Got off to a decent start on the wordcount front, putting myself two days ahead. I doubt I’ll write much until Saturday evening so getting ahead was important. 4k of this was written between midnight and just after 3 am. Some of it felt like a crawl, while other parts just flowed. That last 1.2k, written after I’d had some sleep, was pretty hellish and I had to keep taking breaks throughout the day.
I think I’m settling into my protagonist–Selene’s–voice. She likes to butt in and comment on the action a lot. Regarding the excerpt: Connor is Selene’s twin brother, Phoebe’s their little sister and Vesta is their mother. Selene, Phoebe and their father and uncle are werewolves while Connor and their mother are genetic hybrids instead due to the luck of the genetic draw.
Uncle James arrived at the asscrack of dawn, already in the kitchen with a glass of water—because heaven forbid he drink something with taste—when I arrived for breakfast. Ten o’clock wasn’t that late for a kid on school holidays, but you’d think I’d killed a dude with the way he looked at me. Connor and Phoebe weren’t even up yet, not that it really mattered when it came to criticising me.
“Vesta says you and Phoebe are going out with Connor’s friends today?”
“Yes, sir.” I poured myself a bowl of cereal. I needed something in my stomach to deal with this.
“Be back after lunch. You should be training.”
“Yes, uncle,” I said. Mum passed me the milk. I poured just enough to wet my cereal. The crunch would give me something else to focus on other than my uncle wanting me and Phoebe to fight each other again. I was a firstborn like Uncle James; we were stronger than our younger siblings regardless of whether they were werewolves or not.
Dad was sketching some logo of some description at the table. “Jim, give them a chance to settle in. Getting here with the threat of the full moon hasn’t exactly been conducive to that.”
Uncle James fixed Dad with a look he reserved for his younger brother, exasperated but a smidgeon softer than what he’d usually give me. “Hunters don’t wait for convenient moments. The more they practice, they safer they’ll be.”
“Just one day.” Dad grabbed his eraser, rubbing it against a line that was a touch wigglier than he’d evidently intended. “And don’t let them hurt each other this time. You know it’s hard for adolescent firstborns to control their strength. How many times did you break my bones when you insisted I needed to train with you?”
“I remember, thank you.” Uncle James and Dad shared only a passing resemblance. Uncle James spent more time outdoors so his face was more weathered, more often tanned, and there was a scar cutting from his right temple to the corner of his mouth and a limp to his walk, aided by the brown wooden walking cane he brought with him. They had the same brown eyes, though Dad’s were softer, like Connor’s. Uncle James frowned a lot and I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen him smile. And even then I wasn’t so sure if he’d been smiling or grimacing. Even I smiled more often. It’s been known to happen. Shut up.