Welcome to the second Fear-Filled Fiction Friday of this year's 31 Nights of Halloween! Tonight's short story continues the tale of Derek and Lupe, an unusual pair of teenagers.whose lives have taken an unexpected turn. You can read the first story here, if you haven't already.
SECOND DATE, SILVER BULLETS
By Steve Miller
The crystal chandelier cast prismatic rainbows across the white tablecloth as Derek Shepherd adjusted his tie for the third time in ten minutes. Across from him, Lupe Castellanos smoothed her black dress and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Le Ciel, the city's most exclusive restaurant perched atop the forty-story Meridian Tower. The entire metropolitan area sprawled below them like a glittering circuit board. Derek couldn't help but think how small everything looked from up here—including the problems that had brought them to this awkward arrangement.
"You know," Lupe said, swirling the cranberry juice in her glass without taking a sip, "most girls would be thrilled to have dinner at a place like this on their second date."
Derek's laugh came out more bitter than he intended. "Most girls aren't being auctioned off to consolidate werewolf territories."
The words hung between them like a challenge. It had been two weeks since their first date—if you could call nearly getting mugged while strolling together under the full moon a date. Two weeks since they'd both realized that their parents' "suggestions" about spending time together weren't really suggestions at all, but carefully orchestrated moves in a game that had been playing out for generations. Two weeks since they'd realized that maybe being more than friends might not be so bad, even if the whole arranged marriage thing bothered both of them.
Lupe finally took a sip of her juice, her dark eyes never leaving his face. "Is that what you think this is? An auction?"
"Isn't it?" Derek leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "Your father controls the eastern territories, mine controls the west. Together, we'd have nearly the entire region under one banner. They've been planning this our whole lives. It's not exactly rocket science."
"No," Lupe agreed, "but it's not exactly slavery either."
Derek studied her face in the candlelight. Lupe was undeniably beautiful—the kind of beauty that made other girls hate her and boys stumble over their own feet. Her long black hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her olive skin seemed to glow with an inner warmth that had nothing to do with makeup. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard every time—intelligent, fierce, and completely unafraid. Since they were small children, she'd always been like that... and he'd always loved that part of her.
"So what do you suggest we do about it?" he asked.
Lupe set down her wine glass and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "We could run away. Change our names, move to Alaska, become normal people."
"Could we?" Derek's eyebrows rose. "Because last I checked, there's no such thing as a normal person in our world. We are what we are, Lupe. The question is whether we're going to let our parents dictate how we use what we are."
"Or," Lupe said, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, "we could play along until we're old enough and strong enough to make our own rules."
Derek considered this. At eighteen, they were both legal adults in the human world, but in werewolf society, they wouldn't be considered fully mature until they turned twenty-one. Three more years of being pawns in their parents' political games.
"I still think it's funny," Derek said, cutting into his steak,. "that even if our parents weren't pushing this so hard, I probably would have asked you out anyway."
"Probably?" Lupe arched and eyebrow.
"Definitely," he corrected, and was rewarded with a genuine smile.
They both knew it was true. Even before their families had begun talks of uniting territories, they'd always been drawn to each other in a way they'd never fully understood. Their wolves recognized something in each other long before their human selves caught up.
"The truth is, Derek." Lupe picked at her salmon, her expression growing thoughtful. "I've been thinking about this whole situation, and I've come to a conclusion."
"Which is?"
"We're going to end up together, so it's a good thing we get along. So far. Our parents aren't going to give up, and frankly, the political advantages are too significant to ignore. So the only option we have is to make the best of it."
Derek set down his fork. "And what does 'making the best of it' look like to you?"
"It looks like getting to know each other on our own terms. It looks like setting boundaries with our families about how much interference we'll tolerate. And it looks like being honest about what we want from this arrangement."
"What do you want from it?"
Lupe was quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the windows again. "I want a partner, not a master. I want someone who respects my strength instead of trying to diminish it. And I want to know that when we do take over our families' territories, we're doing it together, as equals."
Derek felt something shift in his chest—a recognition, maybe, or the beginning of genuine respect. "I can work with that. Plus, I always loved the fact that you don't take crap from anyone."
"Good, because—"
The restaurant's main door exploded inward with a crash that sent splinters of wood flying across the dining room. Ten men in black tactical gear poured through the doorway, assault rifles raised and trained on the terrified diners. Their faces were hidden behind ski masks, and their stances were those of experienced soldiers. Derek felt his Wolf stir uneasily in his chest. This whole thing was startling, unnerving, but the Wolf sensed something wasn't as it seemed.
"Stay at your tables!" The apparent leader's voice boomed across the restaurant. "Anyone who moves will be shot! This is the Parlemanian Liberation Front, and you are now our hostages!"
Screams erupted from the other tables as diners dove for cover or froze in terror. Derek's hand moved instinctively toward Lupe, but she was already sliding her chair back slightly, her body coiled and ready to spring. Her eyes met his across the table, and he saw his own thoughts reflected there: This is not a coincidence.
"Cell phones! Everyone put your cell phones on the table in front of you! Now!" Another gunman was moving between the tables, collecting devices in a black duffel bag. "Hands where we can see them!"
Derek slowly reached into his jacket pocket and placed his phone on the white tablecloth. Lupe did the same, but her movements were just a fraction too slow, her reluctance just a little too obvious.
The leader noticed. "You! Girl in the black dress! You seem to be having trouble following simple instructions."
He strode over to their table, his rifle pointed directly at Lupe's chest. Up close, Derek could see his eyes through the mask—cold, professional, but with an edge of something that felt personal.
"Since you were the last to comply," the man said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his vest, "you get to be our spokesperson. Read this. Loud and clear."
Lupe took the paper with steady hands, her face a mask of calm that Derek knew was costing her considerable effort. She unfolded it and, as the gunman held up a camera phone, began to read in a clear, carrying voice:
"To the authorities of this city and state: We are the Parlemanian Liberation Front. We have taken thirty-seven hostages at Le Ciel restaurant. Our demands are simple: the immediate release of our imprisoned leaders, Mattias Volkov and Boris Reen, along with safe passage out of the country. You have six hours to comply. If our demands are not met, we will begin executing hostages, one every hour. Any attempt to storm this building will result in the immediate death of all hostages, as each of our operatives is equipped with explosive devices. We are prepared to die for our cause. The question is: how many of our hostages are you prepared to let die for your pride?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Derek could hear the rapid heartbeats of the other diners, could smell their fear like a physical presence in the room. But beneath it all, his enhanced senses were picking up something else—the subtle wrongness he'd detected earlier was getting stronger. It wasn't a full moon, but the stress of this situation was still bringing out the Wolf in both of them. They would have to be careful and keep control. He glanced at Lupe and saw her nostrils flaring, catching scents no human would detect.
Something isn't right about these guys.
"Very good," the leader said, taking the paper back, waving his weapon at the diners. "Now, everyone move to that corner of the dining room. Slowly. Keep your hands visible."
The hostages began shuffling toward the designated area, a cluster of tables far from the kitchen doors. Derek and Lupe moved with them, but Derek noticed that Lupe's eyes were constantly scanning their captors, cataloging details, looking for weaknesses.
As they settled into the corner with the other terrified diners, Lupe leaned close to Derek's ear and whispered, "This is like that old movie—you know, the one where the guy takes over the Christmas party at the office building."
Derek frowned. "Die Hard?"
"That's the one. Remember how it turned out the whole terrorist thing was just a cover for a heist?"
Derek's eyes widened slightly as he caught her meaning. "You think this isn't really about the PLF?"
"I think," Lupe murmured, "that it's awfully convenient we ended up as hostages on our second date, don't you?"
Derek glanced around at their captors, his jaw tightening. "So what are you suggesting? That someone set this up specifically for us?"
"I'm suggesting we stay alert." Lupe's voice was barely audible. "And keep our wolves in check. The stress is making mine restless."
Derek nodded grimly. Unlike the old stories, they didn't need a full moon to transform—strong emotion could trigger the change, and it could be triggered with sheer willpower. But right now, in so tense a situation, both their wolves were pacing beneath their skin, eager for violence. But shifting here, surrounded by all these innocent people, would be a major breach of what they had been taught their entire lives: That their dual natures needed to remain secret... and the only normal humans who saw them change were ones that would not survive the encounter.
Before they could continue their whispered conversation, a woman at the next table began sobbing loudly, her whole body shaking with terror. Lupe immediately turned to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Hey," she said softly, "what's your name?"
"M-Margaret," the woman stammered. "Oh God, they're going to kill us all, aren't they?"
"No, they're not," Lupe said with quiet conviction. "Margaret, I need you to listen to me. These men want something, and killing hostages doesn't help them get it. They need us alive to have any leverage at all. Do you understand?"
Margaret nodded, her sobs subsiding slightly.
"Good. Now, I want you to focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that for me?"
As Lupe continued to calm the terrified woman, Derek found himself watching her with growing admiration. Even in a situation like this, her first instinct was to help others. It was a quality he hadn't expected, and it made something warm unfurl in his chest. He focused on his own breathing—not to alleviate fear, but to keep his wolf calm and controlled.
The minutes crawled by. The gunmen maintained their positions around the restaurant, occasionally speaking into radio headsets in voices too quiet for human ears. But Derek's enhanced hearing caught fragments—references to "the package," "the timeline," and most disturbing of all, "the targets."
After what felt like hours but was probably only forty-five minutes, one of the gunmen began walking among the hostages. He was checking his phone repeatedly, his agitation growing with each glance at the screen.
"Time's almost up," he announced to his companions. "No word from the authorities. Looks like we need to send them a message."
Derek felt Lupe tense beside him. The gunman was moving through the crowd of hostages, studying faces, occasionally checking his phone as if comparing photos. When he reached their section, his steps slowed.
"You," he said, pointing directly at Lupe. "Stand up."
"No," Derek said immediately, starting to rise himself.
The gunman swung his rifle toward Derek. "Sit down, or I'll shoot you both right now."
Lupe placed a hand on Derek's arm, her touch both calming and restraining. "It's okay," she said quietly, getting to her feet.
The gunman grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the center of the dining room, away from the other hostages. Derek's wolf was clawing at his insides, demanding action, but he forced himself to remain still. Not yet. Not until he understood what was happening.
"Please," Lupe said, her voice carrying clearly across the restaurant, "you don't want to do anything you're going to regret."
Another gunman approached, carrying a different weapon—a pistol with an unusual silver finish. "Here," he said, offering it to the first man. "The Overlord said to use this one on the two brats."
Derek's blood turned to ice. The two brats. They knew exactly who he and Lupe were.
The first gunman looked at the silver pistol, then at his assault rifle. "A gun's a gun, Markov. We can sell this fancy piece once we're clear of the city."
"But the Overlord specifically said—"
"The Overlord isn't here, and I'm not carrying extra weight for sentiment. The girl dies either way."
Lupe spoke up again, her voice steady despite the rifle pointed at her chest. "You really should listen to your friend. Some guns are more special than others."
The gunman's finger moved to the trigger. "Hour's up, sweetheart."
The shots were deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. Two quick bursts from the assault rifle, center mass, exactly where they would do the most damage to a human being. Lupe crumpled to the floor, her black dress spreading around her like spilled ink.
Derek's roar of rage was barely human as he launched himself from the corner, his chair flying backward into the wall. He made it three steps before multiple rifles opened fire, the bullets tearing through his chest and abdomen with wet, meaty sounds. He collapsed next to Lupe, his vision graying at the edges.
"Let that be a lesson to the rest of you!" the leader shouted at the cowering hostages. "Stay quiet, stay still, and maybe you'll live to see morning!"
The other diners were sobbing openly now, Margaret's wails rising above the rest. The gunmen turned their attention back to crowd control, satisfied that their message had been delivered.
Which was why none of them were looking when Lupe opened her eyes.
Derek felt her hand brush against his, felt the familiar tingle that meant her accelerated healing was already at work. His own wounds were closing, the bullets being pushed out of his body by rapidly regenerating tissue. The pain was excruciating, but it was also temporary.
Lupe rose to her feet with fluid grace, her dress torn and bloody but her body whole. She looked directly at the gunman who had shot her, and her smile was all teeth.
"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers."
The transformation was explosive. Heat erupted along Lupe's spine like liquid fire as her human form began to dissolve, every nerve ending screaming as bones elongated and muscles expanded in a symphony of controlled violence. Her skin burned and stretched, giving way to silver fur that sprouted in waves across her reshaping body. The sound of fabric tearing was lost beneath the wet pops of joints relocating and the deep, rumbling growl that built in her expanding chest. Her consciousness split—human awareness riding alongside primal wolf instinct—as she rose to her full seven-foot height, a creature of silver and shadow with eyes that blazed like amber fire.
The metallic taste of her own blood lingered on her tongue from where her elongating canines had cut her lip. Every scent in the room sharpened to crystal clarity: the acrid gunpowder, the copper tang of blood, the sour stench of human fear. But strongest of all was the smell of her mate's transformation beginning behind her.
The gunman who had shot her barely had time to scream before her jaws closed around his throat.
Derek's change hit like a seismic shift, his skeleton cracking and reforming with sounds like breaking timber. The sensation was familiar yet always overwhelming—his human skin splitting along invisible seams as his true form fought its way to the surface. His muscles swelled and corded, his spine extending into a powerful tail as dark fur erupted across his frame. The pain was exquisite, every cell in his body rewriting itself, and he embraced it with savage joy. His wolf was larger than Lupe's, midnight-black except for the white blaze across his chest where the bullets had struck—a badge of survival, of strength.
Together, they were a force of nature unleashed in the confines of the restaurant, their combined howl of rage rattling the crystal chandelier above.
The gunmen tried to fight back, but they had prepared for human hostages, not supernatural predators. Their bullets, while painful, were not silver—they could slow the werewolves down but not stop them. And Derek and Lupe had the advantage of speed, strength, and a lifetime of training in combat.
Lupe made sure to target the gunman with the silver pistol first, her claws raking across his chest as her teeth found his jugular. The special weapon clattered across the floor, forgotten in the chaos.
The battle was over in minutes. Ten men, reduced to torn flesh and spreading pools of blood. The restaurant looked like a slaughterhouse, the elegant décor splattered with gore.
Derek shifted back to human form first, his clothes hanging in tatters around his healing body. Lupe followed suit, her own dress barely decent but her skin unmarked by the violence.
"Our parents are going to be so pissed," Derek said, surveying the carnage.
Lupe approached Margaret, who was staring at them with wide, terrified eyes. The other hostages were in similar states of shock, their minds struggling to process what they had witnessed.
"Margaret," Lupe said gently, crouching down to the woman's eye level. "I need you to do me a favor. Please forget what I look like as a girl. Can you do that for me?"
Margaret nodded mutely, her gaze unfocused and distant.
Derek was already moving toward the emergency exit, the silver pistol in his hand. "We need to go. Now."
They fled through the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time, their enhanced physiology making the forty-story descent feel like a casual jog. By the time they reached the street level, sirens were already wailing in the distance.
Two hours later, they sat in a dingy motel room on the outskirts of the city, their ruined formal wear replaced by clothes from a 24-hour discount store. The television droned in the background, news anchors breathlessly reporting on the "terrorist attack" at Le Ciel restaurant.
"—survivors describe being saved by what they can only call monsters," the reporter was saying. "Large, wolf-like creatures that appeared to be immune to gunfire. Police are investigating whether the animals were part of some kind of trained security response, though no agency has claimed responsibility—"
The camera cut to an interview with Margaret, who looked pale but composed as she spoke to the reporter.
"I don't remember much," she said. "Just these horrible creatures, like something out of a nightmare. But they saved us. Whatever they were, they saved all of us."
"Nice lady that one," Lupe muttered.
Derek was examining the silver pistol, turning it over in his hands. The metal was warm to the touch, almost alive, and covered in intricate engravings that seemed to shift in the lamplight.
"Custom work," he murmured, finding the release for the cylinder. "Expensive."
The bullets that fell into his palm were unlike anything he'd ever seen—and they burned his skin on contact.
"Shit!" He dropped them immediately, shaking his hand. "Pure silver. Maybe even blessed."
Lupe leaned over to look at the bullets without touching them. "Someone knew exactly what we are and exactly how to kill us."
"The PLF thing was just cover," Derek agreed. "Someone wanted us dead, and they were willing to take out a restaurant full of innocent people to make it happen."
Lupe pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "The question is who. And why now."
Derek set the pistol carefully on the nightstand, well away from both of them. "Someone who knows about werewolves. Someone who knows about our families. Someone who has access to specialized weapons and trained killers."
"Someone who calls himself 'the Overlord,'" Lupe added. "Did you catch that? When they were arguing about which gun to use?"
"I caught it." Derek's expression was grim. "Whoever this is, they're well-informed and well-funded. And they specifically wanted both of us dead."
Lupe was quiet for a long moment, staring at the television screen where footage of the restaurant played on loop. "You know what this means, don't you?"
"That someone really doesn't want our families to unite?"
"That, and more." Lupe turned to face him fully. "Think about it, Derek. If someone is willing to go to these lengths to prevent our alliance, it means our alliance is more important than we realized. It means we're more dangerous together than apart."
Derek considered this. "So what do we do?"
"We do exactly what our parents want us to do," Lupe said with a smile that was equal parts sweet and predatory. "We get married, we unite our territories, and we find out who the hell is trying to kill us."
Derek looked at her—really looked at her—and felt something click into place. This wasn't the arranged marriage he'd been dreading. This was a partnership, forged in blood and violence, between two people who understood exactly what they were capable of.
"You know," he said, reaching for her hand, "I think I'm starting to like this plan."
Lupe intertwined her fingers with his, careful not to let their joined hands drift too close to the silver bullets on the floor. "So much for a normal second date."
"Hey, you called it," Derek said with a rueful smile. "Your instincts were right—this whole thing was a setup."
"Yeah, but now we get to do something about it."
Derek squeezed her hand gently. "Together."
"Together," Lupe agreed.
Outside their motel room window, the city lights twinkled like stars, and somewhere in that urban constellation, an enemy was planning their next move. But Derek and Lupe were no longer the naive teenagers who had sat down to dinner a few hours ago. They were something new now—a united front, a force to be reckoned with.
And whoever the Overlord was, he had just made a very serious mistake.
The blood moon was rising, and the hunt was about to begin.
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