Chapter 2 The Calm
"The great irony of werewolf existence is that maintaining the concept of balance—wolf and human in equal parts—denies us access to our greatest potential, the incongruities of both lives leading to a clash of wills, feral beast to reasoning man, id to ego, until we inevitably destroy ourselves." — Elder Mitena
Next
You wake with a start, the crisp salty air of your waterfront apartment working its way into your nostrils, clearing them. You recline in a full-bodied stretch. Slowly getting to your feet, you cross the room to glance at yourself in the mirror. A human face stares back at you, the full-length crack in the mirror splitting you in two as always. Your hair is greasy and unkempt, but its color shows through in a natural…
You run your hands through your hair, trying to put its disheveled gray mess in order as best you can.
The werewolf forms of many in your pack mimic the physical attributes of their human forms. Of course there is an exception to every rule. You can almost picture your wolf in the other side of the split mirror, its thick coat of fur a striking…
After the lucidity of the dream, you almost expected to wake shifted into your lupine form, half the sheets and pillows unconsciously devoured to fuel the ravenous hunger of the change. You tilt your neck to the side, feeling the muscles snap and pop. Your whole body is sore; you haven't had this bad a sleep in months.
A heavy weight pulls at your arm, and you look down, startled to see a shiny metal gauntlet extending over the back of your hand, stopping right before your fingers. Wasn't there something in your dream about…?
The sharp clatter of ceramics being laid out in your kitchen fills your head with a fog of confusion. Did I bring someone home last night? You can't remember.
The adults frown on that sort of thing, but you're in that nebulous middle ground between youth and adulthood, and you've been living on your own for a few years now. The elders couldn't take care of an orphaned pup forever after all, and you haven't minded your newfound privacy all that much.
You shake your head to clear the cobwebs. It must have been a crazy night if I don't even remember what happened. Maybe Lapu brought me some of that moonshine he brewed up last week? Did he manage to convince me to drink it? That would explain the headache. Hangover from hell.
"You're finally awake! I thought you'd never get up after I dragged you back here last night. It took over eight hours for your body to fully heal."
Dena? What is she doing here?
Dena's slight form emerges from the kitchen, holding out a plate of ham and eggs. Her long brown hair is unkempt, hanging from her head in matted strands. "I hope you don't mind that I dug into your kitchen. I was starving." She pauses to gulp down a large piece of ham. "The blast nearly severed your leg, and the impact of the water didn't help much either."
Blast? Impact? Oh no no no…
"So it really happened? All of it? The warehouse?" you gasp.
"We don't need to talk about that now. Your food's getting cold," Dena says, her face scrunched up in memory of the previous night's excursion before turning back to the kitchen. "You have a lovely home! Most of the waterfront houses are a wreck, but you've fixed it up beautifully! I'll admit though—I'd hoped that my first time visiting would be under more…pleasant circumstances."
Your breath catches in your throat. Of all the times for her to come out with it… You suppose you can't blame her though. A brush with death is a very forceful reminder that time is fleeting. You clear your throat to speak. "Dena…"