Of Fur and Ice

by Andrea Marie Brokaw

“What?” I stare in disbelief. “Vivianne Fox actually is a fox?”

  He grins at my outrage. “Not all families had creative founders.”

  I guess not.

  “We have a few bears, of assorted subspecies,” he goes on. “Some leopards, mostly snow leoprds. A few lions. Some tigers, including a pair of Siberians. A small pack of coyotes...”

  “So, all mammals?” I catch on.

  He nods. “There are those who change into other things, but you really need warm blood and fur if you want to be happy living as far north as we do.” His head tilts to check a setting before going on.

  “Most of the students were born weres....” Catching my confusion, he makes a backwards motion with his hand, as if rewinding himself, and explains further. “There are two ways to be a were. You can either be born to it, or you can be turned through an attack. You and I were both turned. If either of us have children, they'll be born to it.”

  Something about that seems wrong. “Shouldn't there be a lot of you? A lot of us, then?”

  “We don't breed easily,” he answers with a shrug. “Our dominance struggles tend to be to the death. And there are a lot of rules about who is allowed to reproduce, which vary by species.”

  I make a gagging sound at the idea of having to ask someone's permission to have children, but he rushes over it without pause.

  “And we have a long history of strict punishments for weres who attack humans.”

  That strikes me as ominous. “How strict?”

  “Usually, we kill them.”

  This is spoken with a complete absence of emotion.

  My throat constricts as I swallow. “Is that what happened to the one who attacked you?”

  He chuckles softly. “Worse. He had to marry the girl we were fighting over.”

  My expression must be funny, because he laughs harder when he sees it. “We were cousins. Through the non-were side, obviously. And she was his life mate. Not that she knew it at the time, or I doubt she would have been fooling around with me.”

  My nod of response is noncommittal. Something tells me he was pretty dazzling in high school. I can't imagine the girls around him were filled with chaste thoughts.

  “He didn't mean to infect me, he was just too emotional, and too inexperienced, to control himself. His hands shifted to claws and ripped into me. He didn't even realize they'd changed until after it was too late.”

  “And they let him off because of that?”

  Mr. Atherton shrugs. “And because I pleaded for his life. He was my best friend. And she was his life mate, even if he was the only one who knew it at the time.”

  I tilt my head. “And what did she think?”

  More laughter meets the question. He laughs easily. “She realized when his life was in danger that she really did want to be with him. And in return for my role in their courtship, they named me godfather of their son.”

  He turns the plane, banking west and drenching us in the glare of the sun.

  My eyes water in response to the light, then my mouth widens as a yawn overtakes me. My eyes feel really droopy, for reasons I don't think are related to not having brought sunglasses. My energy levels are plummeting as quickly as I had expected the aircraft to.

  “I'm impressed you're still awake,” Mr Atherton lets me know.

  “Why?” I ask around a second yawn. “Excuse me....”

  He gives my hand a pat. Apparently weres touch a lot. I would be freaked by that if I wasn't incredibly exhausted all of sudden.

  “Changes take a lot out of a new were,” he answers. “And partial changes can really tire all of us. Stopping the change before it's over takes more energy then changing the whole way. Part of what saved my cousin was that even enraged with jealousy over his mate, he still controlled himself enough to only shift his hands.”

  “But I can't change the whole way,” I point out. “Less than three months. Um. Moons.”

  “Yeah...” The word is drawn out thoughtfully. “It is strange to shift at all before then.”

  Great. I'm strange in addition to smelling funny. I'm just going to be the hit of my new school, aren't I?

  “Get some sleep,” Atherton tells me, sounding sympathetic. “You can lay down in the back if you want.”

  But moving seems like too much of a bother, so I just lean against the window and close my eyes.

  I should be thinking about all the information that's been dumped on me today or worrying about what a school full of weres is going to be like, but my concentration is back at my old school. Troy will be in computer lab right now. I'm sure he's received the e-mail I sent him. Wonder what he thought when he read it. There wasn't a special one for him; he was cc'ed with everyone else. I wonder if he recognized the significance of that. I wonder if he cared.

  Chapter Four

  A blast of chill slams into me when the door of the plane opens, forcefully giving me firsthand knowledge of just how insanely cold Alaska really is. Why would anyone ever volunteer to come here?

  Drawing my parka tight around me, I grab one of my bags and make my way through the tiny plane hanger to start toward a large, well-lit building. It's two or three stories tall and wooden, with large balconies coated in snow despite their roofs.

  Atherton swings the hanger doors closed, latching them with only a pin. Guess there aren't very many people out here to steal his toy, so there's not much need to lock it up. “Welcome to my home.”

  At least he has the sense not to try to call it my new home. I can deal with it being his, as long as it doesn't have to be mine.

  My eyes sting. I would be crying, except my tear ducts are iced over.

  “As you become stronger, you'll mind the cold less.” Atherton walks past me with the other bag, grinning over his shoulder. “And for the record, this is an unusually cold night.”

  The door nearest us swings open as we approach. A skinny little girl with a brilliant cloak of bright red hair dancing around her stands in its light. “Welcome back, Mr. Atherton!”

  The girl rushes forward and tries to take the bag he's carrying, but he shoos her away with laughter and clear affection. “I've got it, Sam.”

  The girl contents herself with holding the door for us as we pass through it. She ducks her head when I try to look at her, and her hair falls to cover her face.

  I decide to look at the nice, warm room instead. It's really about what one would have expected from the outside, a mixture of wood and stone and thick carpeting. It's more like a ski lodge than a school.

  The girl peeks at me through her thick shroud of hair, looking away quickly when I try to meet her gaze. She mumbles something I don't catch.

  “I'm sure she'd appreciate it, Samantha,” Mr. Atherton answers when I fail to.

  “Yes,” I second, wondering what I'm agreeing about.

  Tossing her hair back with a flip, the girl grins at me. Inside, in proper lighting, and without her hair covering her, I realize the girl isn't nearly as young I first thought. She might be the height of an average ten-year-old, but her face is that of someone closer to my age. If she's younger than I am, it's not by much.

  “This is Samantha, Michaela.” Mr. Atherton smiles in fondness. “She's a sophomore.”

  One year behind me then. I wonder if this place is too small for that to matter. Back home, I never really noticed anyone in lower grades. With nearly a thousand kids in my own class, why should I have?

  She titters nervously. “And one of the Fox foxes. Mom said I should apologize if you're still mad at her.”

  Oh. So that's why she's here: mother's orders.

  “No problem,” I grunt, wondering when someone will tell me where to put my stuff.

  “Um...” Samantha pulls on a lock of hair and looks toward the stairs.

  “Michael!” yells a new person. “Thank God you're here!”

  A very harried, very loud, woman rushes into the room from a door featuring a brass plate with the name Michael Atherton etched on it. “Hello, Michael
a. Welcome to North Sky. You need to come right now before that hyena does something else stupid.”

  She says all this in one big rush, so I don't realize I'm not the one to be interceding with the hyena until Mr. Atherton answers her.

  “Alright.” Giving me a warm smile, he nods once more. “Sam will take care of you tonight. Come see me right after breakfast.”

  He hands my bag to Sam, who isn't much bigger than it is. If the thing were full, there's no way she'd make it up the stairs rather than toppling down them with it.

  As it is, she's undoubtedly very glad to see a boy charge down to us after she's made it a few steps up. He takes the bag from her with a grin.

  The boy is big enough he could easily carry both bags, Samantha, and maybe even me, all at the same time. Tall and broad, he has a strange combination of Inuit bone structure and Aryan hair. Dark skinned, so blond it's tempting to say his hair is white, and with amazing cornflower blue eyes, he looks like the result of a Viking breeding with an Eskimo. The combination sounds like it would be odd, but it isn't odd – it's yummy.

  “Michaela, this is Bryce. Bryce, Michaela.”

  Snapping my jaw up to its usual place, I reposition the bag hanging from my shoulder. “Most people call me Mike. Except for my mom and people who are yelling at me.”

  “And I'm Sam,” Sam says.

  “And I'm Hey You.” Bryce's whole face lights up with his smile.

  I tsk at that. “No, I bet you're Sir.”

  He laughs, a deep and rumbling sound.

  The laugh cuts off abruptly as he jerks forward toward me with a loud sniff. “Polar bear?”

  He squints and takes a slow step higher, his head held to the side so that his hair sways with the motion. “I thought you were attacked in Washington. I thought you were a wolf.”

  With a sigh, I shrug. “No one seems to agree on what I am.”

  Sam makes a small sound of curiosity. “You don't really smell like anything to me. Nothing I've smelled before anyway.” She's addressing me, but her eyes are on Bryce.

  “I don't think I'm a polar bear,” I tell them. “I don't like snow all that much.”

  Staring at me, Bryce shakes his head. “The only werebears down there are browns and grizzlies. There's only one clan of polars, and we're all in Alaska and Canada. But damned if you don't smell like one of us.”

  “How strange,” says Sam, a little too coolly, as she dodges around Bryce to start up the stairs without us. I jerk my chin upward to get the boy to move, since he's still looking at me without seeming to notice how much Sam doesn't like all the attention he's paying me.

  Boys are apparently clueless even when they turn furry once a month. Go figure.

  The room we follow Sam into is much nicer than any dorm room I've ever seen. It's more like a hotel. There's a full bed with an opulent comforter, solid wood furniture, and even a thirty-something-inch television. The color scheme is a blend of burgundy and cream, warm but not too out of place in the snowy wilderness that I assume is visible when the thick, floor length curtains are slid aside. A small door stands closed beside the window, presumably leading onto one of the balconies I saw from outside, and another is open to reveal a full bathroom.

  “I'm sorry,” Sam mumbles. “This late in the year, only the smaller rooms are empty. You should be able to upgrade for next year though.”

  Uh... “This room is a lot nicer than my room at home,” I admit, opening a double closet and placing my bag on the floor. I'm seriously starting to wonder how Dad is ever going to afford to pay for me to be here.

  “Mine too.” Sam laughs softly. “And here I don't have to share with my sister.” Catching my look of interest while Bryce puts the bag he carried up next to the other one, she explains, “The school figured out a long time ago that it's best to let us all have our own space. Cuts down on conflict.”

  In a place where conflict quite possibly doesn't mean bickering, but murder and mayhem, I can see how cutting down on conflict would be a priority.

  “You two coming to dinner?” Bryce asks, moving back toward the door.

  My stomach wouldn't mind some food, but I shake my head. “No, I'm fine. Tired. I just need to rest.” I smile. “Thank you for helping.”

  “No problem.” Bryce smiles back, a joyous beaming free of all pretense. “I'm room thirty four.” His head jerks towards a slender phone sitting on the night stand. “Call if you need anything else.” He starts to back towards the door. “What about you, Kit?”

  Kit, AKA Sam, arches an eyebrow. “I already knew your phone number.”

  The bear looks puzzled. “I mean, are you coming to dinner?”

  Sam glances at me. “I need to call my dad,” I tell her. I tried to do it as soon while Mr. Atherton was parking the plane, but my cell doesn't have coverage up here.

  “Alright.” The fox moves towards the door. “I'll check up on you later?”

  “Okay.” I try to sound happy about the idea. I sag against the door the second I have it closed, though, and I bite back a grumble when she knocks on the door later.

  I'm happier to see her when she holds up a huge bowl of popcorn and two cans of pop dangling from a six-pack holder.

  An hour later, Sam and I sit on my bed watching a rerun of some British sitcom I'd never seen before. There's a woman trying to explain to someone on the phone that while her name is spelled like “bucket”, it is not pronounced this way as the “t” is silent. According to Sam, she does this every episode.

  “So...” Sam holds our second bowl of popcorn towards me so I can grab another handful of buttery goodness. “You honestly have no idea what sort of critter you are?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool?” I stare at the redhead.

  “Yeah.” Turning a wistful look my way, she smiles sadly. “That means you are the only person here who can't be told they're supposed to act in certain ways because of their animal.” Her eyes go back to the TV, but her attention doesn't. “I'm supposed to both fickle and feckless, but also clever. Bryce, loyal and slow. The leopards are elite and all into appearances and speed. And the wolves...” She shakes her head. “If the wolves listened, they'd be a bunch of reckless hooligans.”

  “It's hard to imagine Mr. Atherton as a reckless hooligan.”

  Sam smiles fondly. “Yes, it is now. But I've seen pictures of when he was our age. And then when he was with the pack....” She leans in with an air of conspiracy. “Don't tell Warren I said this, because his parents are the alphas, but it's really just a motorcycle gang.”

  My mind boggles at the idea of smooth Michael Atherton in a motorcycle gang, but when I speak it's to point out, “Some motorcycle gangs are cool. Like those guys who dress up like Santa every year and bring kids gifts on their Harleys. Or the people who hold bike rallies to support cancer research and stuff like that.”

  “True,” Sam concedes. “But there are also biker bars the cops are ex-ing afraid to go into. And the pack's more like those guys.”

  Interesting...

  Wait.... “Ex-ing?”

  “Oh.” Sam blushes. “That's a thing Aliah and I do to avoid cursing. It's short for expletive, which we say sometimes too. Like, 'Hurry the expletive up!' You know, an all-use word that doesn't make her mom go ex-ing nuts. Foxes are supposed to be all about family, you know, so we can't upset our mothers.”

  I swig my soda and shove pondering were-society into the back of my mind for a while. My brain needs distracting. If I let myself think too much about my new world, I'll go crazy fast.

  I'm not ready to be alone with my thoughts yet when Sam leaves my room again, sometime around midnight. This time, I'm sad to see her go. It's quite possible she's only being nice to me to make her mom happy, but her easygoing humor kept me from feeling too much panic.

  Going to the closet, I pull the stuffed leopard out of my bag. Leo has been with me since I was tiny. He saw me through my terror the first day of school, he rejoiced with me when
I lost my first tooth, was there the first time I came home in tears because of something someone had said to me.... I clung to him through my parents' divorce, and my dad brought him to the hospital when I was recovering from my attack. Holding him close to me, I think about how unfair I am to him. When I was little, he was there for the good times along with the bad, but now it seems like I only reach out for him when my world is crumbling apart.

  I hold him extra tight as I go to my laptop sitting on my new desk and pull up my email. Nothing new from Troy, although there are a few short messages from other people, mostly things along the lines of, “Hey, good luck!” Only one of them sounds even slightly sorry to see me go. Maybe the others are trying to be upbeat and supportive. Or maybe they just don't care. I'm too scared to check my Facebook account, which still reports me as dating Troy and living in Washington, so I waste some time watching videos instead.