-wolf thing.  She didn’t know and didn’t have time to think about it right now.  She needed to get to safety, to a place where she knew she couldn’t be hurt and wouldn’t be turned away for being different.

In an ironic twist of the fairy tale, the wolf needed to go to Grandmother’s house to be safe.

Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, she made her way down the alley, constantly reminding herself to ignore the scents of discarded food—which wasn’t a hard thing to do as most of it smelled like it had gone rancid days ago and didn’t really appeal to her wolf-senses.  She never ate before a show.  If she tried, she took the chance of her stomach rebelling on her from the touch of stage-fright she often suffered from.  So she was hungry and even the spoiled food had her salivary glands watering.

Near the end of the alley, one of the back doors opened to a burst of sound and blinding light.  A man, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a work shirt, with a soiled apron tied around his ample hips, stepped out, cigarette and lighter held at the ready.  He smelled of sweat, old grease, and raw meat.  Her stomach clenched as nerves and fright overtook the hunger pangs.

Oh God, what should she do?  If he saw her, he’d no doubt start yelling and that wouldn’t be a good thing at all.

She froze, hoping he was too focused on his cigarette to look around.  He flicked the lighter, inhaled deep then blew the smoke from his lungs on a dramatic sigh of pleasure.  When an Asheville policeman came to the head of the alley and shone a flashlight down its length, Lyssa eased closer to the wall, behind a stack of empty boxes.  It was the best she could do for a shield.

“Hey, Charlie, I thought I might catch you out here,” the policeman said as he turned off the light, tucking it back in his belt as he swaggered his way down the alley toward the cook.  “Mind if I bum one of those?”

The cook took a pack from the pocket of his shirt and held it out to the cop.

“Thanks.  Nice night, huh?”

Charlie looked up at the sky.  Apparently, a man of few words, he only answered with one, “Dark.”

The cop looked up and laughed.  “Well, yeah, that generally happens every day when the sun goes down.”

“Ha, ha.  Not like this.  It’s a Black Moon night.”

“What the hell is a Black Moon night?”

“Don’t you know anything?  A Black Moon is the opposite of a Blue Moon.  It means we’ve already had one new moon this month and this is the second.  You’re a cop, you should know that.”

“What does being a cop have to do with the moon?”

Charlie sighed.  “Ever noticed how people go a little crazy when the moon’s full?”

“Well, yeah, but it isn’t full during a, what’d ya’ call it, a Black Moon?”

“Sure it is, only difference is the light’s facing away from the earth so we can’t see it.”

“So, if people can’t see it, it won’t affect them.”

“A lot you know.  Don’t you have to be aware of things like this being a cop?”

“Things like what?”

Charlie heaved a sigh.  “The phases of the moon and how it affects people.  You ever heard of Wicca?”

“Sure, means witch or something like that.”

“Not really, but close enough.”

“So?”

“So, a Black Moon is considered by Wiccans to be very powerful.”

“Like I said, so?  I don’t believe in all that witch hooey.”

“Maybe you should.  Any spell cast tonight will be that much more powerful because it’s spun under a Black Moon.  You got any witches after you?”

“Witches-smitches.  That’s all a bunch of crap if you ask me.”

“Uh-huh.”  Charlie dropped his cigarette and ground it under his heel.  “Been nice talking to you, Brett, I’ll see you tomorrow night—if you’re still around.”

The cop looked warily over his shoulder as Charlie opened the door.  “I, uh, I’ll be here.”

Charlie turned back and winked at him.  “Watch your back, son.”

He closed the door as Brett the cop took another wary look around the dark alley.  Then he flicked the cigarette away.

Lyssa watched it fly in a perfect arc toward her.  She shuffled a few steps to the side to avoid being burned and knocked over the boxes.

“Who’s there?” Brett the cop demanded and his hand groped for the gun in the holster at his waist. 

 But he wasn’t going for the gun, he was after the flashlight.  She froze as he pulled it from his belt, shifted it to his left hand and rested his right hand on the butt of his gun.  He flicked the light on and she cringed as he released the safety on the gun’s harness.

“Shit, damn, shit, a wolf!”  In a pretty good imitation of a gunslinger of the old West, he pulled the gun and aimed it at her.

She took off, racing for the head of the alley but he got off three shots before she made it to the relative safety of the street. One of the shots, whether by luck or skill, hit her left hind leg.  Ignoring the pain, she kept going, running on her three good legs.  She leaped out of the alley, landing in a crowd of people, knocking a few over and scaring the alcohol-induced spirits out of the rest of them.  They scattered, every man and woman for his or her self, all of them screaming an unintelligible jumble of warnings and profanities.

She sailed over the head of one idiot who’d crouched down at the curb and was fiddling with his cell phone.  Trying to get a picture, no doubt, so he could sell it to one of the hunting magazines that were so popular here in the mountains; or worse yet, to one of the tabloids.

She could see the headlines now; Crazed Wolf Terrorizes Downtown Asheville.

When she hit the pavement again, her leg buckled and she tumbled into the street.  She made it to her feet again but the fur on her back rose in a ridge moments before a car crashed into her body, sending her flying in the air to land outside the front door of the nightclub she’d just escaped.