by Amir Lane
FOSTERING 17-YEAR-OLD LYSANDER ATHANAS, WHO IS CURRENTLY MISSING. ANYONE WITH INFORMATION IS ASKED TO CALL
Shit.
Shit shit shit fuck shit.
Did they know he did this? Did he do this? Was this why they were looking for him? Of course this was why they were looking for him. Nobody would care if he wasn’t a goddamn murder suspect.
“I have to go. I need to—“
Scott caught Lysander’s wrists in a gentle hold. Their eyes met and Lysander didn’t know if he wanted to kiss Scott or kick his perfect teeth in. Maybe a bit of both.
“Lysander, relax. Whatever happened, it’s okay. He had some kind of animal that broke out and killed him. You didn’t do anything.”
There was something in Scott’s eyes and voice that said what his words didn’t, that he knew damn well what Lysander had done but nobody else did, so it didn’t matter.
“I was in the system, too,” Scott continued. “I was lucky I ended up getting adopted by a great guy. But I know what it’s like. You were protecting yourself. Nobody needs to know.”
Lysander’s shoulders were tight. He wasn’t going to show any vulnerability, not to some jackass he’d just met. But there was just the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice as he asked,
“What am I supposed to do now?”
Scott covered one of Lysander’s hands with his own and gave a gentle squeeze.
“Come stay with me. I have an extra room.”
Chapter 4
Scott’s adoptive father, as it turned out, had been fucking loaded. Not just loaded, but fucking loaded. The convertible was only one of many cars he’d left Scott when he died a year ago, though it was the only one Scott had kept.
“Brain cancer,” Scott had explained in a quiet voice that suggested it still hurt more than he wanted to let on.
The house was massive, way bigger than any single university student needed, even a pre-law student like Scott. Most of the rooms were rented out or at least housing other people around their age, all — and Lysander couldn’t believe himself for taking it seriously — werewolves. There was plenty of space for Lysander, if he wanted to stay.
Going back to Frank’s obviously wasn’t an option. He was turning 18 in less than half a month. If he wanted, Scott could make some calls about letting him just stay here until he aged out of the system. While Lysander didn’t want any more favours from Scott, he didn’t want to end up back in another group home, either, even just for thirteen days.
More importantly, Lysander wanted to stay.
* * *
Lysander didn’t sleep much the first few nights. He never did in a new place. It took longer to adjust than usual with so many people and so many different schedules. He liked predictability, knowing who was coming and going and when it would be safe to sleep. The group homes had rules, curfews, locks on the bedroom doors. The group homes were predictable. This place was the opposite of predictable.
Even when Lysander did manage to fall asleep, it was restless and full of nightmares. Scott told him it was normal with new werewolves; the ‘shift’ took some getting used to. Lysander didn’t have the heart to tell him that wasn’t it. There was no sense upsetting him.
At some point during the eighth or maybe ninth night, Lysander awoke to a pair of hands grabbing at his arms. Half-asleep, his reflexes took over. He kicked and thrashed and threw himself at his attacker, sending them both to the floor. His fist met what felt like a cheekbone. A loud, pained cry filled the dark room. Lysander’s satisfaction was short-lived, though, as long legs wrapped around his waist and flipped him onto his back in a practiced motion.
Panic swarmed his stomach. His hands flew out, fists and nails hitting skin. A knee found the base of his ribcage and his wrists were caught against the floor.
“Lysander. Lysander, it’s me!”
Lysander heard the words but he couldn’t make them out through his racing mind. There was no coherent thought, only an instinct that told him he was going to be hit if he didn’t hit first.
The body on top of him shifted. Both his wrists were moved into one hand while the other tipped his face up. In the moonlight seeping through the curtains, he could make out the corner of a jaw and mouth.
“It’s all right. You’re safe. You were having a nightmare.” A pause. “You were screaming.”
Lysander swallowed. He knew that stupid, calming voice. It was Scott’s stupid, calming voice. The recognition settled some of his nerves.
“You aren’t supposed to wake someone up if they’re having a nightmare,” Lysander said, panting.
“Yeah, I know that now.”
Scott’s laugh was breathless. He let go of Lysander’s wrists and slumped down a little. He bit his lip and for a second, Lysander was afraid he was going to kiss him and somehow more afraid he wasn’t. Their noses brushed together and Scott’s breath ghosted across Lysander’s lips as he pressed their foreheads together.
Lysander closed his eyes, his trembling hands grabbing the back of Scott’s shirt. What the hell were they doing here? This wasn’t… He didn’t know what the hell this was or if he wanted it, but it was something.
“Do you want me to stay?” Scott asked so quiet that if there were so much as a creak across the floorboards, Lysander wouldn’t have heard him.
Lysander let out a shaky breath, and nodded.
* * *
Aside from himself and Scott, there were five other people living in the house: Courtney, Alejandra, Rachel, Erich, and Evan. Some of them — Courtney and Rachel, really — were like him, runaways and strays and rejects with nowhere else to go. Some of them — the rest of them — just needed a place where they could be with people like themselves. Lysander didn’t expect to ever get used to them, but he found himself missing them when they weren’t around.
He and Evan were the only one still in high school, and though Evan was a year younger, they had a few classes together. Scott had found him, too, after he was first turned, and convinced his parents to let him move a city over and live in this McMansion. It seemed insane that Evan’s parents would be cool with their kid going to live with some random guy, but Scott radiated responsibility, and it probably didn’t hurt that their school had what was probably the only trans-friendly basketball team on the planet.
It would have been easier for Lysander to just drop out. He’d never been good at school, if it wasn’t obvious by the fact that he was taking tenth and eleventh grade classes when he should have been getting ready to fucking graduate. This shit wasn’t any easier now than it was before.
Part of Lysander had always told himself it was becase he was hungry and hurting, and if he was in a safe place, it would be easy. But he was in a safe place now with plenty of food and new locks on his bedroom door that only he had a key to, and he was still failing. Hell, it was almost harder now. The one werewolf book he’d ever read made it seem like nothing would change except for during the full moon. Whoever wrote that book hadn’t known shit.
All Lysander’s senses felt fresh and new, just like his skin had when he’d woken in the woods. How could he be expected to focus when every sound, no matter how far, sounded like it was right inside his head? Everything just smelled, and maybe he was crazy, but he was pretty sure he was going colourblind, too.
Lysander rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the essay question in front of him.
In the psasge that flows, certiah words and phrasses are unredlined and numbered. In eht right-hand column, will you find alretntaives for the undelrined prat. In mosc tases, you are to cnoose the one that bes texpresses the id—
“Fuck this,” Lysander muttered, slamming the binder shut.
There was no point to any of this. He was never going to graduate. Even if he passed English, he was so behind. Too behind to catch up.
“Headache?” Evan asked. “I used to get them too after I turned. We probably got some Advil, but you might just burn through it before it can help any.”
So Advil wa
sn’t going to help him anymore? Maybe that was why the Tylenol hadn’t done anything for his fever the first time he’d… shifted, or whatever.
“No, it’s not… It just— It doesn’t make any sense. All the words are just fucked.”
“Fucked how?” Evan pulled his chair closer, reaching over and opening Lysander’s binder to the last page.
“Look at it. All the letters are— I dunno, smushed and small. Why do they print everything in this fucked up font?”
At first, Evan didn’t speak. He stayed focused on the page, probably trying to decipher it himself. Good fucking luck. Lysander had been struggling with this sheet for hours and this stupid bullshit font his entire life.
“Lysander, that… sounds like you’re dyslexic.”
Lysander frowned. He’d been slow to start reading, one of the last in his class. Wasn’t like his parents cared enough to help. Everyone had figured he was just slow in general. He figured he had some kind of brain injury from being smacked around. Maybe it was a combination.
There was something a guy he used to hang around with — and occasionally make out with after enough drinks — used to say: poor kids are slow, rich kids have learning disabilities.
He shifted his eyes around the kitchen, an almost sarcastic quirk on the edge of his lips. Staying here made him a rich kid, didn’t it?
Chapter 5
The second shift was supposed to be easier. Lysander couldn’t imagine how it could possibly be worse than the first. Some of the memories from that night still eluded him. Or maybe he just didn’t want to remember. He didn’t like to think about it too much. It would only make the throb in his head worse.
It was strange to think of the odd mishmash of people in the house as a pack. The five of them, with Scott, usually shifted together. This time, though, Scott was going to shift with Lysander.
“It’ll be less overwhelming if it’s just the two of us,” Scott explained as they hiked through the woods, ass-naked as the day they’d met.
“Pretty sure pants would make it less overwhelming.”
“Sure, until we have to find them in the morning. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for a while.”
The first jolt of pain ran through Lysander’s leg to join the fever-induced soreness. He winced and stumbled a little. They’d all hoped the fever wouldn’t come back this time, but at least it wasn’t as bad. Still, his skin was much hotter than it should have been with the bit of walking they’d done and the cool fall air blowing over his bare skin.
“You okay?” Scott asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yeah. It’s just a cramp.”
Scott stopped and Lysander nearly walked into his back.
“I think we’re far enough. The moon’ll be up soon.”
Lysander had felt the phases through the month — the waxing and waning of his mood and energy — but he hadn’t made the connection until now. Now, his blood was full of hormones, maybe the same ones that had been urging him to eat everything in sight over the past few days, as he approached the shift.
It wasn’t the same for everyone. Alejandra said it didn’t hurt at all. Evan said it was easier now that he was finally on testosterone. Courtney said it was like letting all her anger out at once. Rachel said it was the worst pain imaginable, and then some. Erich said it was better sometimes than others. Scott said it only hurt if he didn’t eat enough the day before.
Right now, Lysander had to agree with Rachel. The second wave of pain brought him to his knees. Dirt dug into his skin and his fingers dug into the dirt.
“It’s all right, just breathe, Lysander.”
“Fuck you, Davies!”
Scott began to speak, but a throaty scream interrupted him.
Lysander beat his fist against the ground to offset the pain tearing through him. Most of the bones in his body had been broken at some point or another and it had always been bearable. Having everything break all at once, on the other hand, was as far from bearable as it could get. He screamed and sobbed and clawed at his own skin to make space for the expanding muscles in his arms and sides and back and everything. A warm hand stroked through the dark hair sprouting on his neck. He couldn’t make out the words Scott shouted at him. He pushed Scott away with a heavy paw and snarled at him.
Sounds and smells surrounded him, everything from Scott’s laboured breathing to the cars driving on the highway, the stench of his own sweat and Scott’s so close to him.
When his vision cleared, he saw Scott on the ground, writhing as the change took over. It was almost beautiful, in a horrifying way, how reddy-brown fur the colour of Scott’s hair envelopped his body. His teeth fell out of his mouth, replaced with sharp fangs. He looked up at Lysander with golden eyes and there was a silent, ‘I’m okay’, in them even as he lay panting on the ground for a few seconds.
Lysander stepped forward, testing out his new limbs. They felt strong, stronger than his human legs ever felt. Scott stood and touched his nose to Lysander’s face in a playful nudge. A soft half-bark left his throat:
‘Catch me if you can.’
* * *
They awoke curled beside each other on the dirt. Lysander opened his eyes first, enjoying the peaceful look on Scott’s face in the sunrise. The part of him that was still wolf felt content, like this was the way all mornings were supposed to go. The human part waking told him he wasn’t supposed to be letting himself feel this way. But Scott’s long eyelashes fluttered open and those hazel eyes that were more green than brown sometimes met his, and Lysander’s human brain shut right the fuck up.
“Morning,” Scott said with a tired smile, just like he had that first morning.
“Morning.”
Scott tipped his head up, and Lysander rolled away before Scott could kiss him. He could only deal with one thing at a time and right now, it was the fact that he’d spent last night as a fucking wolf.
Lysander pushed himself up with a groan. Had he been this sore last time? His skin felt raw and oversensitive like he’d scrubbed callouses from every inch of himself, and the ache in his muscles was deep, but at least the fever was gone. When Scott wrapped an arm around Lysander to support him, Lysander let him.
Chapter 6
Lysander stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was pushing five months since moving in with Scott and the nightmare of a pack that was starting to grow on him, and this was the first time he’d actually stopped to look at his reflection. What caught his eye was the white stretchmarks running down his sides, thinner than the scars on his stomach. He traced a finger over them, frowning.
He’d never given much thought to his body. Sure, he tried to keep in fighting shape, but it wasn’t something he obsessed over. So he couldn’t say with any certainty whether or not the fine lines like lightning patterned onto his tan skin had always been there, but he could say with certainty that his legs were bigger than they had been. His jeans did feel a little tight, even though they were the same size he always bought his jeans in. And there was a healthy layer of fat on his stomach that definitely hadn’t been there before.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Lysander couldn’t see his ribs.
Emotions Lysander had never had the opportunity to learn to describe caught him off guard. His nose and eyes tingled, and he told himself he was not going to start crying. But all the resolve in the world couldn’t stop the few tears that rolled down his cheeks.
Taking a shaky breath, Lysander stepped onto the bathroom scale shoved into the corner of the bathroom. There was a layer of dust on it, suggesting it hadn’t been used in a while. The girls here had better self-esteem than any other Lysander knew. He wiped the digital display off with a foot and stepped on. He knew the rules about weighing himself was to do it in the morning, naked, before he’d eaten or drank anything, but one out of three had to be good enough.
If he subtracted, say, five pounds for food today, that still put him at 164.5. Hell, even if he took ten pounds, he was still almost 160. F
ive months ago, he weighed 150 on a good day. At 6’2”, he shouldn’t have weighed less than 155.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered as the meaning of his weight sunk in.
He was at a healthy weight.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was healthy. Healthy and happy. Shit, he’d never even thought about what that would mean, to be happy. Somewhere along the line, he had come to terms with the fact that the best he would get was alive and functional. If he could avoid becoming an addict, he’d have been satisfied.
But this… This was more than satisfied. This was actual, honest to God happiness. He laughed, stepping off the scale and wiping his eyes on his shoulder. The stretchmarks extended over his arms and he didn’t give half a fuck that they looked funny on him.
He wrapped a towel around himself and left the bathroom with his hair tied up. There was no-one to beat on him or call him derogatory names for growing it out, and he sort of liked the way it looked. His bedroom was only a few doors down, on the other side of Scott’s.
The room was nice, way beyond what he needed. There was so much space, two whole dressers, even a fully-outfitted desk full of stationary and storage space, though he mostly used the kitchen table to study like everyone else. Both dressers were stuffed full of new clothes, clothes that fit well and kept him warm. As much as he hated that Scott was spending all this money at him, there was something to be said for fuzzy hoodies. He ran warmer than he used to, though not near as hot as he ran in the day or two before the full moon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like the extra warmth and security he felt when he pulled on a pair of sweats, wool socks, and one of those hoodies.