With both contacts out, everything was fuzzy. I’m not so blind that I couldn’t tell Elliot was Elliot, or that the trees were trees, but the ends of branches blurred into nothingness, and the ground was more uniform in color than I knew the unevenness of the terrain should have been. Great.
Elliot rustled through the backpack a little, then settled, my clothes stuffed into it along with the water and snacks, and my hiking boots and socks sitting beside Elliot’s feet.
“Ready?” he asked me.
He was too blurry for me to be able to read his expression.
“No,” I answered honestly. “But I don’t think that’s a good excuse.”
“It’s not,” he confirmed, then waited.
My heart was pounding in my chest, my palms sweaty, my skin covered in prickles, and my mouth filled with saliva. And yet it didn’t feel like I was about to lose control—it felt like I was on a precipice, but if I wanted to go over the edge, I would have to jump, rather than being in danger of an immanent fall.
But having to jump wasterrifying.
I knew Elliot was watching me, but I couldn’t see well enough to tell whether he was waiting patiently or with irritation or worry or some other emotion.
Then I wondered why no one at St. Cyprian’s or even at Hands and Paws had bothered to teach mehowto shift. Everyone—from the nurses and doctors at the hospital to thestaff and volunteers at Hands and Paws—had talked about hownotto shift, but none of them had given any advice for what to do tomakeit happen.
“How come no one teaches you how to actually shift?” I asked Elliot.
He made a soft grunting sound. “Dad taught me,” he said softly.
“But didn’t you both turn at the same time?” I asked.
“We did,” he confirmed. “But I was eleven and a mess. They kept me out of school for most of a year until I could keep from shifting every time I got upset about anything.” He paused a moment, and I could see his form shrug, although his expression remained a blur. “Val brought my homework, and Mom and Dad watched him like a hawk.” He made a small grunting sound that might have been amused or nostalgic. “I remember Mom dragged him out of the room a few times. Dad stayed to deal with me, of course.”
“Your dad didn’t have the same issues?”
“He was in his late thirties,” Elliot replied. “He had a lot more self-control than a kid on the edge of puberty.”
“That’s fair,” I commented.
“So what’s your excuse?” he asked me, and I could hear the teasing tone in his voice.
“I’m too old for tantrums, so nobody bothered to teach me how to shiftintoa wolf—only out of one?” I didn’t actually know, so it came out as a question rather than the answer Elliot had asked for.
Elliot sighed. “You’d think somebody would do better,” he grumbled. “No fucking wonder shifters are constantly being harassed and blamed for shit.”
“They’re not any more likely to kill people than anyone else,” I said. Statistically, it was true.
“Once they make it through year two, you’re right,” Elliot countered. “But all predatory Nids are more likely to commit an act of violence in those two years than a non-predatory Nid or Arc. Statistically, though, that violence is most likely to be committed against a friend or member of their family—someone unlikely to report it.”
I blinked, not that it helped to provide any clarity. “Then how do you know that?” I asked.
Another shrug. “The Nation keeps track—we do better providing community support to our shifters and Nids than the US government, and definitely than the state of Wisconsin.” He shifted his weight a little, and I wondered what his facial expression would have showed me. “We don’t have the medical facilities, but we can knock on doors and provide meals for each other.” He sighed. “We also don’t ostracize Nids the way mainstream society does—probably because we have old legends of skinwalkers and other shape-changers. Some people even say that people used to be like this—Arcs and Nids and humans—and that Arcana simply returned us to the way we were in the days of legend.”
“Do you think that’s true?” I asked him, caught up in his words.
“No clue,” came his prompt reply. “But I’m not going to complain about the fact that it meant we had elder shifters providing support—that’s how Dad learned, although I don’t remember anyone other than Dad working with me on shifting.” A pause. “Speaking of which… You’re stalling.”
I felt my throat flush. He wasn’t wrong.
I closed my eyes—not like I could see very well anyway—and drew in a deep breath,tastingthe earth and leaves and summer humidity on my tongue and the back of my throat. It was intoxicating.
I wondered if being a wolf would let me tastemore…
I wanted to find out.
