Sore Subject

The sound of Jen’s alarm jolts me, and my laptop nearly slides off my lap. I had not noticed the time. Across the room, Jen sits up with the expression of someone re-entering her body against her will. She squints at me, then at the clock. "Aren’t you normally at the gym?" "Normally," I agree, pressing one final formula into the spreadsheet. "Have you finally abandoned that dreadful habit?" "No. I’ll be back tomorrow." I save the file, close my laptop, and slip it into my bag. "I was sorting the preliminary patrol rota." Jen goes still halfway out of bed. "You’ve started it already?" "I finished the first version." She stares at me. "Of course you have." "It was easier than sleeping." "That is one of the bleakest things you have ever said before breakfast." "Efficient, though." "I needed to," I say. "Patrols matter. Especially after last year." Last year had made everything worse. More rogues. Stronger rogues. Alphas and betas going unstable around the edges. Exton’s borders had felt less like a precaution and more like a promise waiting to be tested. Jen’s expression sobers. "Who did patrol last night?" "No one." "Oh." "Exactly." I push myself up from the sofa and head to my wardrobe. "Which is why it needed sorting before everyone else finished breakfast." "That sentence was alarming." "It was also accurate." Jen mutters something about Lycans and their cheerful disregard for sleep, then does what she always does and heads for the lake. Nudity does not bother either of us. If anything, Jen’s transformation still fascinates me. Her skin ripples and darkens, gills bloom at her neck, and scales catch briefly in the dim morning light before she slips into the water with barely a splash. Then it is my turn to get wet, far less elegantly. I take a long, hot shower — longer than I usually allow myself — washing my hair with chamomile shampoo and working conditioner through the ends before scrunching it lightly to encourage the slight curl. By the time I step back into the room, dressed, Jen is climbing in from the garden, her teal hair somehow completely dry. "Don’t," she says sharply, spotting the hair tie in my hand. I freeze. "What?" "Leave it down." "I’ve got science." "Science will survive." She gestures at my hair. "Look at it. Longer suits you." I glance towards the mirror, unsure what to do with that. "It gets in the way." "Of what? Intimidating people?" "Potentially." "Good. Let them be intimidated by excellent hair as well." I huff a laugh, but I leave the hair tie on my desk. "There she is," Jen says, far too pleased with herself. "Nearly eighteen. Very pretty. Mildly terrifying. It’s a strong combination." "I have more important things to worry about than being pretty." "Obviously. That does not make it illegal." I fasten my necklace, then pull on my black trousers. Even the white shirt feels wrong — too crisp, too restrictive around my chest, even though I washed it already. I am more comfortable in athletic gear, where movement matters more than presentation. Jen moves around behind me as I put on a little makeup, then suddenly perks up. "Oh!" Jen says suddenly. "Did you ever get the results from that DNA test?" My stomach sinks. Of course she remembers. With no real surname, no birth record, and no idea who my parents had been beyond the faces in my memory, I had taken an internet DNA test over the summer. Hopeful was too strong a word. Curious, perhaps. Desperate, on a bad day. "Yep," I say. "Mostly nothing." Jen stills slightly. "Mostly?" "Two matches marked private. No names, no way to contact them, no useful details. It’s mostly a human database anyway, and my parents would have been Lycans, so..." I lift one shoulder. "Back to square one." Jen’s expression softens in the mirror. "I’m sorry." "It was a long shot." "Still." I finish my eyeliner, making my grey eyes stand out a little more, and decide I’m done. "What are you going for today?" Jen asks as we head down the corridor towards the hall. "Waffles, as ever." As we enter the hall and head towards the servery, I notice people beginning to stare. Not glance. Stare. "Jen," I murmur. She follows my gaze, then smiles far too widely. "Well, patrol lead has definitely put you on the map." "Not for a good reason." "For an interesting reason." "That is not better." We reach the queue, and I resist the urge to stand behind Jen as though teal hair might provide cover. "Why are you assuming it’s bad?" she asks. I give her a look. "My rank. It’s not normal for a gamma to do this. At all. Even the headmaster said so." "Normal is boring." "Easy to say when your hair is naturally visible from space." "And yet I survive." I laugh despite myself. "When do you unveil your master plan?" she asks. "Four o’clock. Senior common room." I glance around at the watching faces. "Which means my free period is going to be delightful." "Terrifying for them, I expect." Fuelled by waffles, berries, and Jen’s entirely misplaced confidence in me, we go our separate ways. Geography at Exton is taught more practically than anywhere else. Mrs Claremont, one of the local coven members, uses elemental magic to demonstrate key principles. Last year, she taught erosion with a constructed coastline in a tank, moving earth, water and air until half the class forgot to take notes. I loved it. There is something comforting about geography. The idea that the world keeps a record of things. Every footprint, every breath, every bit of carbon moving through the cycle of life. Evidence. History written somewhere, even when no one has bothered to write it down. My stomach tightens the moment I walk into the classroom. Landry is sitting near the back. His eyes find me immediately, heavy beneath his severe brows, and his expression changes. Not surprise. Irritation. Wonderful. Oh Goddess. Am I in the wrong class? He was not in my class last year. A few others look confused too, but they start taking seats. Grab one before they all go, Astraea urges. Unless you want to sit near him. I absolutely do not. I slide onto a stool near the front, aware of whispers starting as my name passes between people. Heat creeps into my ears. Patrol lead. Gamma. Grey. Pick your scandal. My phone vibrates in my pocket. More emails. More volunteers for patrol. A few declines. I tell myself not to read into those. Naturally, I read into them immediately. Then another email notification appears. Joshua Landry has signed up for patrol. I stare at it. Of course he has. Obligation, probably. This is his family’s school, after all. Or perhaps he simply wants a better position from which to undermine me. I can almost feel his eyes on the back of my neck, but I refuse to turn around. "Good morning and welcome back!" Mrs Claremont says brightly. I pocket my phone as the room settles. "Apparently, a number of pupils chose not to continue geography into year two, so we’ve merged both classes." That explains it. Great. A whole year in the same class as him. "Today we’ll go through the syllabus, your final projects, and the January field trip attached to them." By the end of the lesson, I am out of the classroom quickly, determined to use every minute of my free period to refine the patrol plan. By the time I reach biology, I am cautiously optimistic. Also mildly nauseous at the thought of presenting it to a room full of students who outrank me. An excellent emotional range before ten o’clock. "Is this seat taken?" I look up. Owen Montgomery. Damn, I say to Astraea. Summer did him well. As much as I support the observation, please remember we have responsibilities. I can multitask. Historically questionable. "Not at all," I say, smiling. Owen was one of the betas I had worked with on patrol several times last year. Different, but in a good way. More interested in academics and responsibility than pointless drama or the endless pursuit of girls. By beta standards, unusual. By mine, increasingly appealing. Especially now he looked like that. He sits beside me, and I feel oddly reassured by a beta choosing the seat without hesitation. "Nice," he says. "How was your summer?" "Uh..." *You know what is worse than the boring answer you do not want to give?* Astraea says. *Silence.* "I learned how to make clothes," I admit. "I made a dress." It seems safer than saying I worked at the pack house, ran too much, and tried not to think about the fact this is my last year at Exton. Owen’s brows lift. "That’s impressive. Are you making your own for the formal?" I had not even considered it. Now, annoyingly, I am. "I could," I say, just as the teacher closes the door. The conversation ends there. Ten minutes later, we begin the second year with a kidney dissection. When Owen suggests we become lab partners, I am quietly pleased. I try to focus. Unfortunately, I am still Lycan, and not immune to a good-looking beta with sun-warmed skin, broad shoulders, and the unnerving ability to hold a scalpel correctly. I definitely did not feel like this about him last year. Then again, he did not look quite so much like that last year either. "You must feel rushed, pulling the patrol rota together this quickly," Owen says, handing me a scalpel. "I did at first, but I’ve finished the first version." He pauses. "Already?" "It needed doing." "That’s impressive." He sounds like he means it, which is deeply unhelpful. I take a breath and focus on the kidney instead of his forearms. "Astraea is a good strategist," I say. "Together, we are very efficient." Pride flickers through her. Owen leans a little closer, lowering his voice. "Is it true your wolf fights like a beta?" I still. That is an interesting thing for him to have heard. "No," I say truthfully. "She doesn’t." "Shame," he says, though his tone is thoughtful rather than disappointed. "That would’ve made sense." I glance at him. "What would?" "Your reputation." My grip tightens slightly around the scalpel. "My reputation?" Owen nods, as though this should be obvious. "Yeah. You’re a bit of a legend." I stare at him. "Do you not know that?" I shake my head, heat creeping up my neck. "The gamma who took down an alpha fair and square," he says. "Some people would rather believe your wolf outranks you than admit you’re just that good." I look down at the kidney, because that is suddenly easier than looking at him. Noticed. Again. This year is becoming unsettlingly visible. "The gamma who took down an alpha fair and square," Owen says. "Which is probably why my roommate is still annoyed." I look up sharply. "Your roommate?" "Yeah. Our alpha wanted me to room with his son, so now I’ve got Josh Landry—" The scalpel slips against the tray with a sharp metallic scrape. "Fuck." I set it down at once, irritation flaring hot under my skin. Owen stills. "Ah," he says carefully. "Still a sore subject?" "He kicked me in the chest and collapsed my lung," I say, more defensively than I intend. The memory hits harder than it should. I hate that it still does. "So yes," I add. "Slightly sore." Owen’s expression shifts. "I know," he says quietly. "I heard about that." "Lovely. Then you’ll understand why I’m not especially moved by his ongoing annoyance." "I’m not defending it," Owen says carefully. "Good." He hesitates. Then, because apparently betas also enjoy making poor choices, he leans in a little and lowers his voice. "Look, it’s not widely known, but that wasn’t really him last year—" My jaw tightens. "Convenient." "That’s not what I meant." "Sure looked like him from where I was lying on the floor." Owen says nothing. "And when he called me a worthless little orphan gamma," I add, my voice quieter now, "that sounded like him too." His mouth tightens. "I’m sorry," he says. "That was wrong." The simplicity of it takes some of the fight out of me. Not much. But some. He leans back, clearly deciding not to press further. Or perhaps his wolf has better survival instincts. "This is none of my business," he says. "Water?" I glance at the kidney, then at the scalpel. "Probably wise." We step away from the bench, and I try to ignore the fact biology has somehow circled back to Landry. I would much rather keep him exactly where he belongs. Out of my head.