Ashes, Ashes

Sammy had transformed many times before in his life, but this time was different. This time, it burned.

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As far as he knew, he had been born with the ability; it had always been an easy process since as far back as his memories allowed. It was a part of him, natural and easy to trigger, no more difficult than flexing a muscle after it had gone to sleep.

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He wasn't even sure what was happening. He had been locked in this gray, sterile cell for countless months, with nothing to look at, nothing to distract him from his suffering save for the disembodied voice of another of his kind in the adjacent cell. And even then, he sometimes wondered if the other voice really belonged to a genuine person, or if his torturers had finally cracked his psyche and the voice was just a hallucination.

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Two or three times a week--or so he thought, they wouldn't even allow him to track the passage of time--he would hear the hiss of gas filtering into his room, to wake up strapped down to a medical table, often with his insides exposed for the men in surgical masks to witness and play with. Their sedatives never lasted long enough. Sammy was a thing to them, not even allowed the dignity of any pronouns other than "it." They didn't even hate him, and their chilling dispassion was perhaps the most disturbing part. Only a real person was worthy of hate.

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This time there had been no knock-out gas. His tormentors had burst in, a dozen of them, stinking of panic. They knew he was too weak to struggle as they pinned him down, wrapped some kind of metal collar around his neck, and then injected a massive needle into his thigh. Before he could even process what was happening, they threw him out of his cell and locked themselves inside it.

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Whatever poison the monsters had injected him with spread through his veins like fire. He wanted to cry, but his body couldn't spare the moisture. He rolled onto his back and struggled for breath, hyperventilating as his insides rearranged themselves. His muscles tore apart to re-knit back together. His whole body twisted and writhed even though movement just made the sensations worse. His skull and the bones of his feet remolded faster than his skin could expand to accommodate them, and he felt nausea as torn patches of flesh fell onto the floor. The sight was the final straw for his lurching stomach, and he threw his head to the side as bile spewed outwards, adding to the puddles of bodily fluids around and under him. A throbbing pain at the base of his spine erupted into a tail. Millions, no, billions of needles stabbed every inch of his skin as fur burgeoned forth. Blood gushed from his fingertips as ebony claws cut their way out.

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The human psyche was swept up in a tornado of feral instincts and visceral rage. Thoughts dulled. The voice in his head sputtered only gibberish. An animal was all that was left. Slaver dripped from his fangs, and the sound of his breathing turned into a low, barely-rhythmic growl as he rolled onto all fours and struggled into a hunch.

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What was around? Smell others down the hall. Other... werewolves! Human screams, gunshots, wolfish growl. Fire choking neck!. Collar electric shocks! Look inside cell window--monsters hiding inside. Monsters who torment. One has remote contr-AUGH!

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Monster speaks into remote. Voice comes out of collar. "Kill the other werewolves." He sounds afraid.

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Hard to focus. Can't see monsters in glass. Only own face. Brown fur stained with own blood. Foam around mouth. Sharp white teeth. Green eyes.

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Fear in eyes.

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Stand up. Other werewolves getting closer.

 

"Kill," the monster said again.

 

Kill. Okay. Kill tormentors.

 

Throw weight against door. It dents. Back up. Throw weight harder.

 

MORE FIRE! But used to pain. These monsters inflict pain all the time. Have to stop it. Have to kill them to stop the pain. 

 

Too angry to be afraid any more. Muscles slow to respond. Concentrate. Don't think. Just move! Hurtle against the door again. Cell was designed to keep a werewolf in. Not to keep a werewolf out.

 

Door's hinges burst from moorings. Monster holding remote first target.

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***

 

Everyone was damnably calm around her, a storm in the center of an eye. Ruth could barely be contained within one of the black vans that formed the barricade around the pharmaceutical lab. She had no doubt the van was rocking from the sheer intensity of her pacing. She should be in there, by her husband's side, searching for their daughter. But the Order's rules forbade non-agents from entering a combat zone until it was deemed clear. She could understand that, certainly, but the fact that they wouldn't even allow her to watch the bodycam footage being streamed from the armored agents was ridiculous!

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In the half hour since the agents had gone in, Ruth's heart leapt every time she saw an agent emerge, handing off a bound prisoner to agents guarding the perimeter. Every time, she looked for the familiar black curls of her child, to no avail.

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Eventually, she spotted the familiar tactical vests and black cargo shorts that Order agents wore into missions that required shifting into their wolf forms. Nicholas and Robert were the only ones who had gone in wolfside, the rest of the tactical force acting as backup in full tactical gear. Ruth barreled out of the van, the adrenaline surge dangerously close to triggering her own shift. The Order had cordoned off the pharmaceutical lab, so there were no human witnesses aside from the people already inside--who knew the secret of their existence already.

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Robert carried a figure in his arms, and Ruth scanned it hopefully, but her eyes and nose did not provide the information she hoped for. Her run tapered off into a stagger, and she fell into the waiting embrace of her husband.

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"Where is she?" she demanded, clinging to hope even after two years. "Did you find our baby?"

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Nicholas ran his fingers through her hair. His voice choked as he said, "Ruth, they… I couldn't…"

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She didn't let him finish. Couldn't bear to. Instead, she threw her head back and wailed. She couldn't howl in this form, but still she unleashed all her grief in a dirge that made every werewolf around them freeze in their tracks, recognizing the grief of an alpha.

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"We'll make them pay," Nicholas said, and then gestured with a nod to the boy Robert held. "Every one of them he didn't kill, we'll track them down. I promise."

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The boy was tall, almost six feet standing, but still obviously a child, and in his emaciated condition he looked like someone who had been stretched out on a rack. Order medics arrived with a stretcher for Hatchet to lay him on, but they parted as Ruth tore herself away from her husband and drifted closer to the blood-covered figure.

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"Who is he?" she asked.

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Nicholas followed. "Sarah wasn't the only child these butchers took. We found him and one other boy inside. The other boy was still locked within his cell, but as near as we can tell, the scientists who had been experimenting on them injected him with some kind of steroid and stimulant concoction intended to put him in a berserker state. They tried to make him attack us, but instead he turned on them."

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Robert spoke up. "We found him in a cell with almost a dozen bodies torn limb from limb. He was still chewing on one body when we showed up, but he spat it out as soon as he saw us. Whatever the drug was doing to him, he seemed… more embarrassed than anything. Nick managed to talk him down and get him to shift, then he passed out."

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Ruth placed her hand on his cheek. Another victim of the same bastards who had taken her daughter from them, and had taken his revenge upon them for her. Too young, too young to deal with that kind of horror. She looked up into her mate's eyes, communicating through a bond borne of years of ruling together. He nodded and looked at the medics. "Patch him up and clean him off," he instructed. "We're taking him home with us. My wife will see to his needs."

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"Yes sir," said one of the medics, a large man with a shaved head who regarded Nicholas and Robert with admiration and worship, respectively.

"Sir," said another, pulling off his tactical mask. "What about the other boy we found?"

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Nicholas considered the other boy, dressed only in scrubs, squinting as he emerged into the sunlight for the first time in who knew how long. "Take him back to headquarters. They'll evaluate him and find him a foster pack, but tell Boss to keep me abreast of his progress."

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"Very good, sir."

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"Sir!" said one of the van jockeys, emerging and waving a sheet of paper like a flag. He ran up to Hatchet. "We've received a message marked urgent for Hatchet. It's from Solomon himself."

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That name paused time around them. Several ears pricked their way. Robert just scowled and snatched the paper, scanning it quickly.

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"Damn him and his sense of timing," Robert growled, shoving the sheet back at the agent. "Something's come up, I have to go to Atlantic City."

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"But, Robert…" Ruth said.

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He held up his hand. "You know what the Prime wants, he gets. It won't take long. I'll be back in time for Sarah's service. I promise."

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Sarah's service. Ruth had known today would end with either celebration or grief, but the realization of it hit her hard enough to cause her to tense. Nicholas saw it, and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

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"I'll hold you to that," she told Robert.

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***

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Lincoln Moses sprawled out on the leather sofa in his father's study. Not many men had a study these days, but not many men were the alpha of the wealthiest werewolf pack in the East Coast. Old-school Southern opulence had never been phased out of their ancestral manor. Moonlight glowed in through the bay window over a massive oak table and the rich, matching cabinet containing expensive boozes, and backlighting the man who owned it all. Patton Moses was a stout man with thinning hair on his head, but a well-groomed beard and a thick coating of hair covered his arms. He carried himself like he was taller than anyone around him; even when seated behind his desk, his underlings hunched slightly in submissive respect.

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"Did anyone make it out of the safehouse?" Patton asked, before taking a sip from his scotch. His casual drawl belied the serious implications of his words. That was something Lincoln marveled about his father. The man could make anything sound like a chat about the weather, even when ordering the deaths of others.

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The tall, lanky man that Lincoln knew only as Jim shook his head. "Nosir. We cut the gas line in just the right spot. Whole place was an inferno before anyone coulda made it to the door."

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"And we stayed and watched, just to make sure," said his shorter partner, ironically known as Slim.

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"Good work, boys. Go get yourselves something to drink."

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As soon as the henchmen closed the door behind them, Lincoln sat up. "So what's our next move?"

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His father steepled his fingers. "Now… we sit back and wait. That's the last of Face Cards' safehouses that we know of. We give them twenty-four hours to call us to negotiate their surrender, and if they don't…"

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"If they don't… we hit their casino?"

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"Jackpot."

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Lincoln grinned. He could taste victory. He could taste Julienne. She would be his bride soon enough. And she wouldn't be happy about it, at first, but sooner or later she would come around…

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"Sir, please don't-" came a worried voice from down the hall. Lincoln and his father both shifted their heads towards the door.

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"Which of you were the ones who hit the safehouse tonight?" came a stranger's voice. Gruff. Demanding. Lincoln stood up and began to shift, forcing white fur to push its way out through his skin. Adrenaline was already coursing through his system, making the transformation a little easier than usual. He cursed as he had to pop off the buttons to pull off his favorite shirt. He would have to get someone to mend it later.

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"Those two! Slim and Jim!" What kind of coward would give up their packmates right away like that?

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"There were children in there, you bastards!" the stranger roared.

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"Wait- we didn't know!"

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"Please, we surrendaaaargh!"

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Lincoln saw his father pull a gun out of his desk, the one loaded with silver bullets, and then turned his attention to the door as the knob started to turn. In walked… an old man, weather-worn, bald, pushing sixty. From behind him wafted in the smell of fresh blood. Lincoln immediately noticed the empty knife sheath on his belt, next to a pair of nasty-looking silver tactical tomahawks hanging off each hip.

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Why hadn't his father gunned down this invader already? Lincoln glanced back, to see his old man… white as a sheet, and his hand shaking as he slowly lowered the gun. A knot formed in Lincoln's stomach. He had never, in all his life, seen Patton Moses fold.

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The stranger smelled of smoke and battle, blood and carnage. But there was something about his mannerisms that was even more disconcerting. Where Patton Moses projected power, this man was power. He walked across the room, all business, like he was the one who owned it. And helped himself to the whole decanter of his father's most expensive brandy, back turned in confidence. Lincoln remembered the one time he had snuck a taste of his father's booze when he had been fifteen. The old man had given him a serious mauling for his trespass.

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The stranger pulled up a chair and took a long drink straight out of the bottle. "I've had a very busy day for someone who's technically retired," he said with a voice sharper than his axes. "So why don't you just eject that cartridge and we'll talk."

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"Who the hell do you think you are?" Lincoln demanded, baring his fangs, winding up to pounce...

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Until his father frantically motioned for him to back off. Lincoln carefully lowered himself to the edge of the sofa.

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Once Patton had made a show of disarming his gun and pushing it across the desk for good measure, the stranger rolled his head over his shoulder to give Lincoln a critical eye. "This is the welp you're going to so much trouble for?"

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"This is my son," Patton snapped, finally mustering up a sliver of Alpha's pride again.

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"Scrawny," the stranger spat. "Not much to look at. No surprise, since he needs his daddy's help to get laid."

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"You son of a b-"

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"Son, watch your damn mouth and sit!" Patton bellowed.

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Lincoln immediately receded further into the sofa.

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The silence that followed overwhelmed the room. Looking back, Lincoln couldn't even remember the ticking of the grandfather clock, just a feeling like being smothered by a pillow. But it only lasted for a few seconds before it was cut by the stranger's snicker. "At least you got him house trained."

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He took another swig, then swirled it around as if he had any sort of class. Not even looking at them, he started to talk. "I just flew in from another Order raid. Some big pharmaceutical's been snatching our kind off the streets and experimenting on them. They took my alpha's daughter a couple years back, so it was personal. But by the time we made it into the center of the compound, this one kid, a couple years younger than your boy, had already ripped his tormentors to pieces. I skimmed the files they had on him. They'd dissected him alive, cut on his nerves just to watch them reconnect. Nasty shit. When he tore 'em apart, he was jacked up on some steroid cocktail, but he wasn't completely out of control. Stopped himself soon as he saw the Alpha.

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"My point is, after all he'd been through, he never gave up the will to live. I respect a kid with that kind of fortitude.

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"Meanwhile," he spoke louder now, directing his gaze right at Lincoln. "You've spoiled your kid rotten. So rotten, you've started a pack war just because your son wants to get his dick wet. And that's why I'm here."

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"How dare you?" Lincoln jumped onto his feet, this time ready to go for the stranger's throat.

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"Lincoln!" Patton pleaded, his voice now truly drained of power. "This man's been Solomon's enforcer since World War Fucking One. His name is Hatchet. And he dares because he's right. I... have spoiled you rotten."

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Lincoln froze. Not just because his father was throwing him under the bus, but… World War One? This was a Chosen! Only the fiercest of their kind were given that power. And he would have proven himself worthy of that power before gaining an additional century of combat experience. Lincoln suddenly understood why his father was very, very afraid.

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"You never even told your boy about me?" Hatchet clicked his tongue. "How d'you expect this kid to manage this pack after you've gone when he doesn't even know anything about our politics?"

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"He's just a boy," Patton pleaded.

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"He's twenty-three," Hatchet snarled. "God's sake, Moses, did you even bother to potty train him, or is he still wearing a diaper under his big-boy pants?"

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He flung the expensive alcohol against the wall behind Patton. His father shielded his head against the rain of glass shards and sweet-smelling alcohol. Then he stood, directing his glower right at Lincoln. With naked contempt, he asked, "Tell me, boy, do you feel the slightest shred of guilt over the people who've died for your dick? Not just the kids in the other pack, but your own pack-mates your father ordered to their deaths in this senseless feud?"

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Lincoln tried to stand--but his legs refused to cooperate. All he could do was dig his claws impotently into the leather underneath him. But he still had his voice. He was done taking this beratement, no matter what his father said. "No!" he heard himself shout. "My father taught me an Alpha takes what he wants! And I want Julienne!"

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"An Alpha protects, he doesn't take!" Hatchet roared back. "And now you have nothing! Neither of you have anything!"

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Hatchet turned back to Patton, cringing behind his desk. "The Order has seized your assets. Reparations will be made to Face Cards, after they've been disciplined for their own crimes. This feud is over, and anyone who's been complicit will face the full wrath of the Order. As we speak, Agents downstairs are rounding up your pack. Even got a couple boys from Sippe Wiegand putting down anyone who resists. With prejudice. Solomon himself has declared your pack officially forfeit."

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"You… you can't do that!" Patton said, standing up. Lincoln saw his father's hand reach down below his desk--the second gun! "I won't let you, I've worked too hard to make this pack as powerful as it is! And no one--not even a Prime who hasn't shown his face in a century--can take that away from me!"

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Time slowed within the room, except around Hatchet. Lincoln saw the glint of metal as his father brought the gun up to bear. But the ancient soldier moved faster--suddenly leaping over the table, yanking one of his tomahawks free. Lincoln screamed as the weapon came down. The gun went off, still aimed downward, the bullet lodging itself in the floor the same time as the axe lodged itself into Patton Moses' skull.

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"NO!" Lincoln screamed again, running to the corpse of his father. Though he knew his father was dead, it took his brain a moment to register the axe jutting out of his head. Bile rose up his throat faster than he could swallow it back, and he turned his head just barely in time to keep from throwing up onto the remains of his father.

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He glanced up, barely able to make fleeting contact with the dark eyes of his father's executioner. He remained standing on the desk, hand hovering above this second axe.

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"Well, what's it gonna be, boy?" Hatchet asked. "Fight or flight?"

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Lincoln knew his capabilities. He also knew exactly what kind of person he was. He chose flight.

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He barely made it to the door before the ax hit his leg, crippling him. He screamed as the silver burned in his muscle. A burly German turned the corner, just in time to catch him and drag him downstairs.

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"Pathetic," was the last thing he heard Hatchet say.

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***

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"Get Night Sky! I think he's coming to!" was the first thing Sammy heard.

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Fighting. That was the last thing he remembered. Fear, and pain, the visceral pleasure of sinking his teeth into soft flesh, the flesh of his tormentors, the soft crunch when he hit bone, the rancid taste of their hot, fatty blood on his tongue, how they had made him suffer for so long, now he was the one in power--

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His eyes hadn't opened yet, but as he drifted back to consciousness, passing through a stratosphere of violent memories, his heart began racing, his mind struggling to make sense of the sensory input around him--he was on a bed, not hard cot like before or even a piece of cardboard on the ground, but an actual bed, with soft, warm blankets surrounding his bare skin. But that made no sense so his mind pushed it back to sort out later. His nose was filled not with metals and plastics and searing antiseptics, but wood and leather and fabric softener and warmth. Someone was above him right now, someone who smelled not of junk food and cigarettes but of lemons and herbs and the musk of a dozen werewolves.

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Werewolves!

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His confusing memories flashed back to the fight, of werewolves coming in to see him tearing a dead man's head off his body, twisting and yanking to dehumanize the monsters even further…

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Fighting!

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He woke up and screamed. Screamed in alarm. Screamed in shame. What had he done? Who had seen him? Someone with authority, that much he remembered. Oh, God! Was he going to be punished? He brought his hands up and shoved the person looming above him away, then twisted his body and scrambled to free himself from the blankets entrapping him. He fell head-first onto the floor, but by now his body was already moving with a purpose even as his wits were knocked further back. He kicked and struggled his way to the corner, and with nowhere else to go, bunched himself up as tightly as he could, shivering the whole while.

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Punishment. He deserved it, deserved to die. Sammy had told himself over and over again in that cell that he was not a monster, not some inhuman thing like those men had treated him. And then he had let himself become just that. He had given in to every dark impulse, every bestial urge. He brought his hands up to wipe his cheeks and chin, scrub away the blood that must still be there, but when he looked at his hands, they were clean.

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Punishment. He deserved it, he was a rabid dog that needed to be put down, he-

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"Hey. Hey!" he heard a woman's voice shout, and looked up to see a skinny black girl in a floral-print shirt coming towards him slowly, palms out and up. He snarled at her. Deserving punishment or not, Sammy had fought all his life to survive, and that drive, that instinct, hadn't atrophied.

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"Nightingale, be careful!" a voice, thick with command and care, made them both stop. The girl bowed her head and stepped back, allowing Sammy to see the person he had shoved away from him--an older woman, slightly stockier than the girl. Probably her mother? She smelled like the werewolf that had found Sammy. But… hadn't that been a man? His memories were coming into sharper focus, but they were still a lot to process.

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The older woman walked around the bed and stepped in front of Nightingale. "You poor thing, you must be so confused right now," she said, her voice softening into warm honey. Slowly, rhythmically, she began bending down. "But it's over now. It's over. Whatever you've gone through, it's over. You're safe now. You're with friends. What's your name, hon?"

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It took him a moment to realize he was being asked a question, and another moment to find his voice. "S-Sammy." Then, realizing how juvenile that sounded, he corrected himself. "Sam."

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A flash of movement drew his attention, and he lifted his gaze up to the door, to see a man with shaggy hair and sharply defining features, but before Sammy could recognize his scent, it was the sharp, cool eyes that awoke recognition. That was the man who had talked him down, who had rescued him.

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Through blood-red-hazed memory, he could hear a voice, crisp and gravelly, "You can stop now, son. You're safe. These men can't hurt you any more. You're safe, calm down. Just breathe. Step forward, away from the bodies. Come on, that's it, come with me, you're safe now…"

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Sammy felt the tickle of warm tears run down his cheeks. "I-I'm sorry," he blubbered. "I didn't… I didn't mean to kill those men, they put somethin' in me, made me lose control, I'm not a monster, I swear, I'm not a monster-!"

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Whatever caution the older woman might have been displaying, she discarded it now, closing the gap between them in a single stride and pulling him onto her lap. "Shhhh. Calm down, Sammy. We know you're not a monster."

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"They injected you with some kind of stimulant," the man said, walking into the room. He had a British accent, and he wasn't very tall, but the room seemed to warp around him, drawing all attention in on himself. Sammy had never met a pack alpha before, but this man was everything he imagined one to be like. "No one holds you accountable for the things you did under its influence, or you wouldn't be here, in our home."

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Sammy quelched his tears and reigned himself in with a few gasps for breath. "Where am I?" he asked. "Their home" was an answer, but he wanted to know more, to think about something other than the taste of human flesh.

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"Montana," the girl volunteered. "Have you ever heard of the Argo pack?"

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Sammy shook his head. "Until t'day, th' only other werewolves I knew were my parents and Benny in the cell next to mine." He realized something. "Where's Benny?"

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"He's fine. He's been placed in the care of another pack," the alpha man answered. Then he tilted his head slightly. "Who were your parents?"

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Sammy hung his head in shame. "They died in a fire when I was ten. I don't… I can't remember a lot before that. Like their names."

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He felt the woman's embrace tighten around him slightly. "Were you hurt in that fire?"

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Head still hanging, he shook it. "When firemen pulled me out, they said it was a miracle I survived. I didn't tell 'em I could heal 'cause I was a werewolf. My parents always told me how important it was to hide what we were. I did remember that."

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He shuddered, and offered no other information beyond that. His parents' death was not something he wanted to relive, not now. He knew they were obligated to the truth at some point, but… he could only handle one trauma at a time.

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He also had so many questions of his own, about who he was and what he could do. They rose in his throat, but he choked them down. These people offered the answers he desperately needed, but was afraid to ask. He needed them, needed to be a part of this Argo. But he couldn't afford for them to see him as a liability. Which he knew he was.

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"Sam?" Nightingale asked, crouching down to be at eye level with him, "How old are you?"

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He blinked, not expecting that question. He looked up into her warm, light-brown eyes, almost orange but not inhumanly so.

"Sixteen," he answered.

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He saw shock and sadness in her eyes, but she offered him a smile.

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"I'm Elizabeth," she said. "But my pack name is Nightingale. The lady holding you is my Aunt Ruth, or Night Sky. And this," she turned ninety degrees, sweeping her hand towards the man in a presentation gesture, "is my Uncle Nicholas, who we call Odysseus, Alpha of Argo."

"Pack name?" he asked quietly, even as his mind was already piecing it together.

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Nicholas--or Odysseus--nodded. "When a werewolf is accepted as an adult within their pack, it's the privilege of the alpha to bequeath them with a name reflective of their personality or their gifts. A name we share only with our fellow wolves."

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Sammy listened with rapt attention and nodded in understanding. "Will I… get one?" he asked, a glimmer of his desperate hope escaping through his voice.

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Odysseus folded his arms and shuffled a foot. He could see dark humor flit across the man's face, and he seemed to hesitate before saying, "By some of our more ancient customs, you've already earned yourself a place within Argo should you choose to accept it, when you slew our enemies."

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Sammy felt his face warm. Slaughtering humans, even evil ones, was not how he wanted to earn a pack.

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"But I'm sure," Ruth/Night Sky spoke up, "That you'll find some other way to earn your pack name. For now, you need to focus on recovering." She stood, bringing him up onto his feet with her--an impressive feat, since he was a few inches taller than she. It was then that Sammy realized he was completely naked, and his hands instinctively cupped down between his legs.

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Elizabeth snorted. "I'm a nurse, and Night Sky has seen plenty of stuff as the pack's physician. Also, we kinda prefer to run around naked when we're wolfside, so you're not hiding anything we all won't see later, even if it'll be all fuzzy. And if you catch a glimpse of someone or if someone catches a glimpse of you humanside, it's no big scandal."

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He tentatively pulled his hands away, not wanting to appear overly timid, but that feeling of vulnerability returned when Night Sky's nose pressed against his shoulder and she inhaled deeply. "Your body's still trying to burn that poison out of your system. Your skin's warm, and I can smell it in your sweat. A healthy werewolf would have broken it down by now, but you're severely malnourished. Come on, let's get you back in bed, Sammy."

 

Before he could obey of his own volition, Night Sky began pushing him forward, herding him back onto the large, plush bed with beckoning white sheets piled in twisted tangles, which she helped straighten out in one hand while guiding him down with the other. Exhaustion claimed him as soon as he was horizontal again.

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"I'll send Nightingale up with some food soon," Night Sky promised. "If you need anything, just call out. Someone will hear you."

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He nodded, feeling a small prick of pride at understanding that much about their kind at least. He knew his hearing was keener than a human's, even in this form. The walls seemed soundproofed to a certain extent, but he suddenly realized he could hear the murmur of other voices down below them--four distinct ones, even if he couldn't understand what they were saying.

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"And welcome to Argo," Odysseus said with a nod, before turning around and guiding the others out.

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Alone, Sammy closed his eyes and hoped for better dreams this time.

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"Poor kid," was the last thing he heard Elizabeth say before sleep claimed him.

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***

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He wasn't sure how much time passed while he recuperated. He woke up once to find a full plate of cold cut sandwiches and a pitcher of water on the table beside his bed, and once Elizabeth came in to check on his condition. As he all but swallowed the sandwiches whole, he could smell richer, fancier meats wafting up from downstairs, but the cold cuts were a good idea--his stomach felt delicate, and he wasn't sure if he could keep anything more robust than sandwich meat and bread down. Besides, it was still a step up from his usual diet.

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Eventually, though, he could sleep no longer. This room, which had been a haven at first, started to close in on him. He could hear activity downstairs, new voices adding to the general cacophony all the time. He still couldn't make out any words, but he could tell from some tones that a few people were upset.

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About him?

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He eased off the bed and padded carefully to the front door. The metal knob felt cool against his hand, and seemed to throb--but that was his just own pulse, he realized, pounding though the palm of his hand. He winced, preparing for the knob or the hinges to creak, but they had been well-oiled. He managed to crack the door open without a sound.

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"-kid is a killer!" He heard that loud and clear from one of the angrier voices.

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"And you would know that how?" came Odysseus' voice.

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"You just said it yourself, he tore apart a room full of humans."

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"After being tortured and drugged," Odysseus stated.

​

"So, he cracked. Look me in the eye and say he won't crack again."

​

"Are you questioning your alphas, Lucas?" Ruth's voice was on a razor's edge. "On the day we're burying our child?"

​

Silence.

​

Ruth didn't let up. "Odysseus has seen killers. So has Hatchet. And they feel this boy's no threat. What's the worst you've ever dealt with, Lucas?" Ruth again, not letting up. "A few drunks in a bar, anything worse than that?"

​

More silence.

​

"Didn't think so."

​

Another voice, like a chainsaw. "Night Sky's right. I've seen plenty of killers. Just got back from putting some down." Ah, this must have been "Hatchet."

​

The chainsaw-voice continued, "I've also seen the terror on that kid's face. A kid who's been through what he has deserves a chance. And if he is more broken than we realize... we'll deal with him."

​

And just when Sammy thought someone was in his corner. Gravity quadrupled in force and his heart plummeted to his stomach. He clutched hold of the door as if that could keep him standing. "Deal with"? That could mean a lot of things... a lot of awful things. He had no idea how this society functioned, but he could discern at least one obvious thing; clearly, werewolves meant business.

​

That thought sparked a full-blown episode of paranoia. He couldn't just sit in this room while others decided his fate. He had just escaped that exact kind of situation. If he was going to be cast out or killed--well, better to get it over with now than get a full taste of what could have been.

​

At the foot of his bed, someone had left a large gray cotton A-shirt and black athletic shorts, the kind with elastic and a drawstring. The clothes smelled of detergent and someone else's scent, so they were obviously used. But Sammy had spent the last four years wearing clothing he had to steal out of donation bins. At least these had been cleaned. He put them on and descended down the stairs, finding Nicholas, Ruth, Elizabeth, and several others milling about. One of them wore a sheriff's uniform, giving Sammy pause halfway down the stairs.

​

All conversation stopped and all eyes turned to look up at him.

​

"Hello, Sam," Nicholas said, a bit cautiously.

​

Ruth stood up and rushed to the bottom of the stairs. Sammy braced, expecting to be herded back up, but instead she offered up her hand and beckoned him to join them. "Come, meet some of the pack."

​

The next thing he knew, he was seated on the big couch in the middle of a large living room. The far wall, which Sammy guessed to be the front of the house, was constructed of stone, with rough-hewn wooden beams. The wall farthest from him had a fireplace, though it wasn't lit. The other two walls were some kind of wood, decorated by framed photos of horses and cowboys, as well as one large black-and-white group portrait of over a dozen people with the year "1890" written in the bottom left corner. The whole room felt opulent, but also warm and inviting. This was the kind of place Sammy had never even dared to dream he would wind up.

​

"We'll stick with human names for now. This is our son Liam," Ruth said, gesturing at the boy sitting closest to Sammy, the only one present that was close to his age. Dressed in acid-washed jeans and a bright orange shirt that complimented his light-brown skin, he looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in and gave Sammy a casual wave.

​

"Gerry," Ruth motioned to a young man straddling a backwards chair, who bobbed his head in greeting.

​

"Sheriff Lucas Roy." The man in the uniform simply tipped his head. He was built big and slightly balding, but there was an air of formality to the way he stood while everyone else was seated.

​

"Hatch… I mean, Robert Hackett." And even though this man was seated apart from everyone else, on a chair in front of the fireplace, there was nothing casual about his posture either. While Sheriff Roy stood regimentally, this man sat with an air of dangerous authority, offering Sammy only an ever-so-slight tip of the head. But… he smelled familiar.

​

"You… you were there, weren'tcha?" Sammy asked.

​

Robert only nodded twice.

​

Sammy gulped, and looked away, towards the last three unintroduced people on the other sofa--a married couple, the father holding a baby in his arms.

​

"And these are Fenton, Roxanne, and baby Jenny," Ruth concluded. "The rest of the pack should be arriving soon."

​

Sammy felt a sudden yearning to hold the baby, to protect her, to be a part of her family. But judging by the way the mother leered at him, she felt the same prerogative tenfold. He remained firmly where he was, hands on his lap.

​

"I'm sure you have questions," Nicholas said. It was not a question, but it was an invitation.

​

Sammy scanned the room, considering this. Roy blatantly disliked him already, and Sammy could smell the man's aggravation. That sent his stomach in cartwheels; he had done his best to avoid police by necessity up til now. Ruth hovered close to him protectively, and Elizabeth had a comforting aura around her. The rest… he had no idea where they stood on him. Likely they were waiting to see how this conversation would go before passing judgment.

​

Right. Surrounded by a pack of werewolves, and he had to make a good first impression. No pressure.

​

"I guess my parents were loners, 'cause I've never been part of a pack," he mumbled, half in explanation, half in apology for… well, just in case. "I spent th' last four years of my life searchin' for others like me. Then I got… taken." He looked up, honing his eyes on Nicholas's. "How'd you find me?"

​

Apparently that was the wrong question, because Ruth's arm withdrew, and the discomfort of the pack became palpable.

​

It was Robert who spoke up, and he was obviously the man who had put Roy in his place. Sammy felt a chill run down his spine as the man said, "We weren't looking for you, specifically. The men that took you and that other boy have taken others over the years. Strays, loners, and the occasional college student."

​

A collective growl rose throughout the room. Apparently that college student had been a member of this pack.

​

Nicholas rallied himself to find his tongue. "They took our daughter, Sarah," he said softly. "Sadly, we didn't get there in time for her."

​

Sammy tried to think, but there had never been a female werewolf in the cells, just him and Benny. Whatever they had done to her, the fate he knew he had been rescued from… must have happened to her long before they got him.

​

"I'm sorry," he said, sweeping his gaze from Nicholas to Ruth. He could see an even greater pain in her eyes.

​

"Thank you," she said, bringing her hand back to squeeze his own. "The pack is gathering for her service. We're going to spread her ashes once everyone's here. You're welcome to join us, of course, but don't feel that you have to."

​

Sammy considered this. Suddenly he worried he was intruding on something solemn. This family had gathered to grieve, not to answer his questions. But then, he had been held in that cell for months, and she had already been dead by that point. However long those scientists had experimented on her, he didn't know, but he did know they tried to make their subjects "last" as long as possible. She must have been taken… a long time ago. Sammy knew a thing or two about hope, but he also knew when it could be more poison than balm. This family must have been forced to accept her death long ago. The day of his rescue had just solidified a truth they had already known. Sammy looked deeper into Ruth's eyes. He knew a thing or two about grief, as well. This gathering was about closing the book on it, not reopening it.

​

"I… I think I'll join you," he said. If he wanted to join this pack, then he would need to share in their sorrows just as much as their celebrations.

He heard a murmur of approval reverberate through the room, perhaps too subtle for human ears, but there all the same. Apparently, he'd said the right thing.

​

Something brushed up against his legs, and Sammy looked down to see an adorable, snowy-white cat look up at him and mewl loudly. Sammy tensed, smacked in the face by yet more regrets. Twice, to survive, he had resorted to eating cats. Both times, he had discovered too late the collars around their necks. They had been parts of other people's families. He still had dreams last night where he was locked in a room with a sobbing little girl, clutching a bright pink collar while he begged for forgiveness that would never come.

​

Gerry scooped up the feline, which immediately began purring in his arms as he sat back down. "Sorry about that," he said. "Lavender's friendly as can be, but she's also a passive-aggressive bitch who deliberately comes on strong to non-cat-people."

​

Sammy sucked in a breath and nodded. He might have been able to laugh if he had a better grip on his situation, but at least he was able to think again. Desperate to shift everyone's attention off himself, if only just slightly, he studied the room again. "So... I'm guessin' the people in that big photo are th' founders of the pack, right?" He twisted in his seat to study it more closely.

​

Nicholas' posture straightened a bit, his chest puffing with a hint of pride. He, too, seemed eager to think about anything but what they were about to do. "My ancestors, and a few others'. But not our founders, just the first generation that had photography available to them. Argo is the oldest pack in this country. A few wolves in Greece decided to emigrate to the New World and, since they were sailing here, named themselves after the famous vessel of myth."

​

Sammy pondered this legacy. The wolves here weren't just part of a pack, but a chain-link in a continuity that stretched back centuries. And he, by contrast, couldn't even remember his parents' names or his own last name. The CPS agents who had placed him in foster care had, for the sake of paperwork, assigned him "Twist" for a last name. But he had always hated that.

​

"But, you're not all related here, right?" he asked, looking around. They smelled like each other, but they also had their own unique scents that he could distinguish even in human form. And they all smelled uniquely werewolf; Fenton was the only human in this room. "So… how'd you find each other?"

​

"There are actually very few lone wolves," Nicholas explained. "Our kind are drawn to one another. Even the loners that are out there maintain ties to some pack or another, for safety and communication. Your parents' deaths should have drawn the attention of the nearest pack. The fact that no one came to collect you suggests that they were in hiding, for whatever reason. Werewolves are supposed to look out for one another, to protect the secrecy of our existence. The fact that you… slipped through the cracks is, thankfully, a rare tragedy."

​

He gestured at Roxanne. "Patience, here, is another exception like you. She was bitten by a rogue as a child, and had no one to mentor her. She had to figure much of it out on her own, though she didn't know how to live in harmony with her wolf until, by pure luck, she ran into Sarah while she was traveling. She and Fenton became members of our pack a few months later. I'm sure the two of you will have much to talk about."

Sammy cast another glance towards her and, from the way she narrowed her gaze and held her baby closer, he didn't think they would be talking any time soon.

​

"...Er, once her maternal instincts aren't in overdrive," Nicholas added.

​

"You said somethin' about livin' in harmony with her wolf," Sammy swiveled his head back to Nicholas. "What d'you mean?"

"Have you ever lost control of yourself on the full moon?" the sheriff asked, and Sammy recognized his voice as the angry one he had heard from upstairs.

​

"...No," Sammy said. He closed his eyes. "I remember my mama tellin' me that so long as I shifted at least a couple times a month, that wouldn't happen."

​

"Of course," Elizabeth said. "That full moon stuff is mostly a myth. There's nothing magical about it, but there is something about the full moon that makes even humans restless. I'm not sure if it's because of the brighter nights, or maybe the way the moon affects Earth's gravity. But the hospital I work at always gets busiest around a full moon."

​

"Our wolf sides aren't monsters," Ruth said. "More like wild animals, and just like real wolves, they hate captivity. As long as you let it out once in a while, 'walk the dog' so to speak, it won't get so restless that it has to break out. Which, for the poor souls who don't know any better, usually happens during the full moon, when even your human half gets restless."

​

Sammy nodded. That made sense.

​

The sound of a motor off in the distance caused all heads to turn in its direction. Soon it was joined by another.

​

"That should be the rest of the pack," Nicholas said. "Sounds like Pegasus' and Cernunnos' cars, and they said they'd give the others rides."

"The whole pack doesn't live t'gether?" Sammy asked.

​

Nicholas shook his head. "This is the main house where Ruth, Liam, Robert, and Gerry and I live, and we have all our gatherings here. But everyone else has places of their own. Some even live in Cedar City like Roy, about an hour's drive away."

​

"How big is this pack?"

​

Nicholas just smiled. "You'll see."

​

He stood up. "Well, we might as well go and start changing."

​

As the rest of the pack began to rise, Ruth sat Sammy back down. "Not you," she said. "Your body's still recovering from its trauma and I don't want you to strain yourself."

​

Sammy had no desire to shift right now, anyway. The last time he'd been in his wolf's skin, he had... done unthinkable things. He didn't think he would be ready to face that side of himself again for a while.

​

Roxanne left her child in her husband's arms, shot Sammy one final warning glare, and followed the rest of the werewolves up the stairs, leaving Sammy alone with Fenton, the baby, and Liam.

​

Sammy could tell Fenton was human, but Liam smelled like a wolf. "You aren't gonna transform?" he asked.

​

A flicker of a sneer appeared on Liam's face for just a beat. "Can't," he said, shaking his head. "I've got a condition. Chaney's disease, we call it. My body can't produce the hormone that stimulates the change."

​

"Oh," Sammy said, feeling his face burning. He'd pried, and clearly touched on a sensitive topic. A werewolf who couldn't shift? That sounded unbearable. But his curiosity got the better of him, and instead of leaving the topic alone, he had to ask; "How do you… 'walk the dog' then?"

Liam just shrugged. "Maybe because I've never actually shifted, but my wolf side's pretty much atrophied."

​

The baby gurgled, drawing Sammy's attention. "And you? You married into this pack?" he asked.

​

"Well, I married Roxanne before the pack found us, and we came in as a package deal," Fenton said, apparently a lot more amiable than his wife. He rocked the baby a little bit. "Honestly, I love living around werewolves. Turns out, big bad wolves love kids. There's always someone happy to babysit."

​

Sammy simply nodded. That was reassuring. Of course, he wasn't ready to give in to hope just yet. Just a couple days ago, he'd watched as people pulled his intestines out of his body, and now he was facing the prospect of having a new family. Nobody's luck flipped that quickly. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He started to take stock of his surroundings again, when something caught his eye. Liam had set his spiral-bound notebook down to play with his phone, but left it open. Among the hand-written scribblings, Sammy read:

​

The tall boy lies there, ruddy, mocha-with cream skin tangled within white sheets, perhaps subconsciously struggling against the very notion of being trapped by anything, betraying the turmoil in his tortured mind. His face is drawn tight over sharp cheekbones, his lips occasionally twitch downward in a frown. A small scar runs parallel and above his brow. What traumatic event could have marred his face so? At one point, a whimper escapes those tight lips. Who knows what demons plague him in his dreams? His chocolate hair reaches down bellow his neck, or at least it will after someone combs the knots out, or at the very least cuts it off for a fresh start. A few whispy hairs also dot his heaving chest, betraying his pubescent age...

​

"You like it?" Liam asked, jarring Sammy out of his reverie. He realized he had bent over to get a better view, and shot back up. "I went into your room yesterday and wrote it. Hope you don't mind."

​

"Uh…" Sammy's face warmed and he rubbed the scar on his forehead. In his travels, he had avoided human cities as best as he could, but one night he had been so, so hungry. He'd shifted to wolf form and kept to the rooftops, searching for whatever he could scrounge. But it had rained the day before, and all it took was one slippery grip to send him falling, smashing his head against a dumpster's rusty rim behind a restaurant. His head healed before he'd lost too much blood and he managed to get back on the rooftop before any humans had spotted him, but he'd been left with a permanent reminder of that embarrassing mistake.

​

He felt… exposed. He didn't know why, this was not new information. By now, the whole pack knew what he had done, what weakened condition he had been in when they had brought him. His introduction to the Argo pack, the pack he hoped would take him in, had been anything but dignified. And he knew they were still judging him, gauging his worthiness to join them. But there was something more solid about seeing someone's thoughts on him in black-and-white, or even worse, purple-sparkle-ink-and-white.

​

"Why?"

​

"I'm gonna be a writer," Liam declared. "I'm studying journalism in school right now and my English teacher says it's good practice to write down descriptions of everything around me, from the mundane to the unusual."

​

"You're gonna publish this?" Sammy's voice raised an octave.

​

"Oh, no no no," Liam said. "Like I said, it's just an exercise. I've done binders and binders of this stuff. Soon as I fill one up, I throw it out and start a new one. So… what do you think?"

​

He looked back down at the hasty but neat handwriting, describing in detail the features of his body, including the outline of... shapes under the sheets. "It's… well, I'm no... book critic," he stated. "But I guess… it's kinda embarrassing?"

​

Sammy hadn't known it was possible to slam a notebook shut, but somehow Liam managed it.

​

"I thought you'd be flattered," he grumbled, stalking upstairs and taking the notebook with him.

​

Sammy sank back into his seat and wondered what the hell had happened. Slowly, he turned to Fenton. "I was just bein' honest."

​

Fenton, still rocking his child, managed to incorporate a shrug into one of his gentle swings. "Liam may not shift, but I've noticed he's still got a werewolf's mood swings," he said. "Besides, this is his sister's funeral too. He's bound to be... well, y'know.

​

"But... between you and me," Fenton whispered low enough that no human would be able to hear, but Sammy's sensitive ears would (clearly this was a man used to living around werewolves and their keener senses), "I think his writing has a lot of room for improvement, too."

​

He offered Sammy an encouraging smile as hulking, fur-covered figures started descending the stairs, claws clicking against the steps.

​

***

​

Once the rest of the pack arrived and assumed their werewolf forms, Nicholas led the procession out. Sammy counted a dozen shifted werewolves in the assembly. The men all donned black robes tied closed with a sash, while women wore combinations of dresses, skirts, or simple tops. None of these loose, flowing clothes looked practical for a werewolf to galavant around in, but it dawned on Sammy that this was formal wear specifically for their shapeshifting bodies. Sammy hadn't just found people who happened to turn into wolves on the side... this was a whole new culture he had stumbled into.

​

With everything else to process, he felt comically underdressed for a funeral in his shirt and sweatpants. But when Elizabeth approached with a black hoodie and a pair of old sneakers, he gratefully put those on. At least he was wearing something in black. The hoodie was soft against his bare arms, and smelled like her. While the rest of his clothes were obviously communal spares, he felt touched that she would share something of hers with him.

​

The pack was kept clustered close together, their scents comingling, so Sammy couldn't rely on smell to identify everyone with their alternate faces. But Nicholas' air of authority made him easy enough to identify. His canine face was black-furred with just a little silver in the muzzle, and the fur along the rest of his body was a beautiful blend of black, brown, and cream. Dark, and dignified.

​

Ruth was a little trickier--until he remembered her other name. The werewolf with curly black fur speckled with white looked like a living Van Gogh painting--like a Night Sky, indeed. Elizabeth was pure black, though like her aunt her fur had a curly nap to it.

​

Then there was Liam, Fenton, and three other humans in the pack. To Sammy's disappointment, Liam was the only one here his age. Everyone else were adults, the oldest being a couple in their eighties whom Nicholas introduced as his great-aunt and uncle. 

​

Sammy trailed in the back, taking a moment to ascertain his surroundings as soon as he was outside. The house sat in a clearing surrounded by monolithic cedar and junipers. A small fleet of cars, trucks, and a particularly beat-up van were all parked on the packed earth to the left. To the right stood a massive barn four times the size of the house, and flanking that structure was a smaller stable, with three horses grazing inside the fence, and the scent of two more out of sight. Sammy stopped and stared at them a moment; he had never actually seen a horse in person before. They were bigger than he had expected. And they didn't seem particularly bothered by the procession of werewolves walking past them towards the treeline.

​

Nicholas carried a simple metal urn in his arms as he led them down a winding path, going deeper and deeper into the wild area, until finally they stopped. Sammy glanced around, noticing names and dates carved into the trees, and stone piles amongst their roots.

​

"We are gathered here tonight..." Nicholas' voice, slightly deeper as it came out of a wolf's muzzle, wavered. "We're gathered here to say our final goodbyes to Sarah Simon, known to Argo as Lightbringer, for truly she was a light to us all."

​

Ruth joined her husband's side and put a hand on the urn. She said, "My baby girl was always kind and she was always curious. She was always fascinated by who we are, what we are, and wanted to become a scientist and find a cure for Chaney's disease. She studied hard and earned a scholarship to Yale. But she... but before she went off to college, she said to me, 'Mama, the universe has given me a gift. I need to give something back, to balance the scales.' So she packed her bags and signed up to volunteer for the Red Cross.

​

"That was our Sarah. All she ever wanted to do was help others. She couldn't let her gifts go unused. Someone, somewhere, we suppose, must have seen her using her abilities during disaster relief after a tornado, because that's when she was... taken."

​

Ruth's head bowed and her hands enveloped her face. Her body shook with quiet sobs, and Nicholas handed the urn to Liam to wrap his arms around her.

​

Some other members of the pack began to speak, sharing stories about Lightbringer and the profound effect she'd had upon their lives. Sammy listened to the story of a life that had burned with brilliance for its short time upon the Earth. These people had loved her. They missed her. And, selfishly, he envied her. If he had died in that cell, there would have been no one to notice, no one to bring his body home, much less speak of him with such love and admiration.

​

He thought about Donnie, his only friend in the foster home. Donnie, a boy targeted by bullies because he had been born with dwarfism. Now, at least, Sammy understood why he had been so driven to protect him until his time living amongst humans had become unbearable and he'd run away, leaving Donnie to fend for himself. Donnie probably didn't even know if Sammy was dead or alive. He wondered if he missed him, or if he cursed Sammy for abandoning him.

​

Sammy felt the alpha's attention on him, and looked up. He held the urn again, and there was fire in the wolf's icy blue eyes. "Normally, we of Argo bury our brothers and sisters here, to feed the forests that shelter us. But when I found my daughter in that morgue, cut apart, piece by piece... we couldn't lay her to rest like that.

​

"What happened to those men was justice."

​

He saw a few heads nod. A couple nodded at him. All Sammy wanted to do was crawl under one of those trees.

​

Nicholas lifted the lid of the urn, and began to pour his daughter out, scattering her remains to the winds. "And so her remains will become one with the land that has given succor to our forerunners. She will be one with them now, as we will be one with her in our due times."

​

He dropped the urn as soon as it was empty, and leaned back into his wife. The wolves all lifted their heads and unleashed long, low howls of grief, a song so sad that it reverberated through Sammy's chest and brought tears to his eyes. Even Liam did his best to join in, and Sammy tilted his head back and released a long, low howl of his own.

​

***

​

Sammy dreamed, not of violence and bloodshed, but of the steak he'd been allowed to eat with the rest of the pack before being sent back to bed. Sarah was there, eating beside him. He wanted to ask her questions, but was too afraid to speak...

​

He woke up, and checked the clock. 11:20. There was another set of used clothes ready for him, the sneakers, a pack of brand-new boxers, and a hand-written note that said, "SHOWER and then come downstairs -Night Sky"

​

He followed the instructions, and by the time he entered the kitchen, Ruth was already setting steaming-hot scrambled eggs and bacon on a table for him. "Eat up," she said as she sat down with a mug of tea. "Then we're going shopping."

​

He sat down and began shoveling food into his mouth. Sammy couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten scrambled eggs, but these were fluffier than anything he could remember--and the bacon had been seasoned with something, he wasn't sure what, but it had a bit of a bite to it that finished waking him up. Halfway through the plate, his hunger dimmed enough to allow his thoughts to come into focus. He stopped eating and looked at Ruth, who had both hands on her mug and seemed to be enjoying watching him eat.

​

"Are you sure you wanna go out?" he asked. "I mean, you just had a funeral yesterday. You don't hafta go out of your way for me."

​

She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. "Let's see, sit here and stew, or do something productive and keep my mind off things? Which would you pick?"

​

Sammy stopped to consider, not the answer, but whether her question was rhetorical or not. After seeing the entire pack together, even if for a sad occasion, had made him want more than ever to feel that sense of unity with others. So he couldn't afford not to treat each question as if it were a test, until he was certain he passed. How and when would he be certain? He had no idea. Maybe he'd be certain once he was, well... certain.

​

"Gotta keep moving forward," he mumbled.

​

"You would know, wouldn't you?" she asked him, gently prodding.

​

Test or not, Sammy wasn't ready to talk about that yet. He just nodded once and returned his attention to breakfast.

​

***

​

The cool, crisp air flicked him on the face before the sun's light warmed it up. Sammy buttoned up the sweater that smelled like Nicholas. Montana, eh? In his haphazard wanderings, he had never made it this far north. Freezing to death at night had been a genuine concern, so he had stuck mostly to the southern regions. It wasn't like he had known where to look for more werewolves anyway.

​

As they stepped off the porch, Sammy heard the clopping of hooves approaching, a steady but unusual pattern of footfalls. He spun around while Ruth turned at a more leisurely pace. Sammy found himself face to face with a beige beast, which bobbed its head and blasted him with hot, grassy breath. He froze.

​

"Hello, husband," Ruth said.

​

"Hello, wife. Hello, lad."

​

Sammy forced himself to look up past the horse, into the amused expression of the pack alpha. He quickly cast his eyes back down.

​

"H-hello, sir," he said, wincing at the warble in his own voice. He wasn't sure who he was more scared of right now, Nicholas or the horse.

​

"Going on a shopping spree, are we?" he asked.

​

Ruth stepped up beside Sammy and put an arm around his shoulder, her warmth tempting him to lean into her. "That's right. Rounding up the herd, are we?" 

​

"That's right."

​

"Herd?" Sammy asked, looking back up.

​

"We're cattle ranchers, son!" Nicholas declared, affecting an even thicker Southern accent than Ruth.

​

"Cattle ranchers? But aren't the cows scared a' werewolves? Horses too, for that matter."

​

"Not when we've bred them for generations," Nicholas answered in his regular British accent. "Besides, it's the perfect cover for a werewolf pack, don't you think? Not only do we provide ourselves a food source, but humans don't wonder why non-family members live with us if they think they're just hired hands. Not that every member of the pack works out here, mind you. These days, more of us live in town and work other jobs than live out here on the Ranch."

​

Sammy just found himself nodding as he soaked up new information.

​

The horse whickered and did a little dance in place, unhappy to be in one place for too long.

​

"I should hit the trails, Hatchet and Liam are waiting for me," Nicholas said, guiding the horse towards one of the well-worth paths that led into the forests. They trotted forward a few steps before Nicholas stopped and twisted around. "Have you ever ridden a horse before, Sam?"

​

"N-no sir."

​

"Ah. Well tomorrow's the perfect time to start. You should be rested up by now to start getting up at the crack of dawn. Riding lessons at dawn... after a hearty breakfast, of course."

​

"You volunteerin' to make it?" Ruth asked.

​

"Well, I certainly can, provided you help get the horses ready," Nicholas snarked back.

​

"Mmm, I think I'd rather make breakfast. You always overcook the eggs, anyway."

​

Nicholas put his hand over his heart. "I most certainly do not. You just have high standards."

​

"Oh? Do I?"

​

Nicholas reared his horse around and started riding away. "Of course. You married me."

​

Ruth made a strange grunting noise to herself as she watched her mate ride off, then guided Sammy towards a blue Prius which stood out amongst the small fleet of weathered pickups. The inside was clean-but-not-pristine, and smelled like every member of the pack had ridden inside at some point or another, though some of those scents could have been secondhand. He wasn't about to change and press his nose to the leather for a more accurate reading.

​

Come to think about it, the thought of wolf form didn't seem very appealing at all right now.

​

Jazz danced from the speakers as they drove through a winding dirt road for about five minutes before reaching a gate that released them to a turnout onto a highway.

​

"We keep a camera on the front gate," Ruth explained unprompted. "And a little subharmonic alarm warns us if there's ever any surprise human visitors. The long drive from there to the house gives us a chance to make sure at least a couple human faces are at the house by the time they make it there."

​

"You guys've thought've everything, haven't you?" Sammy asked.

​

Ruth shrugged. "Our kind have lived in secret for as far back as we can remember. We've gotten very, very good at it."

Sammy saw a chance to have one of his questions answered, and for once didn't hesitate to grasp it. "An' how far back is that? Where did we come from?"

​

Ruth leaned her head back to give him a sideways glance... and a shrug. "No one rightly knows. Far as we know, there's always been werewolves living amongst humans. But your guess as to how we came to be is as good as mine. Oh, there're theories. Parallel evolution... mutated virus in a wolf bite... aliens seeding us... there's even one tall tale of an ancient scientifically advanced civilization that genetically engineered our kind."

 

Ruth cast her eyes back on the road. "There's only one immortal werewolf--well, only one left. We call him the Prime. He goes by Solomon. He could very well be the progenitor of us all. But even he doesn't know for sure. He can't remember that far back. Even an immortal brain's got limited storage space, I guess."

​

Sammy's heart churned. He couldn't remember everything about his childhood. But what few memories he'd retained were precious to him. "It must be unbearable, not rememberin' where you came from."

​

Ruth looked at him again, a look of surprise on her face.

​

"What?" he asked.

​

"Nothin, hun," she said, but her lips turned upwards with a smile. "Everything you've been through, and you still have compassion for others."

​

Sammy looked out the window and watched the blur of trees go by. Had that been a test? He had been aware, on an intellectual level, that he would be under their scrutiny for a long time... but in practice, it was alarming. He had passed this time. But what about the next time?

​

As if she could anticipate his thoughts, she continued, "Sweetie, four years is a long time for a lone werewolf to be out on his own, without any guidance. You shouldn't feel ashamed for being discovered. You should take pride in managing for as long as you did. Everybody in the pack respects that."

​

Sammy had been letting the words flow around him, but that last sentence caught his attention. "They do?"

​

"Of course," Ruth assured him. "It's hard enough for a human child to be out on their own, and we're hardwired to seek out companionship. I can't even bear the thought of being on my own like that. It took resolve and inner strength to do what you did."

​

"More like stupidity and dumb luck," Sammy muttered. "Well, dumb luck up til I got myself caught."

​

Ruth seemed to sense his discomfort because they started chatting about other things. Sammy knew that mood could affect people's scents, both human and werewolf alike, but the Alpha woman seemed to have an empathy that went beyond what Sammy thought was normal, though admittedly he didn't have much of a baseline. Still, it was like she always knew what he was thinking, answering questions while he was still framing them. She told him more about the history of the pack, of the income that ranching brought them, and, yes, he was welcome to work on the ranch if that's what he wanted to do, though finding a job in town was also an option.

​

The hour's drive passed quickly. Suddenly trees turned into houses, and Ruth turned off the highway into a modest urban sprawl, with all the familiar signs of corporate Americana. Ruth navigated the streets until they were parked in the far end of a Walmart lot. Sammy had to admit, after being bedridden for days, a long walk sounded appealing.

​

"If anyone asks, you're our new foster-child," she told him.

​

Sammy's hand hovered over the door latch. "Y' think anyone will?"

​

"It's a small town. People notice newcomers. Don't worry about it."

​

The front of the Walmart was abuzz with activity, even during midday. But from what Sammy had seen from the highway turnoff, this was the largest building in town, so it made sense. The only sedentary body at the front of the building was a fat white-haired man with a long, wispy beard and dressed in a gray shirt and worn-out overalls. He was presumably sitting on a fold-out chair, though it disappeared under his girth. On top of his head was a baseball cap with a confederate flag embroidered on the front.

​

"Missus Simon!" The man smiled, cracking open his mouth and revealing a few gaps and jagged teeth. "Who's the new lad?"

​

"Never you mind, Leeroy," Ruth said with a hint of a growl in her voice, before pressing her hand on Sammy's back and hurrying them through the front door before Leeroy could get another word in.

​

"Who's that?" Sammy asked.

​

"Just the village idiot," Ruth said as she pulled a cart free. "He's got nothing better to do than sit in front of the store most days and heckle people. He thinks he's adding to the 'local flavor.' Everyone does their best to just ignore him."

​

They passed by the books on the way to the clothing racks, and Sammy hesitated. They had come for clothing. On the other hand…

"Would it be all right if I got something, 'n paid you back whenever I got some money of my own?"

​

"Sammy..." she sounded mildly offended by his question. Sammy flinched, until she went on. "Get whatever you want, and don't worry about 'paying us back.'"

​

Sammy hesitated only for a moment. While he was not one to indulge in self-pity--he figured out a long time ago that that just made things worse--he wouldn't deny that his life so far had been an utter piece of crap, and he wasn't too proud to accept charity whenever it sporadically came his way. He darted into the aisle and emerged a few minutes later with a brand-new King James Bible, placing it almost reverently in the basket. It wasn't the Bible that had been all he had left of his family before his captors had taken it away from him, but it also wasn't charred, warped, and water-stained. He'd read his original Bible back to back many times. This time, he'd be able to read it without any missing pages.

​

Someone called out Ruth's name, and she passed the cart to him. "Go to the men's department and start trying on pants," she said before walking off to catch up with her acquaintance. He overheard Ruth explaining that she and Nicholas had just taken in a foster child before the hustle and bustle of shoppers filtered them out.

​

Once in the clothing department, Sammy wasn't even sure where to begin. He had always just found clothing that fit by trial and error, usually preferring baggy clothes that he wouldn't outgrow so quickly. So he grabbed the cheapest pair of jeans on the shelves that looked about right and headed for the changing room. They were a bit snug, so he grabbed the next two sizes up next and found something comfortable on the third try.

 

He added a second pair into the cart, and then a pair of cotton T-shirts, one black and one gray. As he threw in a pack of socks, a goldenrod hoodie caught his eye. Well, he was going to need something warmer when the weather started cooling down, so he grabbed an extra-large. He crossed the lane into the shoe department and started trying things on when Ruth caught up with him.

​

"Don't bother with those cheap-rack shoes, they won't last a year," she said, clicking her tongue with disapproval. "Same with these pants, they're gonna fall right apart on you soon as you start working."

​

Everyone shopped for clothes, it was such a basic thing. Ruth had sent him off to handle himself and he had gotten it all wrong. Sammy felt like he could implode from embarrassment, but then Ruth took him by the hand. She pulled him over to the boots, glanced down to his feet, and pulled out a pair in the neighborhood of a hundred dollars. Sammy sucked in his breath. Everything he had thrown in the cart so far cost only half that.

​

Ruth looked up and chuckled. "I told ya hun, we may not be millionaires, but ranchin' still brings in good money. We're buying you a whole wardrobe today, and that's final. Now try these on."

​

Two extravagant hours later, the cart was loaded up with everything from work clothes to something nice for formal occasions and even a couple pairs of stretchy workout shorts which Ruth insisted he would find handy, and of course, the hoodie.

​

And then, to his utter shock, Ruth took him to the electronics section and picked out a laptop.

​

"You'll need this for homeschooling," she said with a tone of determination. It was almost overwhelming. Sammy had to concentrate not to start crying right there in the store. Ruth wrapped an arm around him and gave him a squeeze.

​

"When winter comes around, we'll get you a nice heavy jacket," she promised as they emerged from the checkout lane with a cart full of bags.

"Ruth... I dunno what to say... No one's ever been this nice to me."

​

She pulled him in and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Well then, I guess you just got the kharma built up. Besides, you're gonna help me wash all this stuff. We'll give you more responsibilities as you're ready for them, but we're starting you off as my assistant on laundry duty."

​

He nodded, happy to be able to start earning his keep as soon as possible. So long as he wasn't a total drain on their resources, they'd be more inclined to let him stay.

​

"Hey, boy!" The old man looked like he hadn't budged from his spot the entire time they'd been inside.

​

Sammy could smell his hostility. He had no idea why. Sammy had done nothing to offend this man. But some people didn't need a reason. He remembered what Ruth said earlier and ignored him, pushing the cart along. Obsequiousness was well in his wheelhouse. Keeping his head down had kept him alive up until his kidnapping...

​

"What'sa matter, boy? You deaf? Or stupid?"

​

"Leave him alone, Leeroy," Ruth said. The motherly tone Sammy had been enjoying these past hours had vanished.

​

"Hell with that!" Sammy heard plastic creak and turned to see the fat man coming towards him with all the force of a tidal wave. "Boy needs to learn to respect his elders!"

​

Enemy! Shift! Tear his soft, fatty, wobbling throat out!

​

He could feel the familiar tingle in his cells, the initial wave of nausea as his body called on its stored energy reserves to fuel the transformation. Not here, not in public. If he exposed their kind for the world to see, and ruined the pack's lives, if he was the one who screwed it up for his entire species, Argo would never accept him. Time slowed as the fat man's bloated hand wrapped around his arm, but Sammy barely even registered, fighting to stay still, stay flat-toothed. The urge to move forward grew the harder he fought to hold the monster in. Locked in a stalemate with himself, hyperventilation set in. He felt dizzy.

​

"Hands off!" Ruth's hand came out of nowhere, locking onto Leeroy's wrist and squeezing until the man gasped and let Sammy go. Sammy watched as she stepped between them and shoved him back so hard that he fell back in an arc and landed on the pavement a couple feet away.

​

"My back!" he screamed, and then looked up. Sammy realized this spectacle had attracted a crowd. He glanced down at his hands, making sure he had no claws or fur. The sight of human hands reassured him. His beast had settled down, simultaneously sated and cowed by the presence of an alpha wolf defending him.

​

"Well don't just stand there!" he snarled. "Somebody call the sheriff!"

​

"You started it, Leeroy," said one of the onlookers. "Everyone here saw it."

​

"You sons of bitches!" Leeroy shouted at the crowd. "You're all gonna let those people get upitty on us?"

​

"Those people?" How did he know? Sammy turned his head towards Ruth--black-skinned Ruth--and then looked at his own swarthy complexion. Oh. Oh.

​

The man began to rock about. Sammy realized he was trying to sit up, like a turtle turned over. Even his ankles were consumed in layers of fat. Sammy shut his eyes and breathed in deep, breathed in the scents of everyone around them. Every onlooker's scent shifted, amusement replaced by wafts of disgust. For a fleeting second, the urge to finish off his fallen enemy rose in the back of his head, and he growled softly. No. No more of that.

​

He was… he was a person. He wasn't a monster. Not like this hateful man. Not like the scientists that had cut into him, over and over. All people, humans and werewolves alike, were sinners. All had the fleshy desire to hurt others, be it for their own gain or just to hold power over them. A person was someone who held the beast within at bay. The monsters were the ones who let them out.

​

"Dude, it's the 21st century," a teenager spoke up.

​

"Now listen here, Leeroy," said an older man wearing a Vietnam Vet cap. "You may have this whole town feeling sorry for you since your wife ran off, but that there's a line between assholery and assault, and you just crossed it."

​

"A wife who left him for an Native man," Ruth reminded the crowd, a hint of viciousness in her tone. A chuckle passed through the crowd, and Sammy saw Leeroy's face go beet red. "A wife who spent months before that telling the town grapevine about Leeroy's little problem." She stuck her finger in the air and let it droop. The chuckles grew into outright laughter. "Don't blame 90% of the human population on your own shortcomings, Leeroy."

​

There were other ways to savage a person without using teeth and claws. Sammy's jaw dropped. The alpha woman had mauled his attacker more effectively than he ever could have.

​

"If you hurt my back, I'll sue!" he threatened.

​

"Looks like a cut-and-dry case against self-defense," said the veteran, and then looked at Ruth and Sammy and smiled. "You need me to testify, just give me a call."

​

"Thanks, Don," Ruth said.

​

"Me too!" said another one of the locals.

​

"Yeah, you've got my number."

​

"Hey, kid, welcome to Cedar City. The Simons are good people, they'll look after you."

​

"Thanks," Sammy mumbled, still processing everything that just happened as Ruth ushered him to the car.

​

***

​

During the drive home, Ruth drove a little more aggressively, nearly running a red light before they got back on the highway and raced past an eighteen-wheeler. Sammy sensed that Ruth's aggravation was not directed at him. Far from it, from the way she smiled at him once they had open road in front of them again.

​

"Thank you for what you did back there," Sammy said. "If you hadn't been around, I think I might've lost control."

​

"I could tell. Soon as I smelled the change starting, I knew I had to step in." There was no reproach in her voice. And Sammy realized that no scolding would be forthcoming when she added, "Gotta protect my cubs."

​

He couldn't believe his ears. "I'm your cub?"

​

"Well... you're a cub."

​

Sammy bowed his head and watched his feet for a moment. He still had the flip-flops on, as awkward as they had been to walk around the store in. He hated the sight of his human feet. They were big, awkward-looking things, each sprouting a random patch of wispy hairs.

​

"I wish I could trade places with her," he offered. "If I could go back in time, I'd make it so Sarah'd be the one who lived, not me. She sounded like she was worth more 'n me." And she probably wouldn't have killed those men, either. It didn't matter that it had been justice. What mattered was the fact that at the time, he had reveled in the primal beast's desire for revenge.

​

He heard Ruth make a choking sound. "Don't you talk like that, Sammy. It wasn't a choice between you and her, and my Sarah wouldn't have traded your life for hers in any case. You're not a replacement for my daughter. But right now, I need somebody to take care of just as much as you need someone to take care of you."

​

"What about your son?" Sammy asked.

​

A half-smile asserted itself through her grief. "Liam's always marched to the beat of his own drum. He wouldn't appreciate me smotherin' him right now."

​

He imagined a boy who couldn't shift in a werewolf pack would have to be independent. Liam probably grew up before his time, even if he hadn't acted like it when they first met. They might have more in common than Sammy thought. Maybe they could become good friends. Maybe they could eventually become brothers.

​

Sammy was tired of being independent, though. Maybe, if just for a while, he could depend on others. It would be such relief. But first, he had to trust them, and that meant no more secrets. His whole life so far had revolved around secrets. But he was sick of living that way.

​

"I was in the basement when the fire started," he said, after a little while. He turned the music dial down because it was still hard to speak about this loudly.

​

"I liked to play down there. I could take my wolf form an' not worry about anyone seein' me. My papa built me a little playground down there, some chains and monkey bars I could climb an' jump aroun' on.

​

He allowed himself a moment to revel in the happier memory. There weren't many of them, and this one was precious to him.

Reaching back for the bags behind them, he pulled out a bag of Hershey's Kisses he had thrown into the cart before checking out. He popped it open, pausing to savor the rush of fats and sugars that wafted into his nose. Almost reverently, he unpeeled a Kiss, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head; the experience was like the thrill of seeing an old friend for the first time in years. It had been that long since the last time he'd had chocolate.

​

Feeling a slight psychological boost, he pressed on.

​

"Then one day, without any kinda warnin', I think... someone attacked us? Someone musta found out. I tried gettin' upstairs when somethin' exploded and knocked me back down. An' the next thing I knew, firemen were pullin' me out of the debris. They said my mama and papa and brother were burned to death, an' it was a miracle I survived. I didn't tell them it was because werewolves could heal. The only other thing that survived the fire was my papa's Bible."

​

He spoke in short bursts, pausing sometimes to collect his thoughts, or mull over the memories he was digging up. The entire time, Ruth just listened, nodding occasionally, but never prodding him for more information.

​

"I wound up in a foster home for a coupla' years, but I was always afraid of being' found out so I ran away when I was twelve. I just stuffed that Bible an' a spare set of clothes in a backpack and took off. I figured my foster-parents would call the police. They probably thought I used human means of travel like hitchhikin' or the bus, but I shifted and ran through the woods, as hard and as fast as I could til I was in another county. I kept a low profile for like a year after that.

​

"I knew there had t' be others like me, somewhere out there, so I traveled around, sniffin' around for the smell of other werewolves, an' avoidin' cities best as I could. But sometimes, I couldn't help myself, wildlife'd be hard to find, so I'd go into a town to scrounge for food. I was in a back alley somewhere when I felt this dart hit me in the back of my neck, an' the next thing I knew... I woke up in the cell that Nicholas eventually found me in."

​

By the time he reached the end of his tale, he realized Ruth's right hand had left the wheel to sit on his thigh. The turn-off to the ranch was coming in view, off in the horizon.

​

"Well, it took you a little longer than you hoped, but you finally found us," she said. "Welcome home, Sammy."