2
Kaden
Man, did I love the smell of old books. Yeah, I was one of those old-schoolers who thought e-readers were the first sign of the apocalypse. Kindle was a dirty word in my vernacular. Apps were chicken wings or mozzarella sticks, not something you downloaded on a phone to read a book with. Who the hell wanted to read tiny words on a tiny screen? Although, I had to admit, sooner rather than later, I was going to need reading glasses to see the tiny words in my paper books. Whose idea of a sick joke was that?
My life had a 1980s vibe. I listened to Madonna on my Walkman. I read actual books made from paper. I drove a Pontiac Trans Am. The car was the spitting image of the one Burt Reynolds drove in Smokey and the Bandit. I even had a rotary dial phone with an extra-long tangled cord mounted to the wall in my kitchen. Don’t hate me because I was too cool for school.
My entire life revolved around books. As the head librarian in the Myths, Legends, and Folklore department of the Boston Public Library, I spent my days helping people research vampires, zombies, and werewolves. Oh, my!
Seriously though, books were in my blood, even though this world seemed content to bury them in the past. I loved my job at the BPL. It came with certain perks, like working in a place with John Singer Sargent murals and stunning Renaissance-style architecture. My wing of the library was the largest depository of myths and legend texts in the world. The books ranged from ancient Mesopotamia, the Holy Roman Empire, ancient Greece, and Turkey to more modern classics like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
My favorite perk was a bit more personal. You see, not only were these ancient tomes old friends, but they could be the key to my salvation.
Can I tell you a secret? Promise not to tell? Pinkie swear?
I’m a werewolf. My pack’s origins trace back to rural France in the twelfth century. Round about 1776, when the American colonists were preparing to declare their independence from jolly old England, my ancestors escaped to Canada, along with other undesirables . My family later immigrated to the United States in the 190s, finally ending up in Malden, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston.
Yeah, you heard me right. I’m a French-Canadian werewolf. Mon Dieu! I’m Kaden Devereaux, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.
Let me start by debunking a few common werewolf myths. A bite from a werewolf will not turn you into one of us. It will require a trip to the emergency room for antibiotics and possibly treatment for rabies. Silver bullets will kill us, but, spoiler alert, they’ll kill anything if your aim is true. Lastly, the light of a full moon does not make me shift into my lupine form.
Le sigh . One guy shifts during a full moon, eats half a village, and BAM! A new myth is born. No one liked great-great-grandfather Francois much anyway, or so I’m told.
But back to the ancient books in the collection being my salvation. No, I’m not being dramatic. I wish I was. Lycanthropy is a genetic trait like dark hair or male-pattern baldness. The Devereaux family had been producing virile werewolves for centuries. However, in my case, my genes or something went a bit haywire somewhere along the way.
I’m a mutant. A freak. Due to this supposed genetic flaw, I’d been shunned. I was no longer a member of the Devereaux pack. I had no contact with my parents, siblings, or the rest of my family. That’s where my precious books came into play. I’d been studying werewolf myths and legends from the moment my mutation was revealed fifteen years ago when I shifted for the first time, in hopes of finding a cure and ultimately being welcomed back into my family’s loving arms.
What was this terrible trait that got me kicked out of my pack and ostracized by the alpha? I was allergic to animal dander, meaning I was allergic to myself when I shifted into wolf form. It didn’t sound like a huge deal in the grand scheme of things, but life with swollen, itchy eyes, asthmatic wheezing, a drippy nose, and constant sneezes was a nightmare. So much so I was forbidden from siring children of my own for fear the mutation would be passed down to future generations.
Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play…
I don’t mean to be a Donnie Downer, but welcome to my life. Or at least what passed for life these days.
All of my free time was spent with my nose in old books, hoping I could find a cure for my condition. I’d tried over-the-counter antihistamines, allergy shots, and biologics to suppress my immune system, but nothing worked for long, and Benadryl made me sleepy. My next step was looking into magic spells, curses, hexes. My condition might not be a function of biology at all but rather the result of a terrible curse. I mean, I’d investigated science, biology, genetic engineering, and the like. What did I have to lose?
There was only one person who knew my full truth. My best friend, Jon Clifton. We’d been friends since middle school when he saved me from bullies who were in the process of stealing my lunch money. No one fucked with Big Jon, which was as true now as it was at John Quincy Adams Middle School back in the day.
His motto when it came to my parents had always been “Fuck them and the werewolf they rode in on.” He had a point. And the best parents on the planet. When Jon came out to them in the eighth grade, there had been hugs and tons of support. They marched in Pride parades alongside him. His parents fostered gay youth. They were just as supportive of me when I came out as a gay, allergic werewolf.
My parents kicked me out of the house when they discovered my mutation during my first shift when I was fifteen. It wasn’t bad enough being a teenage werewolf, dealing with zits and algebra, but to be homeless on top of everything was a blow I still hadn’t recovered from. Thankfully, Jon’s parents took me in as one of their own. His mother gave me ear scritches when I shifted and always had tissues and my inhaler handy when I changed back. They even helped put me through college.
Jon got married last year. It was a gorgeous Star Wars –themed ceremony held at a swanky hotel in downtown Boston. Paul was one hell of a guy, and he loved Jon to Tatooine and back. They’d met courtesy of the dating app HeartHeart. With a drunken arm slung around me during Madonna’s “Crazy for You,” he’d told me my one true love was out there waiting for me to find him. All I needed to do was take a chance on love like he’d done.
I sure as hell couldn’t argue with his results. After a year of marriage, they owned a house on the water in Salem and had adopted a pair of rescue greyhounds named George and Ringo, with plans for a human child to someday join their fur babies. Jon had the world on a string.
All I had were my moldering books and a free membership to HeartHeart, courtesy of Big Jon. I’d spent the last few months staring at the invitation and trying to decide if I should join or not. Finally, last week, after one too many pina coladas, I’d made a profile. I was sick to my stomach over the whole thing when I saw “Cupid” would be the one making matches for Valentine’s Day.
The only thing worse than being alone on Valentine’s Day was the possibility of being set up by an equally lonely dude costumed in a wig and diaper. It was only Jon’s success with meeting his husband that made me press the Join Now button.
If nothing else, it would be a funny story to tell at the old-age home one day, right?
Anyway, I clicked the button three days ago. It had been crickets ever since. I didn’t even get a welcome email offering me upgrades to my standard membership. I suppose with the holiday only a few days away, the website must have been slammed with lonely people like me looking for their happily ever after.
Some of them would find true love. But as for me, I had a feeling I would be spending yet another Valentine’s Day alone with sappy movies and a box of choc—
The pinging of my phone broke me out of my pity party for one. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw a single text message had been sent. After reading the message several times, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry.
Hey Kaden, it’s Cupid. Have I got a date for you! Tomorrow 4 p.m. BPL. Are you ready to fall head over paws in love?
Paws? Nowhere in my profile had I mentioned I was a werewolf. How the hell had this Cupid wannabe found out my secret? Making matters worse was that my date was supposed to meet me here at the library. How humiliating.
All I could do now was cross my fingers and hope this blind date didn’t turn into a complete catastrophe. I mean, what could possibly go right?