Blood Moon Custody Battle

Let me get one thing straight: I did not ask to become a werewolf. I was walking my daughter to soccer practice, got bit by what I thought was a very enthusiastic husky, and three days later I ate a raw steak at 2 AM while crying in my kitchen.

Parenthood is already hard. Try doing it while you're sprouting claws every full moon.

My name is Greg Huang, I'm thirty-eight, I'm a CPA, and according to the Silverpine Pack's territorial laws — which apparently supersede federal tax code in ways I find personally offensive — I am now a "feral-class unbonded male" who has no legal right to raise a human child within pack borders.

My daughter, Lily, is seven. She thinks my "allergy attacks" during the full moon are hilarious. She has no idea that two days from now, a pack tribunal is going to decide whether she stays with me or gets placed with a "stable bonded pair" in the pack.

Over my dead, furry body.

"The tribunal isn't a fight," said my lawyer, Maxine Corr, adjusting her glasses in her cramped downtown office. She looked like a public defender who subsisted entirely on black coffee and righteous fury, which was accurate. She also happened to be a hellhound — a fire-blooded canine shifter who was banned from pack politics but not, crucially, from pack courtrooms. "It's a persuasion exercise. Three elders, two alphas, one vote. You need to prove you're not a danger."

"I'm a CPA, Maxine. The most dangerous thing I do is itemize deductions aggressively."

"You bit through a car door last month."

"It was my car. And I was stressed."

She sighed the sigh of someone who bills by the hour and regrets every minute. "Greg. The Silverpine Alpha, Diana Voss, is old-school. She believes children — especially human children — should be raised within bonded pack family units. You're a single dad. You're newly turned. You have zero pack connections."

"I have you."

"I'm a hellhound. I'm literally the thing they tell pups about to scare them into behaving."

"Then we're the underdog team. People love that."

Maxine stared at me. "Dog puns will not help your case."

---

The tribunal was held in the basement of a craft brewery in the warehouse district, because apparently werewolf governance runs on IPAs and exposed brick. The three elders sat behind a long oak table that smelled like it had seen a century of arguments. Alpha Diana Voss sat at the center — silver-haired, sharp-eyed, built like someone who could bench-press my entire belief system.

The opposing counsel was a sleek beta named Rowan Drake who had clearly never lost a case or worn a wrinkled shirt. He represented the "interested bonded pair" — a power couple from the pack's inner circle who had volunteered to take Lily in.

I'd met them. Marcus and Elena Shaw. Perfect house, perfect smiles, perfect wolves. They looked at Lily the way you'd look at a rescue puppy you wanted to post about on Instagram.

I hated them. But I couldn't say that, because Maxine had confiscated my right to speak freely.

"Mr. Huang," Elder Constance opened, peering at me over half-moon spectacles, "you were turned involuntarily seven months ago. In that time, have you undergone formal shift training?"

"I watched YouTube videos," I said.

Maxine kicked me under the table.

"I mean — I've been self-training. With some guidance from Ms. Corr."

"A hellhound," Elder Constance noted, as if writing it in an invisible column labeled STRIKES AGAINST.

Rowan Drake stood, buttoning his jacket with the practiced ease of a man who eats ambition for breakfast. "Elders, Alpha Voss. The Silverpine Code is clear. Unbonded ferals represent an elevated risk category. Mr. Huang has no pack mentor, no bonded partner, and no demonstrated control during the lunar cycle. The Shaws offer stability, community, and a proven family structure."

He sat down. It was annoyingly persuasive.

Maxine stood. She was six inches shorter than Rowan and radiated approximately six hundred percent more menace. "Elders. My client is a devoted father who has maintained full custody of his daughter through a traumatic involuntary turning with zero pack support. He has held a steady job, attended every parent-teacher conference, and has never — not once — endangered his child. The Code requires proof of danger. There is none. What Mr. Drake is really arguing is that a single dad isn't good enough. And I'd like to remind the tribunal that the Code was written before women could vote, so maybe we should weigh it accordingly."

Elder Constance's eyebrow twitched. I couldn't tell if it was approval or indigestion.

They called Lily in as a witness. I nearly lost it right there.

She walked in wearing her soccer jersey and light-up sneakers, holding a juice box, completely unbothered by a room full of supernatural predators. That's my kid. Afraid of nothing except the dentist and that one episode of Bluey where the dad gets emotional.

"Lily," Alpha Voss said, her voice softer than I expected, "do you feel safe with your father?"

Lily looked at her like it was the dumbest question she'd ever heard, and she once asked me why the sky doesn't fall down.

"Yeah," she said. "He makes weird noises sometimes at night and his eyes get glowy, but he always makes me pancakes in the morning. Mickey Mouse ones." She paused. "He's bad at the ears though."

A low ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Elder Constance's mouth twitched.

"Are you ever scared of him?" Voss pressed.

Lily shook her head. "He's scared of spiders. I have to get them for him." She looked over at me. "Dad, can we get pizza after this?"

"Yeah, bug," I said, and my voice cracked, and I didn't care.

After Lily left, Rowan made his closing argument — polished, procedural, airtight. The Shaws sat behind him looking like a magazine cover for Responsible Werewolf Parenting.

Maxine's closing was different. She pulled out a folder and laid seven hand-drawn pictures on the table. Lily's drawings from the last seven months. Every single one featured the same thing: a stick figure with brown hair (me) holding hands with a smaller stick figure with pigtails (Lily). In one, the brown-haired figure had pointy ears and a tail. Lily had written underneath it: "DAD (wolf mode)."

"The child is not in danger," Maxine said quietly. "The child is loved. And the Code — whatever its flaws — was written to protect children. Not to take them from good parents because those parents don't fit a template."

Alpha Voss stared at the drawings for a long time.

The vote was two to one, with Voss casting the tiebreaker.

"Custody remains with the father," she said. "On the condition that Mr. Huang accepts a pack mentor for shift training. A real one. Not YouTube."

I exhaled so hard I thought my ribs would crack.

Maxine shook my hand outside the brewery. "You owe me four hundred billable hours," she said. "And a thank-you card. Hellhounds appreciate stationery."

Lily was waiting in the car, playing a game on my phone. She looked up when I opened the door.

"Pizza?"

"Pizza," I confirmed.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Your eyes are doing the glowy thing again."

I flipped the visor mirror down. She was right. My wolf was close to the surface, buzzing with relief and something fierce and protective that I'd never felt before the bite but now understood was always there.

"It means I'm happy," I told her.

She considered this. "Cool. Can I get extra cheese?"

I drove us to Sal's on Fifth, ordered a large pepperoni with extra cheese, and watched my daughter eat three slices while telling me about a frog she'd found at recess.

I was a werewolf. I was a CPA. I was a single dad with anger management issues and a hellhound lawyer.

And I was keeping my kid.