Chapter 2: Charlie

The run home was entirely too short, but at least I made curfew. I shifted at the edge of the woods, bracing against the chill of the night air on my bare skin as my fur fell away. My dress remained intact, though a little muddy around the hem (which would annoy my mom to no end). The shoes weren’t so lucky. I must have left them behind.

“Stupid heels,” I muttered. For whatever reason, dress shoes were so much harder to hang on to than sneakers.

I stomped toward the house, a cottage rental we’d been lucky to find so far into the school year, my bare feet sucking in and out of the mud as I went. Halfway up the back steps, voices drifted over. I halted mid-step and looked around for the source.

“I’m telling you, I just scented someone, and it wasn’t Anita,” said a male’s voice. The speaker sounded young, close to my age maybe, but it wasn’t anyone I recognized.

“Must be on foot, then,” said another. This one was deeply male. Older.

I tried to place it too before their words sunk in and I realized what they were saying. They smelled me? A human couldn’t have, which meant only one thing…

No way. It couldn’t be.

I’d never met another shifter. Mom said they were out there, drifters like us just trying to fly low, but something about the way she’d said it always made me think she knew more. The few times I’d pressed, she’d snapped back at me.

“They’re dangerous. All of them,” she’d almost yelled. “They can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sure they can’t all be bad—” I’d said but she’d cut me off, eyes blazing with something I couldn’t name.

When she’d spoken again, I’d known better than to argue it. “If you ever see another shifter, Charlie, turn and run.”

I shook the memory of her words away. But I couldn’t do that now. Not with her somewhere inside.

I dropped into a crouch and huddled behind the rhododendron bush my mother had planted when we moved in. It was enormous already, but provided enough peepholes for a view.

Two figures stood close together at the edge of the yard, where the driveway met the sidewalk. Their voices had dropped to a whisper, and I could no longer make out what they were saying. They took turns gazing left and right down the darkened streets as if searching for someone. From the looks of things, they still hadn’t spotted—or scented—me in the backyard.

I was suddenly glad I hadn’t bothered with shoes. I shifted my weight and felt the sharp edges of the mulch pressing into the soles of my feet. I winced. The front door opened and closed and, for an agonizing second, I was terrified my mother had come to investigate. But a second later, I heard a male’s voice call out a greeting and another dark shape joined the first two. Their voices stayed hushed but no one made any moves to conceal themselves.

My heart pounded against my ribs.

They’d been inside my house.

My mother hadn’t come out, which meant she was still inside. What did they want with us—with me? How did they know her name? I wanted to believe they were friendly, but after my mother’s warnings and the way they didn’t speak or move as they waited, I wasn’t convinced.

I had to get past them. My mother was in there, and I wasn’t going to abandon her.

“If she doesn’t get here soon, we’re going after her. This is taking too long,” said one of the men, the older one. The other two grunted an agreement.

They wandered closer and my pulse thudded louder as I realized they were headed straight for me. I took one last breath and held it, afraid of making any noise, and crept up the back stairs and into the house.

It was pitch dark inside. My mother always had lights burning. Lots of lights. She always said darkness was deceiving and she wouldn’t be deceived again. I’d asked her to elaborate on the remark, to no avail. At this point, I’d given up. Mom was … Mom.

The back door opened into the kitchen so I went through there first. The passage of every silent second made me tenser. Why couldn’t I hear Mom? Why were there no lights? I tried the switch and got nothing.

I crept out of the kitchen, listening for any indication our visitors had decided to wait inside after all, but heard nothing. The dining room was empty and dark as well. I turned down the small hallway, toward the front of the house. A sliver of light shone from underneath the office door. My mother kept her computer in there, but she mostly only used the room when she paid bills or filed records. What the heck was she doing in there now?

I stood outside the door, shoulders heaving with silently labored breaths. I raised my hand to the knob and then stopped. What would I do if there was someone else in there? Should I shift? Had they?

I’d spent too many years’ carefully hiding my true nature. I couldn’t risk shifting and showing my hand now. I needed to protect myself as a human. I glanced around the empty hallway for something to carry. All that sat close by was a floor lamp and an end table filled with odds and ends—car keys, unopened mail, and a paper clip. Nothing that would help me. As I moved, a floorboard creaked underneath my feet.

“Charlie, is that you?” my mother called from inside the office. Her voice was high-pitched, twisted into some octave I’d never heard out of her before. That, more than anything else, scared me.

The knob squeaked and twisted. My breath caught in my throat. I wondered frantically if I should run and hide or stay and fight, but there was no time. The door opened to reveal my mother, her light hair backlit by a lamp that gave it a soft glow.

Her face was shadowed and I squinted to make out her expression—was it worry or fear she wore as she faced me?

“Mom? Are you okay?” I asked, my words coming out too fast in my panic.

“I’m fine.” She spoke calmly enough, but her eyes gave it away. She teared up and her chin trembled. Something was seriously wrong.

“Mom,” I said uncertainly, “there are men outside. They were trying to—”

“I know, honey. We’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice cracked and I could swear her tone was apologetic. What was she sorry for?

The heat of alarm spiked up along my throat and into my face. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

She reached out as if to touch or comfort me, but at the last second, she pulled back and pressed her fingertips to her trembling mouth. “Honey, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.” Her tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

A floorboard creaked behind me. Something swung in my peripheral vision and made contact with the side of my head. The crack echoed in the quiet, and I felt myself crumpling like an accordion.

The last thing I saw before it all went black were my mother’s tears, falling.

Falling…