Eden

PROLOGUE

----"Eden..."

I run through the forest, the icy snow crunching underneath my bare feet. His voice echoes off the barren, snow-covered trees and into the vast wilderness. I cannot escape it. His voice is always there. Always following me.

"Eden..."

My heart is racing in terror, and I stretch my legs into long, graceful arcs, all the while straining my ears for any threatening sounds of pursuit. I know I should phase into my cat, my trusted alter ego who I know will always protect me, but for some reason I am compelled to stay in this human form, limited though it may be. So far the snow-covered forest is silent, too silent—the kind of silence that becomes its own sound.

Is it just my imagination or is the silence becoming a deafening roar in my ears? I know I'm leaving footprints in the powdery snow behind me, but there's no time to remedy that, no time to cover my tracks. I have to get out of here...if only I could remember how I got here in the first place. Is he still following me? Was I kidnapped? Is he going to kill me?

A bubble of laughter rises in my chest, the first sign of hysteria—soon after that full-blown panic will paralyze me. But I cannot lose focus right now.

Out of breath, I slow my pace to a comfortable jog and look up at the dark, leafless trees. They are gaunt and twisted, yet made beautiful by a layer of pristine snow that practically glows in the twilight sun. The branches stretch over my head hundreds of feet in the air, creating a fantastical ceiling of intricate ribs and vaults—the forest possesses the graceful majesty of a cathedral and I feel as if I could kneel right now and worship nature itself.

I have never been here before. If I have I surely would've remembered. I stop jogging altogether, and suddenly the silence and grace of the vast forest overwhelms my senses, bringing tears to my eyes. I feel as if I belong here. Why would I even want to run away from such peace?

But my peace is suddenly jarred by a creak in the snow behind me. I whip around, fully prepared to fight off whatever horrors may lurk there. Another creak sounds to my left—I feel my panic rising. What do I do? What can I do?

A shadow darts behind a 10-foot wide tree trunk, and I sprint after it. I refuse to be the prey. I will be the predator. In a flash, my lithe legs have taken me to the tree trunk, but there is no one hiding there. No footprints in the snow. Not a snowflake disturbed.

Am I going mad? Is this forest a labyrinth used to trap unsuspecting victims?

Another noise. I lope out into the open and turn in circles, letting my canines lengthen and sharpen into threatening weapons. Nothing again.

I sigh and turn around to keep walking—only to come face to face with the single most humongous white tiger I have ever seen in my life less than 10 feet away from me. All I can think to do is stare wide-eyed at what could possibly be my executioner. With a cautious look in its eye, and a low growl building in its throat, it circles me.

One quick intake of breath tells me it's a werecat, just like me.

A swift glance down reveals my worst fear: male.

Fuck.

An unprotected female werecat in human form being stalked by a lone male werecat in cat form. The panic is rising and my fight or flight instinct kicks in, but I ignore it and try to appear confident and unaffected. My chances of getting out of here unscathed are looking slim to none, but I will fight to the death nonetheless.

Even now I can admit that he is a gorgeous cat. Covered in thick white fur and adorned with graceful black stripes, he stands proud and erect like a true pureblood tiger, and I realize a little too late that he probably is just that—although I wouldn't know for sure since I have never seen one before. He is tall, coming up to my 5 foot 4" height, and muscular with thick, yet graceful sinews wrapping around his long legs and lean body—an Alpha.

Fuck Fuck.

I turn with him as he circles me, keeping my eyes on him but making sure not to make eye contact, and his thick muscles ripple under his thick white pelt. Now I know why I didn't see anything when I surveyed my surroundings—that white fur has the same pristine white sheen as the powdery snow around me. I notice his claws, as long as my fingers and as deadly as daggers, and I can only imagine how sharp his teeth must be. His head snaps to the left and, with a deep and harsh warning growl at me, he suddenly darts out and disappears.

I listen to the pounding of his paws on the snow until it fades away into the distance. I quickly realize I am standing vulnerable in the open staring after him, so I turn and sprint the other way until every muscle in my body throbs with pain.

I stop to take a deep, soothing breath to calm my frantic heart and throw my head back to close my eyes. I don't feel as if I'm in danger anymore...my instincts tell me the danger has passed. I trust my instincts because they are always right. Another deep breath. I center my senses. All I hear is...silence. All I smell is...snow. All I feel is...snowflakes?

I didn't notice it snowing, but sure enough as I look open my eyes with my head still thrown back I see delicate white puffs of snow drifting down through the air. They land on my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, and I open my mouth so they land on my tongue.

For a moment I don't care where I am anymore, or that I have just had a terrifying run-in with a threatening male werecat. For the first time I truly live in the moment. I let my shoulders slump and give a carefree laugh of relief, twirling around in circles with my head thrown back and my arms haphazardly thrown out. The snowflakes land on my hands and linger for many moments before melting into my skin.

The dappled sun of the twilight sky creates a magical world, and I look up through the branches of the vast trees and see a cloudless lavender sky, so perfect and peaceful and-----wait cloudless?

That can't be right, I mean it's snowing. That doesn't make any sense; it can't snow without clouds...unless this is a dream. I am unexpectedly disappointed, but everything suddenly makes sense: the irrational fear, the panic, the beautiful werecat that miraculously didn't attack me, the cathedral-like forest...hell, even the snowflakes! They would've melted immediately on my overheated skin if this were real.

I have never had a lucid dream before, one so real and sensory and detailed. But I guess there's a first time for everything. Now I know there is no reason for me being here, and I can just enjoy the peace in what I have named the Cathedral Forest without any anxiety whatsoever. I can just be me because here there is nothing to fear----

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

My phone alarm splits my vivid dream into fragments. I desperately want to go back to sleep, try to recollect the sense of peace that my dream was giving me, but I only have 10 minutes before Zane will emerge from the bathroom and tackle me out of bed. I push the dream out of my mind, ignoring the made-up purebred tiger that spared my life in those snowy woods.

Throwing off the scratchy motel sheets, I quickly stretch out my sore legs before heading to the bathroom. I cringe when I look in the mirror. My normally smooth caramel skin is pale from lack of sun, my thick brown hair hangs in dark, unruly knots, and my eyes—a brilliant shade of violet—are shocking and unnatural in the light of day. They are a constant reminder of the "accident" that changed my life forever.

I am tired and stiff...but that's what I've come to expect from practically living on the streets for the past two months. But I deal with life as it comes. It was practically a relief two months ago when I turned eighteen and my foster parents kicked me out of the house, leaving me to fend for myself—which is just how I like it. I mean, I wasn't always so self-sufficient, but after the "accident" I had no choice but to start taking control of my own life, if only to save my own skin.

The police claimed it was just an oversized cougar that attacked me in the woods outside my foster house. They said it was probably lost and got scared when I happened upon it in the woods. They have all these theories for why my eyes changed from a soft hazel to a bright violet practically overnight, and why I was suddenly in the best shape of my life when I should've been weak from the attack.

Only I know what really happened, and I haven't told anyone, not even my best friend Emma who I'd known since I was six years old. But I didn't have a choice—no one would believe me anyway. I mean I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't experienced it for myself. They would have called me crazy if I had told them that a homeless man had turned into a snow white tiger and pounced on me in the woods in the middle of a hot Colorado summer. I would've had a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward before I could blink an eye. So naturally, I didn't tell a soul.

Until Zane found me, that is. He's become my best friend, the brother I always wished I had. I had only been on my own for two weeks before our fated meeting, and we haven't parted since.

The first time I saw him was a shock. He was the first werecat, other than myself, that I had ever encountered. He was boyishly handsome with tousled platinum blond hair, big excited blue eyes, and a shit-eating grin on his angular face that made me grin right back at him. He looked to be close to my age, but then again werecats' ages are hard to pin—he could be centuries old for all I knew. I know now that he is only a few decades older than I am, which is relatively young compared to most werecats, but not to my modest 19 years.

It was that instinct of mine, the one I knew I could trust no matter what, that told me to let him help me. Let him teach me. It wasn't until later that I learned he was just as hungry for company as I was. For the first time in my life I had someone who I could tell anything to, who would understand me and wouldn't judge me for anything. It also helps that Zane "bats for the other team," if you know what I mean.

Immature and enthusiastic, child-like almost to a fault, Zane wasn't hard to like. We clicked immediately and were soon watching each other's backs as if we had been doing it all our life. He's the only person in the world I'll let get away with calling me Edie instead of Eden, and only because he refuses to call me by any other name.

It's a relief not to have to lie about my whole life anymore. Not to have to control these new animalistic urges that can come so suddenly and unexpectedly at any given moment. It's better this way—being with someone like me who only eats raw meat, and has the same obsession with running very fast for long periods of time. We are equals--both of us almost three times stronger than the average human male, and he isn't frightened when I lose my temper, which is quite often, and my nails sharpen and my canines lengthen and I can't help but growl.

****

After spending seven hours on a stuffy bus, I follow Zane onto the bustling street in Portland, Maine and scent the air carefully to make sure there are no other werecats in the area. Zane leaves the scenting to me, since we have discovered that my sense of smell is much keener than his.

Unfortunately age doesn't compare to genes. Not my genes of course, but the genes that were transferred to me when I was bitten by that homocidal homeless man. He must have been a very skilled werecat, psychotic and deranged, but skilled nonetheless. Doesn't change the fact that if we ever came face to face again, I would butcher him for ruining my life.

The air was filled with the smells of sweat, urine, French fries, dog shit, but no werecats. Good.

I toss my scuffed canvas duffel bag over my shoulder, forgetting that a normal teenager of my stature wouldn't be able to carry such a cumbersome bag so casually. But I'm tired and distracted--all I can think about is finding a nice soft bed to curl up in for the rest of the day. I haven't been able to stop thinking about that oddly vivid dream I had last night--it haunts my thoughts and tingles in the back of my mind like a bud ready to finally bloom. It gives me an odd sense of deja vu, but I know I must be imagining it.

Zane and I have made a bad habit of sleeping throughout the day and prowling the nights either hunting as cats or working the night shifts at shitty jobs that no one else wants. I'm hoping that maybe we can find a job together at an obscure diner and just lay low until we know for sure that we're safe in Portland. We usually tend to cause a ruckus wherever we go, so this will be a new challenge--trying to lay low and not attract any attention whatsoever.

I just finally want to be able to settle down and live my life, instead of having to constantly move around all the time. We both have high hopes for this city.