APRIL
My grunts are swallowed by the alleyway, but I don't dare scream. Beep shares her strength as I launch myself onto a dumpster, then vault over a metal fence. My feet hit the ground and keep moving, pounding faster with each step. Rain falls from the overcast sky, sun filtering through the clouds. I emerge from the alley, my wet, too-big tennis shoes slipping on the concrete.
The man's shouts echo off the brick walls behind me, voice growing hoarse. He hasn't stopped or slowed down since he spotted me at that gas station a few miles back.
The cashier recoiled when I approached the counter and asked for the bathroom key. Her nose wrinkled slightly, eyes raking over my disheveled appearance. The old me would havebeen mortified. The new me just shrugged, stuffing the shame down deep so I could use a proper toilet for once.
But when I came out of the bathroom, he was there. Big and hairy, with a wiry beard and blazing gray eyes. He was wearing an old, torn t-shirt and a backwards baseball cap. He made no attempt to hide his interest, eyes tracking me as I walked the perimeter of the store opposite him. The automatic doors wouldn't open fast enough, but the second I stepped outside, I took off, zigzagging through the cars in the parking lot, bolting down the street.
This keeps happening, and I don't getwhy.
The first time was a few months ago, after getting lost in the mountains in West Virginia. We stumbled onto a ranger's station. I was so relieved at the sight of water and food, to not have to kill for dinner, I nearly cried—until I caught that scent. Distinctly inhuman, a little gamey, with a wisp of something feral. Another shifter.
They don't all smell the same. Some are stronger than others, dominant, more powerful. I don't know their hierarchy, and it's clear there is one; but they all carry that unmistakable current of magic.
There stood a man beside an innocuous green truck, with a badge and a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt. But then he noticed me too, and everything changed. The werewolf—deceptively harmless in human form, dressed in red flannel and blue jeans—narrowed his eyes at me. His nostrils flared. "Omega," he rasped, voice crackling. It was like something ignited inside him. His muscles contorted, twitching, as if his wolf was trying to claw his way out. But it was the look in his eyes that told me to move.
I turned and ran back into the forest, ran until my lungs burned and legs ached, but his footsteps were never far behind. His breathing became more ragged. He growled and screamed,omega, over and over again, and I knew I couldn't stop, no matter what.
The lack of snow worked in our favor. Low in the mountains, our trail became harder to follow. We ran beyond our limits, and with whatever magic I now possess, or just by sheer will, and with Beep's help, we pushed harder and harder until we got away.
I didn't get it—why a wolf would scent, then immediately chase after us. Or why it's happened so many times since. It's why we can't settle anywhere, constantly looking over our shoulder, always moving.
The man from the gas station is gaining on me. Up ahead, a work van idles at a stoplight. Strapped down, a pile of lumber juts from the open back. I pick up my speed, narrowly dodging a honking sedan, then lunge for one of the wooden two-by-fours. My fingers close around the wood as I haul myself up. My feet find balance as I tuck one foot inside the open back doors of the van, holding the doors for leverage. Oblivious of his stowaway, the driver speeds up as the light turns green, and I watch the man that chased me grow smaller in the distance as we drive faster and farther away. I can still see his rage—shoulders hunched, fists clenched. When he finally spins and stalks away, I let myself exhale.
The van carries us through the city. Forty-five minutes and two towns later, I hop off when we slow at a red light, sliding off the back. I land silently on the pavement. A giant, gleaming mall beckons me through the downpour.
"Is there such a thing asnew mallsmell?" I ask Beep after we walk through the lot and step inside.
The adrenaline from the chase fades, and I fall into a routine—blend in, look busy, stay warm and dry. Malls are a goldmine, but no matter where I am, they all smell exactly the same, even the food court.
Beep doesn't respond, her attention currently tracking the plate of french fries a group of lazy teens left behind. I'm eyeing it, but I've got more subtlety than Beep. If she had control, she'd be face-first in the tray by now, wagging her ass like she's never been fed.
I look like I just rolled out of a lost-and-found bin, which hopefully feeds into the whole janitorial vibe I'm going for. Nobody's really looking at me anyway, so I grab stacks of trays and start organizing, like I'm supposed to be here.
After clearing a few tables, I catch my distorted reflection in the chrome bin, and freeze with my hands full of trash. My hair looks rust-colored from all the dirt and grime, not the vibrant copper I'm used to seeing back when shampoo was still a thing. A leaf is stuck in my ponytail. I leave it there. I stopped caring what I looked like pretty early in this journey.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself. If I stare at my reflection too long, I'll see all the changes I've gone through—healthier, fuller cheeks, despite my living situation. A luminescence glowing beneath the dirt on my skin. If someone looked too closely, they might notice howotherI am. Like that wolf that turned me—I knew, almost right away, that he was different. And now I'm different, too.
I turn away from my reflection and get back to collecting other people's leftovers. I dig through bags while quietly sorting the half-eaten food that doesn't look too bad. One good thing about being a werewolf—I'm pretty sure my immunity is off the charts now, so I'm not concerned about snacking on some stranger's leftover fries.
After scavenging all the empty tables, I take my loot and wander to the other end of the mall. There's an atrium with a large indoor water fountain and a massive tree surrounded by comfortable gray couches. This place is great.
The smells are a little strong, and sure, walking by some of the clothing stores, the perfume is so potent it makes my eyes sting, but mostly, it's a pretty good hustle. I stake out my spot on the couch and start reconstructing the food.
I've been lying low, mostly keeping to the woods along the outskirts of these small suburban towns. Last week, when we were still a little further south, I found a nice canvas tote bag that's now full of discarded—ok, stolen—items I found at a campsite. I ignored the gnawing guilt as I tiptoed between the tents before the campers woke up, swiping food from their cooler by the picnic table, perusing whatever was lying around. I only took what seemed like extras.
It feels good to have a few things to carry around, less isolating, so I'm trying not to beat myself up over it too badly. It's amazing what having an extra pair of pants, toothpaste, and some granola bars can do—like I haven't completely lost my connection with being human.
I'd have more by now, but every time I gather a good amount of clothes and toiletries, Beep manages to lose everything.
She's still dragging us north, refusing to explain why. But I've stopped fighting her. All these months of going in circles are wearing me down, and Beep's persistent as hell.
I'm still anxious thinking about what awaits us, so I've been stalling, spending my days exploring the woods, wandering around malls, hanging out in parks to watch families live their normal lives and pretend jealousy isn't burning through me. But I'm no longer hopping on trains heading west or south.
I eat the fries and half a burger and people watch. I stall long enough that the stores slowly close around me. And when it's finally time to leave, I drift outside. The rain has stopped. I've been in Pennsylvania the last few days. Humans keep complaining about the cold snap, but I barely feel it, especially with my new-to-me flannel shirt and fleece-lined leggings.
Sometimes Beep scouts little caves or dens for us to sleep in. We've come across wild wolves—real ones—deep in the forest, and this arrogant motherfucker just strolls in like she owns the place. They treat her like a visiting cousin—cautious but open. I hide in her skin until morning, when she hauls us out of there before losing control of her form.
