Chapter 4 Mona
I wake with a start. Blinding light pours into my apartment, and I blink, letting my eyes adjust as I stare at the dust particles dancing in the stream.
There's something I should remember. A heavy boulder, right there on the edge of my consciousness. I stare at the dust and the stream of sun until the coppery smell of blood hits my nose.
And then everything rushes back.
I gasp for breath, but my mouth won't open.
Calm, a voice that is not my own, says.
Panic, which felt so elusive last night as I lay there dying, crawls up my throat, and I can feel my heart racing, every beat pounding stronger than ever, but try as I might to scramble up, my limbs won't work.
They aren't my limbs.
My body stumbles on wobbly legs. I'm low to the ground. I take a few steps, then fall, and I try to let out a scream, but nothing happens.
Calm! the voice says again.
I try to speak, but I can't. What the fuck is happening?
And though it was just a thought, a voice responds. We are free.
Free? What? What the fuck is happening?!
Calm, the voice repeats, and with no effort from me, I hear the distinct scratch of claws on linoleum as my body moves toward the window. I have to step up onto the sill to see outside.
Because we are short. I am short. Why am I short?
Wolf, now, the voice supplies, but I'm distracted by the view.
It's the same as always. People walking, filling the sidewalks. Cars block the streets. Vendors chat, businesses opening for the day, despite the holiday. Old, dirty snow packed along the sidewalk.
It's the same view as always, and yet I see more.
I can see the steam from the man's coffee as he leans on his stool in front of his newspaper and cigarette stand.
I can see the expression on the women in the nail salon across the street as one tells the other a story, animatedly wielding her hands for greater impact.
And I can smell everything, too. The coffee in his cup.
It's stale, like he got it at a bodega and it sat too long on the hot plate.
He pulls out a pack of gum. I can smell the mint burst as he bites into it.
It fills my nostrils, bright and sweet. I can smell the chemicals from the nail salon and the perfume the women are wearing.
I'm eight stories up, but I can see and smell everything as if I were right there with them.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Wolf, the voice says again in a bored tone.
What? I can't be—this can't be happening. I can't be—I try to clear my thoughts, to rush around my apartment, to find a mirror, a fucking phone, anything to help assure me that everything is fine, but my body won't move.
Your body. And mine.
Okay, who the fuck are you? And WHY ARE YOU IN MY HEAD! I screech silently.
Calm. Wolf, she says again, with a hint of annoyance.
Jesus fucking christ.
That guy from last night. It all rushes back, in patches, too fast for me to process. He bit me. He must have accidentally changed me. He was trying to kill me. And I thought he was a werewolf. I knew he was.
Not werewolf. Stupid.
Did you just call me stupid? Oh my god, I'm arguing with a voice in my head. I urge my body toward my bedroom, and I know it's only because the wolf allows it that she gets up and saunters into the open room.
And when I turn the corner to look in the mirror hanging on the back of my door, I scream.
Silently, because I'm trapped.
Not trapped. Calm, she urges.
Stop telling me to be fucking calm! Turn me back. Make it go back! How did this happen? I frantically race through question after demand after question, not giving her time to answer, because I'm freaking out. But she doesn't react. In fact, she sits right on her ass and begins licking her paw.
And I watch this other self in the mirror take control of my body and my voice, and all my questions and demands disappear, because the panic has boiled over and I'm in shock.
Her coat is auburn. Red, like my hair, only darker. She has white markings around her muzzle, and I can feel her preen as I comment internally at how beautiful she is, and it makes me want to roll my eyes and scream, but I can't!
So I watch. And try to calm down. Eventually she lifts her eyes, and my blue eyes, bright and crystal clear, are staring back at me. And it's like I can see myself in them, peering out from inside the wolf.
We stay like this for some time, just staring.
Memories from last night attempt to fill in the blanks.
The pain and fear from being bitten, attacked.
Did he make me like this? I ask, for the first time acknowledging that this must be real.
The proof is right there in the mirror, in my inability to just stand up on two legs and scream with my own voice.
I'm a werewolf.
What do I do?
We go north, she supplies. Not werewolf. Stupid.
Stop calling me stupid. This is a lot. Give me a break. And what do you mean, not a werewolf?
I swear I can feel her eyes roll. Werewolves, myth. I am wolf. Shapeshifter.
Okay, whatever. I don't have time for semantics. Can you turn back? Can I have my body back?
I can feel the wolf's resistance, but then something changes. That restless feeling that I get sometimes, that wouldn't leave me alone last night when I was walking home to my almost-demise, it builds beneath my skin. Our skin.
The feeling intensifies, breaking out in ripples across my arms and legs.
It's painful, and I can feel her stress as the change takes hold.
Her stress is my stress, and we collapse on the ground.
She starts panting, struggling. The pain is there, but it's like a muscle cramp.
Aching and unused. Relentless, it goes on and on.
Several minutes pass, this push and pull, a violent transformation bending and reforming my bones.
It should hurt worse, I know it should, but it feels more foreign than anything.
I feel my fingers first, and I instantly curl them into the ground, holding onto something real.
There's so much relief in the familiarity of long, skinny, fleshy fingers, then my toes change back, and just as the transformation completes, I can feel my face reforming, and I bellow out as my naked human body curls into a sweating mess on the floor.
And then I start bawling.
I can feel her soothe me, as if to say, there, there, with a pat on my head, even though she's doing none of those things.
I suck in a breath. It even tastes bad—how can air have taste?—but I swallow it like it's my salvation, sucking in hungry breaths. And I lay there and I cry. Feeling sorry for myself. Overwhelmed. Confused.
Minutes pass. Ten, twenty, an hour, I've no idea. I don't feel cold, even though I'm naked, the heat is always on the fritz, and it's the middle of winter.
It takes Herculean effort to lift myself up off the ground, my limbs shaking as I crawl to my hands and knees. I know what sore limbs feel like. I've spent my entire life exhausted and aching.
But this feels different.
I feel tired, but… strong.
Well, stronger than normal, at least. I wouldn't be able to fight him off if that guy came back. The memories threaten to take over, panic rising again when I picture his face, remembering the feel of his teeth tearing into me. But the wolf inside me somehow pulls me back to the present.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She doesn't reply, but I can feel her there, hovering in my mind, supporting me. My legs wobble as I come to a stand. I grab the door handle to hold me up, then leave the bedroom.
The blood is the first thing I see.
And I'm on my hands and knees again, vomiting, before I can stop myself. The smell is strong. Overpowering.
Everything is. Things I couldn't smell yesterday.
The mold in the walls, the ceiling, the water stain.
The coffee I left out yesterday. The blood.
And him. I can still smell him, only it's stronger now.
Deep, rich earth and citrus. Lemons and oranges.
Rain. But the scent of my vomit is stronger, reminding me of what he did. That fucking asshole. That monster.
Tears and pain and fear and bile, I retch it all out. I almost died last night. That wolf covered me in bite marks, let the blood drain out of me, and why? Was he trying to kill me? To turn me into this?
Not turn, she says, but I ignore her.
"So I can just hear you now?" I ask the empty room.
Yes.
"Wonderful."
Too many questions. I don't bother asking one. Instead, I look down at the mess, at the vomit and blood, mostly dry, but pooled and likely staining the floor. My landlord is going to kill me.
I need help. I don't know what to do. And though I feel weak, while simultaneously stronger than I ever have in my life, my head feels like it's going to explode. I need to call my dad. Or the police.
And say what?
The proof is right there in the blood on the floor. It's my blood. And yet… I look down at my arms. And my legs. I feel my neck. The bite marks are there, but healing, as if they were weeks, not hours old. My hands shake. Goosebumps erupt across my naked flesh.
What will happen to me if the police come? Will they take me away? Or kick me out of the city? There must be a reason humans and werewolves don't interact.
Not werewolf, she sighs.
I ignore her and run into the bathroom and grab a towel, then throw it over the blood. Then I dig out my phone, and with the call on speaker, I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt.
"Come on, come on," I chant, knowing he won't pick up. Unless I leave a detailed message and mention my health, he rarely calls me back.
Which is why I'm surprised when there's a gruff, unfamiliar "Hello?" on the other end.
"Hello? Dad, is that you? Oh my god, I need to talk to you. Are you—"
"Miss? Is this Mona, Paulie Gresser's daughter?"
"Who—who is this?"
"This is Detective Alvin. I'm with the 9th precinct. Is there somewhere we can meet?"
"What…" My words trail off and I turn in a circle, cold dread snaking down my spine. My words stutter, palms instantly clammy. "Where's my dad?"
"Miss—"
"Where is he? Is he okay?"
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your father was attacked last night. He… I'm so sorry, but he didn't make it. If you could meet us at the station, or give me your address and we'll come to you, we'd like to ask you a few questions."
"He's dead?"
Silence, for a beat. Then, "Yes."
My head swims as I collect my thoughts. "Was—" I clear my throat, "was he bitten?" I ask.
"Bitten? Uhh, no. He was—look, why don't we meet—"
I hang up the phone. This can't be happening. Tears burn in my eyes. My father is dead. This can't be real. A wave of nausea washes over me. The panic, that never really went away, digs in deeper, taking root, but that voice in my head snaps at me.
Must go north.
"What the fuck is north?"
My gut gives a tug, then she repeats, North.
"No. I need to clean up this blood. Then we need to get out of here. He might come back. My dad—"
She helps me refocus, but it's like putting burn salve on bubbling skin. There's just too much to fix. In a frantic rush, I hurry around the apartment and clean the mess, trying not to think of my father. Then I pack a bag.
Staring around at the mess of my apartment, I wonder what I did in another life to deserve this.
A strange, keening sound spills from my chest. Like a whimper.
With it, a wave of anxiety washes over me.
And the oddest, most intense urge to burrow under the blankets on my bed and hide from the world takes over.
It's me, but not me. Though, hiding under the blankets does sound really good right now.
Your omega, the voice in my head, provides.
"What the hell is an omega?"