Chapter One

I got up from my seat and left the theatre barely half an hour into the movie. The entire “mythology”, if the back-story’s quick explanation can be called that, was over within the first five minutes. I know because I counted.

Part of me knew I should stay and tough it out. It wasn’t easy for me to make friends, and since a group of girls from school had asked me to go with them to see the new werewolf horror flick, I realized I should make an effort. But that socially sensible side of me is my human side.

The side I hate.

The truth was that I didn’t care what those people thought of me. I didn’t care what anyone thought. I didn’t belong with them, wasting my days tapping my pencil on the desk in my classroom and spending my nights looking longingly out the bedroom window in my foster home. I didn’t belong locked in the cage called my human body.

I pushed through the throng of teenagers lined up in front of the ticket booth and concession stands, then made my way outside. The weather was freezing cold. It felt more like January than mid-October, and no matter how many layers of clothes I wore, I was always shivering. With the incredible lack of hair humans have on their bodies, one would think they’d have enough sense to live farther south. That would have solved a lot of my problems.

I brushed my white-blonde hair from my eyes, and pulled up the fuzzy collar of my faux-fur trimmed jacket. I wish I could describe the air as fresh, but of course it wasn’t. Living among humans for three years, I had almost forgotten what fresh air was. More kids stood outside, shivering through their too thin--yet fashionable--jackets, puffing away at their cigarettes. For at least ten square feet outside the front door there was nothing but smoke. Mmm, smells like cancer. That’s one brilliant habit humans have.

My foster family wasn’t expecting me home for at least another two hours, so I could allow myself a leisurely walk home. I didn’t need to worry about them checking up on where I was. In truth, I think they were giving up on me. At fifteen, I was the second oldest of the three kids that stayed with Frank and Cindy Jenkins. They had a six-year-old to worry about, and she was a handful. It was her third foster home in as many years, and though she had A.D.D. and was prone to tantrums, the Jenkins still had hope for little Rebecca. Then there was Charlie, a year and a half older than me, and well adjusted to long-term foster care. He’d been with the same family for almost five years, and I’d overheard conversations that they wanted to adopt him.

And then there was me, River Wolfe, found at approximately age twelve with no language skills. There were no matching missing persons reports found, no one to claim me. I was described as withdrawn and short tempered, with some developmental delays...or so I read in my file one day when Rachel, my social worker, came over for her scheduled evaluation. From what I read before she returned from the bathroom, she had me completely nailed. Except for the werewolf part. Minor detail.

“Hey,” I heard a voice call behind me as I rounded the corner of the movie theatre. I figured the guy was hailing someone else. Rarely did anyone go out of their way to speak to me, so I continued on my way.

“Hey,” the same person said again, this time even closer. “Hey, you got a light?”

I stopped and turned. I didn’t know the guy, and I didn’t care to.

“You got a light?” he repeated.

I stared directly in his eyes, and didn’t move.

He seemed confused at first as he returned my look, then something else took a hold of him. I spotted it in the furthest depths of his eyes, and in the way his throat constricted as he tried to swallow. Fear. Everyone knows the saying that wolves are as afraid of humans as humans are of them. Being both, I fear nothing. But more importantly, both fear me.

I refused to break the stare. After only a few seconds more, he dropped his eyes. Despite how removed from the animal kingdom people like to believe they are, we are all still subject to the same social behaviors.

Satisfied I had established myself as the dominant one, I turned and continued my walk. Behind me the guy must have regained himself.

“Freak,” he muttered, then his footsteps pounded in the other direction.

Yes, I thought. Wait until my back is turned, then call me names if it makes you feel superior. After all, I was a freak. Three years ago I had transformed into a monster, so I suppose “freak” was fitting.

My mind was drawn back to the stupid film the girls from school asked me to. Not that there weren’t some truly riveting plot developments: man bitten by wolf, turns into werewolf, attacked by a hail of silver bullets, changes by a full moon, blah blah... Now I’ve never been shot by a silver bullet. Hell, I live in Canada: I’ve never even met someone shot by a regular bullet. Perhaps I’m invincible to all but silver, but I’m in no rush to find out. As for the full moon, I only wish it was true. When I first learned to read, I spent hours researching werewolves, and found out some people thought that those bitten turned into wolves every night. Again, no such luck. I have no super senses--at least not anymore--and no preternatural strength. I must seem like the crappiest werewolf ever.

I do have something in common with all that terrible werewolf movie, though. I was bitten. The difference is that I wasn’t a human bitten by a wolf.