For the first mile, I fell often, and soon I was bleeding, but I picked myself up and pushed on. My feet took the brunt of the punishment. I tapped into the pain, using it and my anger to drive me, to encourage the growth of claws. As I leaped another creek full of icy water, landing on my hands and scrambling with my bare toes, I had an epiphany: I craved the wulf. Not because I needed to learn control, but because I couldn’t help Peter or Chloe as long as I remained trapped in this human form.
The thought brought me up short. I want to turn into a monster? When did I decide I wanted this? Yet there was no denying what I felt. I wanted the change, was ready to embrace it. And as much as Dillon was the excuse, it didn’t fully explain the desire within me. At some point in the last few days, I had transitioned from a bite victim to a wulfleng.
Keen stared up at me with a curious expression, her tongue hanging from her mouth as she panted. She loved this bush plowing adventure. Trails are boring, Dad.
“Do you want a werewolf for a master?” I asked her. She pricked her ears and barked.
Okay, then. I started down the path again, feeling strangely determined. Yet no matter how hard I tried, the wulf either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, come. The forest sprang to vivid life, rippling with clarity and color that filled me with wonder. My fingers and toes changed, the tendons growing strong and claws appearing in place of fingernails. My gums bled as the teeth emerged. My brain absorbed scents and spat out surprisingly accurate answers—obviously, my human nose had registered these smells over the years, just not consciously or with this kind of power. It made me ponder a world—so alive for dogs and other animals—that humans ignored.
I could hear the panic of small fleeing creatures as I crashed through their home. Keen worked hard to stay ahead of me, her sleek body slipping through the bush while mine stumbled along after her. When I flagged, I used the images of Chloe, Dillon, and the abandoned puppy to sustain me.
But the wulf held back, denying me the power of a predator running on four paws with the body of an animal and the brain of a man. Frustrated, I stopped again, and Keen returned to me, panting as much as I was, and licked my hand. I raised it and examined the thickened pads beneath the strong fingers, and the wicked claws.
No wulf today, I thought with resignation. I sighed and turned around, limping on bleeding feet. When I next looked at my hands, they had reverted to human, and I folded them into fists.
I hadn’t been paying attention to where I ran, and Keen and I should have been lost. But my route appeared obvious with my new detailed vision, and I could smell where we’d been. Keen danced along beside me, a wide grin on her silly face. It seemed my furry friend enjoyed the wulf in me as much as I did.
We regained the trail and I collected my runners, but in a fit of pure stubbornness, I refused to put them on. Keen’s nose lifted just as the breeze carried a scent to me, and I inhaled deeply. I’d already experienced how strongly smell connected to memory, but it still surprised me when an image of Chris popped into my head. Keen took off—tail madly circling. I came around the bend to see the enforcer standing at the path’s entrance with his hands on his hips, naked.
“I was about to come find you.” He looked me up and down. “What the hell happened?”
I glanced at myself, at the torn and bleeding skin on my feet and arms, and the rips in my tee shirt and sweats. When I met his gaze but didn’t answer, he turned around and headed not to the barn, but to the house. My panting friend and I followed.
On the way, Chris gathered his clothes from the branches of what I guessed was a crab apple tree, judging by the shriveled remnants of last year’s bounty beneath my toes. He dressed as he moved, so fluidly that even stepping into his jeans was done with barely a hitch in his stride. I found the process so fascinating that I almost tripped over Keen when she danced at my feet.
When we entered the house, Josh took one look at me and made a wordless sound of horror. He ran down the steps and helped me into the kitchen.
“Strip,” ordered Chris. I hesitated but obeyed. He scrutinized my wounds with an expert eye and on occasion, a finger, before frowning at me.
“Shower. Now.” He wrapped a hand around my arm, spun me, and guided me toward the bathroom. We paused at the linen closet, where he pulled out a robe. “Scrub those cuts out as well as you can,” he said, pushing me through the door.
When I emerged sometime later, I had recovered some semblance of normality. Chris sat at the table while Josh put the finishing touches on a breakfast fit for a king. As I eased myself onto a seat, my stomach growled loud enough for mere humans to hear. Chris laughed and Josh shook his head, piling my plate with eggs and bacon.
I shoveled a respectful helping of both into my mouth.
“So,” Chris said. “How far did you get?”
I swallowed, almost choking on my half-chewed mouthful. I knew he wasn’t referring to distance. “Not far enough.” The words slipped from me before I even thought about what I was saying, and his eyebrows climbed.
“Tell me.”
“My fingers and toes. My teeth. Eyes, I think—my vision changed,
