The Season of the Wolf

Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Unpublished Books

Triggers: SA

Chapter One
The Nights Are Long and the Dark Is Deep

All Hallows’ Eve used to be called something else.

I couldn’t remember what it was. Most people couldn’t, or didn’t care to. I spotted the term in an old book, the kind you weren’t supposed to have, and I thought there was something special about it, though I didn’t know what. The book said that this was an ancient festival commemorated a long, long time ago, and it was a celebration of the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. It was a ritual to mark the time when the year started to go dark and cold. When everything wound down and the world lay down to die in darkness. On All Hallows’ Eve, the veil between the living and the dead was blurred and the dead walked among us, or at least that’s what those ancient folk believed. I couldn’t tell if they celebrated the date because they looked forward to the coming winter or because they were bracing themselves for it.

I looked forward to it. I marked the date in my head every year, All Hallows’ Eve, when the nights were long and the dark was deep. When the world was turned over to us. When everything was supposed to be dead, we came alive.

Nobody was supposed to be out on the streets after dark. At least nobody good and decent, not Citizens. Every night, when the sun went down, they were all to go straight home and lock the door behind them, safe against the perils of the night, indifferent to what happened beyond their walls.

But I knew there was something out there. I knew that, while Citizens hid away after curfew, others ran free. I could hear them through my window, the tiny window in my bedroom in the attic of the house in Streatham. I could hear their distant howls, deep into the night. As a kid, I was always hearing stories from my aunts about the people who lived in the dark, and they said those people were dangerous, savage and violent. They took pleasure in hurting and stealing. They had a thirst for blood. They were criminals with no regard for law and order. They were the demons who walked in the night.

So I had to stay away from them; I had to be good and decent, just like my own family. If I behaved well enough, stopped asking questions and didn’t cause any trouble, one day I would really be like them and get my very own Citizenship. If I behaved, then maybe, just maybe, we would be able to undo all the damage my mother had done to me. Get back the future she ruined for me. That’s according to my aunts. But I didn’t feel like my mother had damaged me at all. I felt like, if she hadn’t disappeared right when all this was starting, she would be one of those who lived in the dark. One of the Outlaws. And I’d be out there with her. And I missed her so much, I missed her terribly. My aunts, however, seemed to think she deserved what happened to her, and I hated them for it.

So, in the year I turned thirteen, I snuck out of the house at night for the first time because I wanted to meet these wild things who ran outside our doors.

I felt the fresh, cool, free air caressing my face before I saw the blood on the streets. There wasn’t a lot of it – to hear my aunts tell it, the streets ran red with blood every night – but you did spot some here and there. It didn’t faze me much, though. I just walked on, following the noises until I got to Brixton. I saw all sorts of things along the way: gangs fighting each other, friends sitting on the kerb drinking and laughing, addicts slumped against buildings with eyes half open, people sleeping under cardboard sheets on the pavement, musicians playing for small audiences who sang along and danced, couples kissing and cuddling, lights burning in derelict buildings.

But Brixton, that was something else. There were pubs and parties and clubs; music, voices, laughter everywhere. The streets were bright with light spilling from windows onto the pavement, strings of multicoloured fairy lights criss-crossing above alleyways, neon signs, streetlights. And people, people all around. Talking, smoking, drinking, arguing, laughing. They were themselves, unapologetically so, their mere existence an act of resistance. They did everything you weren’t supposed to do, and were everything you weren’t supposed to be. They wore leather jackets studded with safety pins, fishnets and heels, baggy jumpers and torn jeans, dashikis and kufi caps, tattered combat boots and dirty trainers, crop tops and miniskirts, old t-shirts, football t-shirts, t-shirts with cheesy sayings like “I Used to Be a People Person, Until People Ruined It” and “National Sarcasm Society: Like We Need Your Support.” They had long, purple hair, curly dark hair, green mohawks, pink pompadours, large blonde wigs that added ten inches to their height. There were all body types, all skin colours, all ages, all genders. These were the people who lived in the dark. These were the criminals that Citizens despised, the ones they blamed for everything gone wrong. But they didn’t hurt me, despite all I’d heard about them. They were just people – more colourful, more vibrant, more alive than anybody I had ever met on the right side of the river, but still just people. And they welcomed me into their midst without a second thought. Everyone was welcome in Secret London. I felt like I belonged there, as I never felt like I belonged in the house in Streatham. So I started living at night – secretly, but everybody there was living in secret.

The nights were always lively, but it wasn’t always all fun. Sometimes you could smell the smoke and see the sky light up as if a midnight sun were rising. On my first All Hallows’ Eve in Secret London, I stood on the south side of the Thames, leaned over the balustrade and watched the Tower of London burn, flames angrily leaping out into the air. There was a small crowd of us standing there, watching the fire with a mix of awe and horror. Some people took pictures and posted them online even before any sanctioned news outlets could pick up the story. No one knew what had caused the fire at the time, and everyone in the crowd was speculating about who, what, how and why. Next to me there was a tall, auburn-haired girl who looked a few years older than me, talking to another girl about just that.

‘Who do you think did this?’ the other girl was saying.

‘No clue. Although I did hear that Meera Aggarwal and her mates were planning something big. Maybe this is it,’ the auburn-haired girl replied.

‘How on Earth could they have pulled this off? How could anyone? That place is massive, and it’s all on fire,’ said the other girl.

‘Whoever did it is a freakin’ genius. They’re going to be scrambling to put that out for ages.’

‘Did anyone get hurt, do you think?’ asked the other one. I was wondering the same thing, so I turned towards the auburn-haired girl to better hear her response.

‘Probably not. That place has been empty for ages. No one’s allowed to go in there since the attacks.’ As she spoke, she noticed me staring and turned to look at me. I turned back towards the fire and pretended like I’d been watching it the whole time, but she didn’t buy it. ‘Hey, I’ve seen you around before,’ she said to me. ‘You seem a bit young to be walking around these parts by yourself.’

I managed a shy little grin. ‘Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine.’ I had seen other people my age around Secret London, though, in truth, they were usually with parents, siblings or gangs.

She studied me for a few seconds. ‘What’s your name? I’m Ellie. Ellie Morrigan.’

‘I’m Juliet Heatherton. Nice to meet you,’ I said.

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ Ellie replied. ‘We were just talking about the fire there. Any theories about who’s behind it?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Better, actually, probably. I haven’t been around very long.’

Ellie nodded. ‘You got a place to stay, Juliet? It’s getting cold, you know. You shouldn’t brave the winter out on the streets alone.’

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘That’s very kind of you to ask, but I, uh, I do have a place. It’s this house on Aurora Avenue, in Streatham.’

‘Streatham? Very nice. You live alone?’

‘No. I live with my aunts, my uncles and three cousins.’

‘Big family,’ Ellie replied. ‘At my place it’s just me and my dad.’

‘Haven’t you got any siblings?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Me neither. I always wanted siblings, though. I don’t really get on with my cousins. Actually, I don’t get on with anybody at my house. We’re always arguing.’

Ellie chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. Sucks, doesn’t it?’

‘Tell me about it. Do you not get on with your dad?’

‘I do, actually.’ She smiled. ‘My dad is the best. But he used to have this girlfriend that I hated. This was a long time ago, just after Hobbes first became PM, and she supported his party. She was one of those who genuinely thought he was the man to fix the country and made excuses for all the horrible things he said and did.’

‘Horrible things? Like what?’

‘If I had to list all the evil he’s done, we’d be here all night,’ Ellie said with a sneer.

‘My family supports him too. Aunt Christine says they have no choice,’ I frowned. ‘I don’t get it. There’s always a choice.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ she said, contemplating the fire. I wanted her to tell me more, to know exactly what she meant, but I didn’t know where to begin or which questions to ask. While I was trying to make up my mind, Ellie said, ‘Listen, Juliet, I’ve got to go, but it was lovely meeting you. Look me up in Brixton next time you’re around, I’m always on the main street. You can ask around for me.’

I beamed. ‘I will.’

‘You should get going too. Won’t be long before the police show up and they’ll figure out this fire was an Outlaw thing pretty fast, even if it wasn’t. So they’ll be coming around hitting the streets. You need me to walk you home or something?’

‘No, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I know the way.’

‘Hide if you see anyone that looks like police!’ she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

I waved goodbye and went on my way. I got home safe and sound, like all nights before that, and as I was turning the corner into Aurora Avenue, I saw the blue lights of police cars darting through a street behind me, followed by the wailing sound of their sirens – low, then higher and higher, then low again – and it was gone.

Chapter Two
All Hallows’ Eve

The next night, I went in search of Ellie on Brixton Road. I walked into the first pub I saw, went up to the bartender – a young Black woman with an easy smile and an afro who introduced herself as Pandora Jones – and asked if she knew an Ellie Morrigan. Then, because Ellie didn’t have a phone, about five different people mobilised to help me find her; she turned out to be in another pub just down the street.

Ellie took me under her wing from then on; she was older than me, around eighteen, and was very protective. She introduced me to nearly every Outlaw and showed me practically every nook and cranny of Secret London, that city full of magnetic warmth and treacherous vices all rolled into one. I went everywhere with her, or almost everywhere. I still enjoyed walking by myself in the city, gazing at stars, taking in the pure night air.

A few months later, I told Ellie what I’d read about All Hallows’ Eve. ‘That was the day we met,’ I said to her. ‘The day of the fire. All Hallows’ Eve.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Well, it used to be a holiday, apparently. It marked the beginning of the cold, dark season. It’s always on October thirty-first, I think.’

Ellie frowned. ‘Are you talking about Halloween?’

Halloween. That was the holiday’s other name; it was in the book too. ‘That’s it. How do you know that?’

‘I’d almost forgotten. People used to celebrate it when I was little. You probably don’t remember. I barely do.’

‘Why did they stop?’

‘Dunno. People just stopped caring, I guess. Far too much to worry about already.’

That was true enough. As long as I could remember, all people did was fret about wars, the economy, climate, work, money or whatever new crisis was at hand. ‘I thought it sounded fun,’ I told Ellie. ‘Kind of like an Outlaw thing. It’s when the nights get long and the dark gets deep. When we run the town.’

‘Hah! I love that. It’s the Season of the Wolf,’ Ellie said. ‘I reckon we should celebrate it again, don’t you?’

So Ellie told Harry Atwell about it, who told Daniel Salinger, who told Priyanka Choudhary and so on, and soon enough the word was out that All Hallows’ Eve was back. It became a special date among Outlaws to officially mark the beginning of the Season of the Wolf in Secret London – when Outlaws truly got bold and fearless, terrorising Citizens, the Government and the police alike; as if in those long nights there were some kind of otherworldly power protecting us from their scrutiny, as if the city wanted to surrender itself to us.

Some used their time to steal and destroy, which was all the Government focused on when talking about Outlaws. But to me, our Season was about laughing, partying, loving, being. It was when we could live as our own selves in the space and time that was allotted to us. There were more New Moon Markets during the Season, more concerts, more raids, more art shows, more life, more everything. We exploded like a storm of rainbow fireworks under a black sky, before falling onto the ground like nothing more than specks of dust, before retreating into our lairs in the spring.

So every All Hallows’ Eve we would all go out, every single one of us, two hours after curfew, and gather in Brixton to celebrate all night long. No one went on raids that night – no work, just play. A lot of people remembered Halloween well enough and recalled some of the rituals they used to have for the date, like having fancy dress parties, carving pumpkins, eating candy, watching scary movies. It was the most fun I ever had.

The All Hallows’ Eve parties always began rather early, which meant that once a year I had to make up some lie for my aunts to let me go out, because I didn’t want to miss anything. I don’t think my family realised there was anything special about All Hallows’ Eve – like most people, they had too much on their minds to worry about silly old holidays. In the first couple of years after I discovered Secret London, I would tell my aunts I was going to a friend’s house right after class to sleep over, so they didn’t need to pick me up at school. Then, I would hide somewhere until nightfall to join the festivities.

I think my aunts were secretly relieved when I told them that lie because they thought I had no friends at school – which I didn’t – and that all I did at school was get in trouble – which I did. School was just another place where I didn’t belong, where my mother’s influence was met with hostility and suspicion, and I was sure I wasn’t learning anything valuable or truthful. When you started year seven they stopped teaching history, which was replaced by politics and citizenship. They also didn’t let you read any books but the mindless drivel approved by the Department for Education, and if you were caught reading or studying anything that wasn’t in the curriculum – or worse, in the ever-growing list of banned books – you’d get a beating.

Every other day I came home with a stern written warning, a suspension, a notice of detention (all of which came with painful welts across my palms or thighs) or an invitation from the headmaster for a talk with my parents-slash-guardians. My Aunt Christine always went to these talks and came back like she’d just been to a funeral, saying things like “I don’t know what will become of you and I am genuinely concerned you will end up like your mother” and “You’re ruining your best chance at an honest, decent future.” So maybe, when they heard that I was allegedly spending time with people from school, they hoped I was finally falling in line.

But when I turned sixteen, my aunts tried to apply for my probationary Citizen ID and discovered that I had been placed on a Government watchlist because of who my mother had been and what she had done – even though nobody had explained to me exactly what that was – and the Home Office put me on parole until the age of eighteen. This meant that I couldn’t re-enrol at school, which I wasn’t too upset about, but when All Hallows’ Eve came around that year I had no passable excuse to stay out past curfew. I decided to wait until everyone fell asleep before sneaking out, like every other night.

By the time I got to Brixton the celebrations were in full swing, and I was a little annoyed that I’d missed so much of it. I went straight to Pandora’s Pub – Pandora was actually the owner, not just the bartender, and everybody called it Pandora’s Pub even though there was a faded sign outside that said The Duke of York. I intended to look for Ellie, but it was so full that I immediately gave up on finding her. I headed to the bar instead to have a chat with Pandora.

‘Juliet!’ she called.

‘Hi, Dora,’ I greeted as I struggled to the counter. Pandora pushed someone aside to make room for me and started preparing a drink before I even asked, as she was wont to do.

‘Wild here tonight, huh?’ she said.

‘So I’m not the only one who thi—’

‘What?’

‘So I’m not the only one who thinks it’s busier than usual?’ I shouted.

‘It’s definitely busier,’ she shouted back.

‘What’re you making?’

‘Give it a try. You’ll like it.’

Dora placed a long-stemmed glass on the counter, full to the brim with a bright magenta liquid and garnished with fresh mint leaves and a lime wedge.

‘Simple, but delicious,’ she said. ‘Champagne and dragon fruit. And that’s real champagne, mind.’

‘Dragon fruit?’ I exclaimed. I’d never even heard of dragon fruit before. ‘Champagne? Where did you get all this?’ These ingredients weren’t easy to find, even down to the fresh lime wedge. I tasted it; it was like nothing Pandora had ever made before.

‘See those blokes over there?’ She jerked her head towards a group of four boys sitting by the window, drinking and chatting. ‘Seems they raided some rich guy’s party last night and got themselves a fair loot, and they saw fit to share it with everyone else. Hence the fancy stuff.’

I examined the group attentively. None of them were in fancy dress, unlike most people in the pub. One of them was telling an apparently very funny story, gesturing animatedly and making different voices and expressions to illustrate his tale. His three friends sitting around him were hanging on his every word.

‘Who are they?’ I asked Pandora.

‘They’re new, it seems.’ Pandora leaned in closer with a conspiratorial air. ‘They’ve only been here a few months. No one knows where from or why.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, still watching the boy who was talking. I couldn’t quite make out what colour his eyes were, if they were green or brown or hazel. His hair was brown, wavy, sort of unkempt but not really, his heart-shaped lips perfectly drawn, his jaw square and clean-shaven, his skin smooth and creamy like caramel.

‘Hi, Juliet,’ said a voice very close to my ear, wrenching me out of my daydream. I turned around and found Ellie smirking at me. She was wearing a black cape and a pointy hat, and she held another identical hat in her hands. ‘Did I interrupt something?’

‘What? No.’ I felt heat rising to my face for no comprehensible reason. ‘I was going to look for you, but it’s impossible to find anyone here.’

‘Is that so?’ she said, still with that smirk, putting the other pointy hat on me. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. That boy you’ve been staring at for half an hour.’

‘I haven’t – I wasn’t staring.’

Ellie lifted an eyebrow.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ I said. ‘Pandora said they brought loads of fancy stuff for tonight. Champagne, dragon fruit and whatnot.’

‘Oh, look,’ Ellie exclaimed, ‘you’ll have a chance to thank him for that. Here he comes.’

The boy had stood up and was walking towards the counter, coming to a halt in the tiny empty space to Ellie’s left. She elbowed me in the ribs and jerked her head at him. I shook my head vehemently. She rolled her eyes and turned around to face him.

‘So, rumour has it that you boys brought us some lovely champagne for All Hallows’ Eve,’ she said to him loudly to make herself heard over the din.

He smiled. ‘I don’t know about that. We got it ‘cause it’s me birthday and we thought we might as well celebrate. Eighteen today. It’s the kind of stuff rich people get for parties, isn’t it?’

‘Wow, happy birthday!’ Ellie said. ‘It’s also All Hallows’ Eve today, did you know that? Also known as Halloween. It’s a big date around here.’

‘Is that why everyone’s dressed weird, like?’ he asked, looking around him. He had a strong Northern Irish accent.

‘You bet. It’s the start of the Season of the Wolf. Wolf meaning Outlaws. When the nights get long and the dark gets deep. Right, Juliet? It was all her idea. We’d all forgotten about All Hallows’ Eve, then she read about it in some book and thought we should bring it back.’

He turned towards me and when I met his eyes I saw that they were a lovely mossy hazel. Under his bright-eyed gaze I became bashful and awkward and hated myself for it. ‘Yeah? Where’d you get a book like that?’ he asked.

‘It was my mum’s,’ I mumbled.

‘Sorry, I didn’t get that.’ He leaned in closer. He smelled like cedarwood and musk, an earthy, green aroma, the way a forest sprite might smell but with a faint trace of alcohol in his breath.

‘It was my mum’s,’ I said in a clearer voice into his ear. ‘She had loads of books and they’re mine now.’

His lips parted a little, then broke into a smile. ‘That sounds fascinating. They’re hard to come by these days, aren’t they?’

I nodded and tried to smile at him. I wasn’t sure if I succeeded.

‘So you’re dressed up too?’ he asked, pointing at my hat.

‘I’m a witch, I guess. All Hallows’ Eve is important for witches.’

‘Grand. I’ve always liked witches.’

‘Really,’ I said, knowing that my face was now bright red and wishing the ground would swallow me up, but he didn’t seem to notice my discomfort.

‘So I didn’t catch your name,’ he said airily.

‘Uh—’ I stammered, and got interrupted by one of his friends, a gangly, freckled redhead who materialised by his side and whispered something in his ear.

‘Seems like I’m being called away,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch you later, yeah?’ And he walked away.

When he was gone, Ellie reappeared. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said in singsong.

‘I can’t believe you did that!’

‘What? You weren’t going to talk to him!’

I sighed. She was right.

‘So, who is he?’

‘No idea.’ I sighed again. ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask his name.’

Chapter Three
Nobodies

It was a few days after All Hallows’ Eve and I was alone, wandering around somewhere in Putney. Ellie had told me that this area was quiet, but still relatively safe. I had to stay sharp, though, because there were dangerous places nearby. She didn’t say why they were dangerous, only that I didn’t want to find out for myself.

I’d been thinking about the hazel-eyed boy more than I would have liked to admit, nonchalantly looking around for him every time I went out whilst pretending I didn’t care one way or another. But on that particular night I wanted to be alone. I’d had yet another fight with my aunts earlier that day. It started when Aunt Fiona blew up at me because I hadn’t emptied the dishwasher and hoovered the living room like she’d asked.

‘I don’t know what to do with you anymore,’ she screeched. ‘I’m at my wits’ end. The most difficult, stubborn child I’ve ever seen. It’s like herding cats!’

Aunt Christine tried to calm her down at first, but as always she took her sister’s side and made everything worse, adopting that sanctimonious tone of hers and chiding me for sleeping all day and showing no interest in getting my Citizenship. I got mad at them – I was always mad at them, it felt like – and told them they weren’t my mum, that it was their fault my mum was gone and I was forced to live with them when I didn’t want it or ask for it.

It was one of the typical fights we had on rotation, but that day it bothered me more for some reason. Maybe I was under the spell of the Season. Maybe I was angry at everything and wanted to take it out on someone. Maybe, having spent the past three years among Outlaws, I was starting to become like them – feral, wilful, uncontrollable, so unlike what my aunts and their world wanted me to be.

After the fight they took away my phone again, but this time they said they wouldn’t give it back until I had a probationary ID and was back in school, and I believed them. That phone spent more time locked in Aunt Christine’s desk drawer than in my pocket, so I learned to make do without it. It wasn’t really necessary in Secret London – many Outlaws didn’t have phones apart from the occasional prepaid or burner – and I knew that city like the back of my hand.

Or at least I thought I did. Suddenly it was as though I’d missed a step going down the stairs, a jolt in the pit of my stomach when I realised I didn’t know where I was. I had been lost in thought and must have trusted my senses too much, trusted the city to not lead me astray, Ellie’s warning forgotten amid my smouldering rage at my aunts and their expectations. The place I now found myself in was dark and thoroughly unfamiliar. No streetlights, no candles, no lit windows. No moonlight or starlight. I took out the small keychain torch I always carried with me because I could hardly see anything at all, and I needed to find my way back. I shone my tiny beam of light on the nearest walls hoping to find a street sign. Nothing. Then I pointed the torch at the ground.

A damp, organic odour of decay permeated the air. I knew and dreaded where this smell came from, but I didn’t really understand it until I saw the bodies littering the streets. That’s just what they looked like: litter. There were three bodies thrown around here and there like rubbish, like they weren’t human, in varying stages of decomposition, and they had no eyes. The eyes would have reflected the light from my torch but there was nothing there, or maybe they were closed or I just couldn’t look too long. A part of me wanted to be sick, another wanted to mourn them. If they had anyone else in the world to mourn them, they probably wouldn’t be rotting away in the street like that. And I knew there were more. There had to be more, in other streets and other cities.

I wondered if this was the danger Ellie had warned me about, but despite my revulsion and horror, I knew they couldn’t hurt me. They were dead. So I wondered how they got there in the first place and thought of a million reasons from which Outlaws could die forgotten – drug overdose, disease, starvation, exposure. Murder, by other Outlaws or the police.

I knew then that that was what she was talking about, what was lurking in that dark place. I needed to get out of there. For once, I wanted to go home.

I turned corner after corner but could not find my way. I wished there were a fire I could follow that night; I wished I could see the moon. I looked up at the sky and tried to see through the clouds but there was nothing, only darkness. A darkness so deep I could barely make out the outlines of the buildings around me. My chest was closing in on itself, my breath was short and sharp, my throat was sore from the cold night air I gulped so hungrily, but it kept stopping short of my lungs.

Then, in a quiet moment, I heard footsteps and stopped breathing altogether. Heavy, slow, ungainly footsteps, and much too close. He must have heard me trying to breathe, on the verge of screaming. Or maybe he heard my own footsteps, hurried and desperate, or maybe – most likely – he saw the torchlight. My only lifeline in that place, and it led him right to me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but he was looking at me, I knew. I gagged at the stench that impregnated him. I wanted to run away but I needed to watch his movements.

I held my breath; my heart pounded in my chest so hard I thought I was going to die. I was paralysed in fear, but when I finally snapped out of it I tried to run. I had to go home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man sprinting after me and in a split second he was upon me, tackling me and pinning me to the ground. My tiny torch escaped from my hand and rolled away, its sliver of light partially illuminating the mass on top of me, mouth full of rotten teeth, cheeks ashen and sunken, hand hovering in the air above my chest holding something that glinted silver against the torchlight. The sharp tip of his knife made contact with my skin and I felt sure my heart stopped for a moment.

I made no sound and my attacker only let out short grunts. In the silence of our struggle my body screamed with will to live, to see the sunrise one more time and feel the cold rain on my skin, to find that beautiful boy and kiss him, to see snow and one day see the ocean, one day see the world, this world that was mine, this life that was everything I had.

The man’s foul breath was much too close to my face. He held me down with one hand and tried to stab me with the other but he was desperate, sloppy. His greasy hair dangled just above my face; I kicked at him and scrambled for purchase on the ground to get away or take the knife from him. Then, when I had half a chance I stuck my finger into his eye socket and, as he let out a rasp shout, I twisted his knife-wielding hand and grabbed the weapon.

I barely noticed as I took the knife and jammed it into his flesh.

Luna Campos is a writer originally from Brasília, Brazil. Luna has always been passionate about literature, growing up with her nose buried in books. After graduating in Psychology at the University of Brasília, Luna pursued an MA in Comparative Literature from University College London, where she researched female perspectives in modern retellings of classical myths. After working in marketing in the UK and Belgium for years, she finally embarked on the writing career she’d always dreamed of. Inspired by the counterculture and youth movements that flourished during Brazil’s military dictatorship, Luna became interested in works of fiction that dissect power dynamics in authoritarian societies. This curiosity deeply influenced her writing, which explores themes of trauma, oppression and resistance. When she’s not writing, Luna spends her time painting, reading, or eating irresponsible amounts of sweets. She’s also a consummate animal lover, especially cats. Luna lives in Belgium with her husband and cat. The Season of the Wolf is her debut novel.