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The mountain was beautiful at night. Jo knew that, he'd only been doing this every night since he turned fourteen. And yet, tonight the snow glistened strikingly in the light of the waxing gibbous which hung itself in the sky. No clouds cast their misty veil over the dulcet blue rays of Selena's light. Her rays cast creepy shadows on the pristine snow. Giving the feeling of Requiem to the night on the mountain. The groom lines still held their shape, having not been yet disturbed by the ever-flowing crowds of skiers and boarders. Their peaks and troughs seeming like Himalayan mountains and abyssal valleys of ice in the soft, unadulterated light of the moon above.

He strapped himself in, his bindings ratcheting over-loud in his ears. He hummed to himself his favorite song, it was from a Disney Movie he had watched so many times, he could play a male-gender-bent Elsa with little trouble. His favorite character sung of just such a situation. Her walking on an empty mountain and the only footsteps tracked being those her own boots made in the fresh powder. Yet the night was calm, nary a breeze moving the stagnant air. The mountainous pines on either side of the run, looked like giants made of ephemeral shadow. Their imposing stature adding to the spiritual essence of boarding down his favorite run at this time of night.

He knew it was technically illegal. He was boarding down the Elk's Trail run at Esper Mountain Park in Colorado. His run should have cost him a hefty amount. But he'd lived in Esper Mountain since he was a toddler. The small town knew him. Hell, the Sherriff was his cousin's husband. One of the first gay sheriffs in Esper Mountain since its founding. And Sherriff Garrison was a mean sumbitch when he wanted to be, but he loved Jo as he would his own cousin. He looked out for the kid, Jo knew. Even if it felt like over-protective parenting at times. Jo's life here always seemed an easy ride. Until that fateful night. Last April during a blood-moon eclipse, the world learned that some of their legends and folklore were indeed real.

In somewhat of a shock to the world at large, people had started crouching over, as if in pain. Then within minutes the bloody, savage body of a wolf tore itself from the dead husk of their former human selves. Werewolves were real. And they were deadly. A single tear falling down Jo's cheek as he remembered his cousin's face when Deputy Conrad knocked on their front door. His presence was requested at the morgue. A freak accident, they had said, as the Department had decided to keep the wolves a secret as much as they could.

The look of his cousin's ashen face as they pulled back the sheet was terrible. There, torn in two, face barely recognizable, uniform, once khaki, now a maroon which left no doubt in the minds of the onlookers that this man was not with the living any longer. "I'm so sorry, Robert, but we need to confirm that this is James Garrison." Deputy Conrad had appealed, his voice morose. His posture that of a man defeated. A man who'd seen the mouth of Hell itself.

His cousin had held it together rather well, but when they'd come home. He'd cried for hours, eventually crying himself into a deep slumber. Jo'd cried too. He couldn't believe what those...those things had done to his family. He'd gotten himself a crossbow and silver-tipped arrows the very next day.

But this wasn't time for reminiscence. It was time to board. Double checking, then tightening his bindings one more time he got up on his board and checked his equipment before using the Falling Leaf to get some momentum before ollying and heading down the run at an aggressive clip. The sound of snow depressing and compacting and the wind in his face, blowing his curls aloft which poured out from underneath the helmet which he always wore, rejuvenated Jo. He may be doing something illegal and potentially dangerous, but the boy wasn't stupid. As he began to board down the run, kicking up rooster tails of snow as his board cut into the perfectly groomed snow. His board glided on this surface as though he were riding on air. And S-turn after S-turn, the boy regulated his speed as well as was possible on such a precarious device. His eyes darting all around to make sure he didn't hit anything when he was going nearly forty miles an hour on a half-inch-thick piece of fiberglass, bamboo and steel.

As his eyes scanned the run in front of him he saw something which he'd been sure was just an oddly placed shadow that was directly in his path move in an entirely too animate way. As he came closer, the unknown animal turned eyes on him. Eerie golden beams of glowing light shone from the goldenrod-yellow irises of the beast in question. Jo cut as deep of a turn as he could, but as he did, caught an edge and started tumbling head over heels. He tumbled for several feet down toward the beast in question. When he finally came to a rest, his entire body was burning. Especially his thigh. His upper leg felt as if he'd stuck it in lava. He looked down, curiosity getting the best of him. A large, deadly splinter of his Femur poked through the fabric of his boarding pants. They were quickly soaking through with crimson blood. As if sensing his observation, the pain increased a thousand-fold and Jo screamed. He'd broken bones, before. Such was the life of any adventure sport practitioner, but this was new. He'd somehow managed to completely splinter his femur. His body ached from bruising he'd incurred from the tumble.

What scared him most was that there would be no help. He'd die on the mountain he'd come to consider his second home. Ski patrol didn't operate at night, and he'd left his phone in his car at the bottom of the run. He was truly in a kingdom of isolation. His favorite line of his favorite song from his favorite movie coming back to him in a bout of indulgent dark humor.

The beast which had caused him this accident reduced in size, his form staying relatively the same height of around six and a half feet, yet he lost pounds upon pounds of muscle. Going from a muscle worshiper's wet dream to the body of a gym-aholic. The rounded triangular satellite dishes atop his head receded into his skull. The eerily human ears popping out of the side of his head moments later, spoke of a truth which the world had barely scratched the surface of during the Blood Moon Massacre. Just as the beast's muzzle melted into his flattening face, the fur on his body receded immensely but not completely, leaving a heavy dusting of dark brown body hair all over what Jo was quickly realizing was the body of a werewolf. The fur of his face and neck receded somewhat, revealing a mountain man beard, and a heavy, long main of hair which fell down his back to right above his pert ass it was so long.

Once the man finished transforming, standing naked as the day he was borne, he said, "You have three options, human." His

Gritting through the pain, and the lightheadedness, he replied through clenched teeth, "Yeah! And what are those, fucking skinner?"

"I let you die. I bite you. Or I fuck you." The werewolf said calmly, not even phased by the slur, "Death is a possibility in the latter two, but the first it's a certainty. We wolves--as you've figured out what I am--have a phrase, 'One of us, one of them, or not at all.' It's a reference to the curse which makes us what we are. A Werewolf, a dire wolf, or death. Those are the options I can give to you, human."

As if giving him a time limit for his decision, his vision was beginning to tunnel and he became light headed from the blood loss. He must have punctured an artery. He didn't want to die from something so stupid, here of all places, in a puddle of his own blood, but he wasn't sure he liked the other choices. "Bite me, then."

The movement was preternaturally quick. There was brief spike in pain as the wolf's fangs punctured through his shoulder. As the wolf receded, Jo passed out from the blood loss.

***

Jo watched as thousands of images flashed before his eyes. A man wearing a purple toga sitting at a feast with an older man and fifty younger men who bore striking resemblance to the first. The elder man standing up in rage and summoning lightning from thin air. Killing the first man. Then he waved his hand and every other man their transformed themselves into wolves. A younger man rose through the floor, bowing before the second.

There was a mountainside covered in blood, his eyes seeming to be given a bird's eye view of the battle. Wolves looking like the ones from the Blood Moon and wolves like the one who had caused his crash fought each other as the human from before watched next to a man who seemed to glow with internal light.

A man stood before him standing in the murky dark waters of a swamp. Wearing a turquoise toga, the man looked to be barely older than Jo himself. He was obviously of Greek descent. His hair a curly mop atop his head and his olive skin hugged over well-sculpted muscles. The man smiled at him. Grasping his shoulder, the man said, "Welcome to my family, Jo."

***

Marcos looked down at the snowboarder with a look of fatherly affection. He'd had to turn the boy. He'd have died otherwise, but he could almost feel the boy's loss it was so palpable. Some people never stopped grieving. This would be interesting. Gold eyes, Red eyes, or glassy eyes, those would be what greeted him when the boy returned to the waking world, if at all.

He had no sexual desire for the boy outside of putting the boy in his place. He was the alpha. He'd be in charge. Still watching the slim-figured, half-black teenager dream, he could see a certain appeal.

A man in black robes appeared, as if birthed of the shadows. His shorter mane of black hair was braided through with turquoise beads. Without even turning to face the man, he intoned, "It had to be done, Harold."

The man in question walked up behind Marcos, grasping his shoulder in a show of support. "I know, Marcos. But the boy's cousin's husband was killed by a Fang. It's not going to be easy for him to adjust."

"It never is, Harold."