Chapter Two

After a while, Javier’s tired eyes saw campfires ahead. The silhouettes of his people flickered in the firelight as they worked. Most chores were done in the early morning or at night because the days were scorchingly hot. Nights, though often cool, were a good time for necessary labor.

The patrol worked at night too, when most migrant crossings happened. They guided families and groups to sites where water and supplies had been deliberately placed to aid in survival. Usually, Javier did not show himself, but in urgent situations like tonight, he would arrive in wolf form to support those crossing.

Most migrant groups had heard of El Lobo del Oeste, the Wolf of the West, so when Javier appeared, people, though startled, usually trusted him quickly. He never took human form, fearing recognition in the outer community when leaving camp for supplies or errands. This was part of the pack's code, along with the protection of life above all else.

Javier heaved a sigh of relief as he crossed into the camp’s boundary and headed toward the large cavern that housed their shelters. Many generations ago, La Guardia de la Luna, The Guardians of the Moon, discovered this location in the Colorado Desert and named it La Cueva de la Luna, The Moon Cave. It was the perfect spot to house the order during the hot desert days.

Hidden within the hills of the vast desert, it also had a large area in front of it, surrounded by giant rocks that served as the group’s base of operations. They cooked, ate, housed their gear, fixed their vehicles, collected rainwater, and kept several campfire areas where they gathered in the evenings.

The land was protected by ancient runes carved into stones along the camp's outer boundaries, meant to ward off curious or harmful visitors. Javier wasn’t sure exactly how the magic worked, only that it had been taught to the original guardians and passed down through the generations by the Curanderos de la Luna, the Healers of the Moon.

The runes did not make the camp invisible or untouchable, but they made outsiders uneasy, turned the lost in circles, and warned Lucia, their healer, when something crossed the boundary that did not belong. They could slow enemies, confuse trackers, and hide the camp from those who meant harm, but they were not perfect. If a rune stone was broken, the protection weakened. If Lucia were too injured to maintain them, the magic would fade.

Javier remembered the night two years ago when a storm had destroyed one of the old rune stones near the southern edge of camp. Within a few hours, two border agents had come within sight of their fires before the pack managed to steer them away. The runes had confused the men, but without all their strength, the agents had gotten much closer than anyone liked. Since then, fixing and checking each stone had become a nightly ritual.

However, there were some things in the world, old things, powerful things, that the runes could not keep out forever.

As Javier passed one of the campfires, the strange smell of fire he had encountered out in the desert halted him mid-step, sharp and out of place amongst the familiar smells of smoke and food. He turned, catching Lucia tending to a newcomer. The woman was mostly hidden under a blanket, but something in the way she sat, rigid and wary, caught Javier’s attention.

Lucia dabbed at the raw wounds on her wrists, but it was the woman’s scent that disturbed him: not just smoke, but something older, hotter, as if the desert sun itself was baked into her skin. It was ancient, alive, and suggested a power that again alerted his wolf senses.

For a second, Javier’s instincts cried out at him: danger, but he shook it off. How could this injured woman be a danger?
Curious, he threw his pack on the cot in his tent and searched for Diego, who had run with one of the other patrol groups that night. He was walking toward the water tanks when he heard his name.

“Javi!”

Javier turned and saw the pack alpha, Mateo Alvarez, approaching him. Mateo was a large, muscular man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, a dark mustache, piercing dark eyes, and tattoos covering his arms. He was also the only one allowed to call him Javi. Mateo had been the alpha of The Guardians as long as Javier had known about the order and had become a father figure to Javier.

“Mateo,” responded Javier.

Mateo patted Javier on the back.

“Nice call, tonight, leading that group to the slot canyon shelter. You probably saved their lives.”

“I was running on pure instinct at that point,” Javier said.

“Well, your instincts are spot on. Keep it up,” Mateo said as he called to another wolf and walked away.

Javier felt a small sense of pride but quickly swallowed it. There was no room for pride in this life. He shook his head and continued searching for Diego. Diego was at the water tanks as Javier had expected. This was where they all gathered after patrol to wash the dust and sweat of the desert off their bodies.

Diego was in the middle of lathering up his short hair when Javier found him. Javier stood under one of the improvised showers. These were operated with a foot pump, so they pumped out only as much as needed to rinse off the soap and grime.
The way the system was constructed, there was actually decent water pressure, but each pack member was allotted only five minutes, so showers had to be quick. Pulling the shower curtain around him, Javier stripped off his clothes and pumped some water to rinse his body.

He could see Diego over the top of the curtains, just rinsing off and grabbing a towel off the pile that was kept nearby. Flames of nearby campfires cast the only light to see by.

“How was your patrol today?” Javier asked.

Diego turned toward him.

“Interesting,” Diego responded.

“How?” asked Javier.

“We found a girl out there. Alone, wandering in circles like she didn’t know where she was.”

“How is that interesting?”

“She’s not a migrant. She doesn’t fit in. We can’t get a full story out of her because she is dehydrated, exhausted, and scared. Probably been drugged. She seemed really out of it. We had to bring her back to camp so Lucia could help her.”
Diego quickly slipped into his pants.

“But Javier, when I picked her up, it was like holding someone who had been standing in the sun all day. She was burning hot, but she didn’t have a fever. Something about her felt different. When I carried her, it was like the air around her shimmered for a second, almost as if she was giving off heat from the inside out, not just her skin. Lucia said her heart rate was strange, too. Makes you wonder who, or what, she really is.”

That explained the newcomer, but didn’t answer his actual question.
“Did you notice anything else about her?”

“Like what?” asked Diego as he slipped a clean shirt over his head.

Javier finished washing his hair and body and began rinsing.

“Like a different smell to her? Something unfamiliar?”

“She smells like every other human to me. Hot, sweaty, and terrified.”

“I could have sworn I smelled fire, but not from the campfires. A different scent.”

“I didn’t smell anything off; it was just how hot she was. That was weird. Anyway, I’m going to grab some food. Abuela Rosa made pozole tonight. You know how much I love her pozole verde.”

Javier chuckled. Diego loved anything Abuela Rosa made.

“See you over there,” said Javier as he dried himself off, realizing he forgot to bring clean clothes with him.

He sighed. Now he would have to walk over to his tent with the towel wrapped around his waist. He cringed inwardly, knowing what was coming. Javier had a lean but muscular body, tanned skin, and very defined abs, but the tattoos on his arms told the real story of who he was.

The Virgin Mary on his right shoulder represented his mother’s faith, when they had attended church, and he had still believed God listened to his prayers. Sometimes, when fear stalked him out in the desert, his hand touched that tattoo instinctively, a silent request for protection or maybe forgiveness.

The Aztec warrior, in full headdress on his left shoulder, represented strength and his ancestry, an ever-present reminder of what his father had always talked about: surviving, enduring, and protecting his people. On nights when he was overcome with exhaustion, he traced the warrior's lines with his fingers and forced himself to remember he carried that legacy, even when he doubted he could live up to it.

The large script down his left forearm that spelled 'familia' had hurt the most when he had gotten it. By then, his parents were gone, and Abuela Rosa and the pack were the only family he had left. Now, every time he caught sight of it, it brought both comfort and an ache, a symbol that his sense of family was inked together with loss as much as love.

The rune on the right side of his neck reminded him of his abuela, of stories, of magic, of responsibility, of things bigger than himself. When doubts about his duty plagued him, the ancient symbol served as an anchor, linking him to the pack and its history, even as he tried to carve out his own path from the desert's emptiness.
The only tattoo that didn’t have a particular meaning was the ring of flames around his right forearm. He had gotten it when he was younger because he thought it looked cool. Now, sometimes when he looked at it, he was reminded of his younger self. Defiant and rebellious. He still liked it. But it didn’t hold the same appeal as it once had.

A whistle split the air.

“Oh, here we go,” thought Javier.

It was Tomas. Tomas Rivera was the pack’s strongest fighter. He was fierce and loyal, but also el bromista with all his jokes. He whistled again as Javier tried to hurry past.

“Look who's prancing around camp trying to show off his muscles.”

“Shut up, Tomas,” said Javier as people began to turn his way.

Javier shook his head and covered the last few feet to his tent. Pushing back the flap, he stepped inside. He yearned for his cot but knew he needed to eat. Throwing on some clean clothes, he headed toward the cantina, the area of camp where they shared meals.

As he approached the food line, he saw Abuela Rosa hard at work serving the pack. Large pots of pozole sat on the propane burners, the smell making Javier’s mouth water. He walked over to Abuela Rosa and gave her a small peck on the cheek. Everyone called her Abuela, but she really was his grandmother. She had raised him since he was a young boy.

Abuela Rosa was not a werewolf at all. She was a human who had mated with a wolf. His grandfather. Javier didn’t know the full story, but he did know that his grandmother had almost died in childbirth giving birth to his father. She held a level of importance in the pack as a wise protector and caretaker of the community.

Javier watched her kind, wrinkled face as she cared for her family. From her, he had learned compassion and empathy for others. She was the reason he had accepted his role in The Guardians, although he would have rather fled the desert altogether when he was younger. But as he studied her long, white braid, he knew he could never have left her behind. They were all each other had. Well, besides the pack.

As he accepted his bowl of soup and some corn tortillas, he asked Abuela Rosa if she had seen the newcomer at all.

“No, mijo,” she replied. “But I did send pozole for her. It is healing.”

Too exhausted to ask any more questions, Javier ate and then headed off to bed. Still curious about the scent of the wandering girl.