Red, hot embers dance and twirl around us, serving as a prominent reminder of the destruction that has not yet finished wreaking its havoc. Screams, cries, and pleads ring through the air in an attempt to break through my calm, emotionless exterior. Our feet pound against the ground in a synchronized rhythm as we push forward. Like a silent grim reaper, the thick, almost black smoke looms over us, waiting for a chance to claim another soul.

Including the six houses still burning, there are about fifteen cabins all together, strategically placed over the northern section of their territory, and lived in by majority of the other werewolves. Zeke suspects that his parents and the rest of the pack are in the houses that are the furthest away and sit at the very edge of their land.

I slow my pace to match Zeke's when his breathing turns heavy and rapid as we run. It's obvious that he has inhaled too much smoke, but the determination over his features makes it clear that I can't convince him to take a break.

We follow the faint sound of voices down a narrow path that has been carved into the foliage, created by the continuous movement of hurried feet. I shift slightly behind Zeke, noticing how familiar he is with the land. He maneuvers around gnarled, thick tree roots and turns sharp corners with no uncertainty or hesitation, as if it's simply habit for him.

The worn trail leads to the edge of the woods before opening up and disappearing beneath short grass and sparse weeds. The back of an old, white, wooden house in the middle of a glade comes into view, a small window on the second floor left open, allowing frantic voices to meet our ears. A field of freshly mowed grass lies between us and the structure. Despite appearing aged, the home is well kempt and seems welcoming.

It's the kind of house that I can picture having a white picket fence and a fresh apple pie cooling on the windowsill.

We dart across the yard, panicked voices growing louder and clearer as we get closer. Reaching the house in only seconds, Zeke grips the handle of the wooden back door and yanks it open, making it release a high pitched creak. He turns to me, panting slightly as he nods his head in the direction of the open door, gesturing for me to enter first.

Without hesitation, I push past him and into the threshold of the unfamiliar home. The strong, metallic scent of blood mixed with the woodsy aroma of werewolves hits me instantly, momentarily overwhelming my senses. My feet cautiously step forward, eyes running over the blue walls of a long hallway with little light.

There are framed pictures among many other decorations hung on the walls, and I glance at them periodically while I walk. Some photos hold large groups of people filled with unrecognizable faces, but most display a family of five as they smile and laugh.

Zeke follows right behind me and I listen momentarily to his uneven breathing as we reach the end of the hall. My calculated footsteps come to a halt at the doorway and I take in the scene before me.

The moderate living room and kitchen are nothing but chaotic as rushed, panicked people scurry around in unsystematic directions, each person completing different tasks in an attempt to help the survivors. Every chair, couch, and even table is occupied by those who have been injured from the fires. The ones who are healthy and able bodied are gathering supplies, treating injuries and helping whoever they can. The room overflows with the sound of grunts, incoherent conversations, and solemn weeps.

A mans deep, loud groan sounds from my right, hardly audible over the rest of noise, and my eyes instinctively snap in that direction, landing on the kitchen table where a burly, dark haired man lays on his stomach while they treat severe burns scattered over his back.

Delicately cleaning the wounds and laying gauze over them, a middle aged woman hushes him before whispering kind words and apologies. Her brown brows furrow in concentration while she focuses on gently covering the mans back while also directing others on ways they can help or asking them questions about the survivors.

I take note of the way they all look to her for direction, advice, or update her with information which makes me wonder if she's a leader to them.

"Mom?" Zeke suddenly calls from behind me with shock and hope in his voice.

I follow his gaze to the same woman I was just observing and my eyebrows raise slightly in surprise as realization dawns over me. He quickly jogs into the kitchen, pushing through a group of people to get to her.

At the sound of his voice, her head whips up with a small gasp, wide eyes landing on Zeke while relief washes over her features. They immediately pull each other into a tight hug, her eyes squeezing shut as she wraps her arms around him.

"You scared the hell out of me, Zeke," she whispers, my keen ears picking up the low words.

With an impassive expression, I start in the same direction that Zeke went, approaching the group of unfamiliar people in the kitchen. After only a few steps, the others must feel my presence because their curious, confused eyes start to fall on me as they turn away from their tasks, focusing their attention on my frame.

I ignore their expressions and the way their voices fall into hushed murmurs, and continue forward. Instead of having to push or force my way through, the group starts to part, dividing themselves and creating a path for me to reach Zeke. They shuffle away rigidly, eyes glued to me with apprehension.

The air becomes tense as they stare and whisper, but I keep my focus on Zeke and his mother when I reach them. Zeke's mother inhales deeply before pulling away from him, but leaving her hands on his shoulders as she looks him over.

Their similarities are evident and I wonder how I didn't notice them earlier. Her straight hair reaches just above her shoulders in the same dark color as Zeke's, and they both have mossy green eyes with a thin ring of gold around the pupil. Her facial features are more feminine than Zeke's, like her thin, button nose and her sharp cheekbones.

"Were you able to find Cayden?" she asks him, searching his face with a hopeful expression.

Zeke nods immediately before saying, "Yeah, he's completely fine. He'll probably show up soon. I think he just needs some rest."

She smiles softly and nods, giving his shoulders a squeeze before releasing him completely. Her eyes suddenly fall on me and her small smile disappears, transforming into a quizzical expression.

"Mom, this is Victoria," Zeke introduces, noticing her confusion. He gestures to me, turning slightly in my direction.

I nod silently at her which does nothing to tame her confusion. Before I can say a word, another pained groan sounds from the man face down on the kitchen table. His hands are curled into fists and his body is coated in a sheen of sweat as he grunts in agony. The burns over his back are deep and an angry red, surrounded by blisters.

Without a second thought, I step closer to him and place my hand on his shoulder. The warmth of my power works quickly down my arm and into his, radiating throughout his body. His veins glow milky white as it spreads and the redness from his injuries start to fade while the burns begin shrinking.

The deepest burn heals last and leaves behind smooth, healthy skin over his back as he releases a relieved sigh, heartbeat becoming regular.

Panicked gasps and low mutters are exchanged, but I pay them no mind, pulling my hand away and turning my attention back to Zeke and his mother. Zeke has a knowing smirk plastered to his face while his mother appears slightly pale as she gawks at me with round, shocked eyes.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Beckett," I say casually, stretching my hand out in her direction.