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 "What the hell'd you bring him for?" the elderly man, Ron, snapped, gesturing towards me. I pointed to myself, wondering if he got my gender wrong, but really, he was just calling out Griffin, who stood behind me.

Dad was shrugging off his coat with a sigh, drawling, "He's here to talk about the events from last night. You know, the reason why we called off the runs?"

Ron was already worked up, and Dad's annoyed tone seemed to rile him up even further. I swore the old man was going to have a heart attack, or keel over, or something, but before any of that could happen, one of the other men intervened. It was one of the only few younger folks, the one who sat next to me last time and gave me the creeps for no real reason. I noticed that the heebie-jeebies tended to happen a lot, so for the most part, I ignored them.

If Declan Walker didn't give me the heebie-jeebies at home, I figured it was a hoax for the most part, trying to trip me up or something.

While that man calmed down Ol' Man Ron, Dad motioned for me to pass him, along with Griffin. "Sit there. And Reagan, you won't have to talk if you don't want to," he told said to us, and I sighed. We'd gone over the whole, "You don't have to talk." It was just his passive way of saying, "Please don't talk. Let me handle this."

I'd probably fuck it up somehow anyway. Make it sound like some crazy event and give all the geezers a reason to die on the spot. Besides, Griffin was there to explain the whole ordeal and cause all the ruckus. He didn't even need me to assist.

Nichols came in shortly after us, accompanied by a powwow of elders carrying basic white coffee mugs and treats from who knows where. I felt like finding out, but when I asked Dad, he gave me a flat look as if to say, "No, you aren't getting snacks. Or coffee." Griffin turned to snicker at me because not a second later he left the table and walked straight out that door to get himself a coffee.

"Mornin' Reagan," Nichols said, plopping down into the seat across from me. It may have been one in the afternoon, but for a lycanthrope used to the night life, it was morning. "How do you feel? Sore?"

"Fine," I answered. "And sore from what, you pervert?"

I felt Dad poke me with something—probably a pen—but Nichols was laughing. "No, sore loser from chess. I kicked your ass."

I scowled, lips pursed as I muttered, "Did not... I won once."

We bickered until Griffin came back with two mugs of coffee and a biscotti sticking out of one. I gasped and clapped my hands as he slid it over to me. "I hope ya break a tooth on that thing. I know I almost did," he told me, even as I was already munching at the coffee-soaked end of the biscotti.

"Thanks Griff, you're the best," I said, the statement turning more sarcastic by the end. He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out straight under the table, and his narrow eyes peering at me from over the rim of his mug. I stuck my tongue out at him.

As Dad called the room to attention, I felt the stiff tension of sitting next to Griffin like a thunderstorm weighing in, settling a calm over the torrent of trees that were making a ruckus earlier. Perhaps it was the effect of having three alphas all together in the room—or was it simply the effects of two male alphas? I came to realize that my father was never accompanied by his father, his brother, his grandfather... But I supposed his training came to good use, given the state of things with my uncle.

I wondered if Everett ever came to these meetings, and I felt guilty for thinking that he hadn't, while I already accompanied his father to two. I was taking his place and we both knew it.

While Dad discussed with the elders what sort of precautions we could take with night runs, with the one alpha still on the run, Griffin slid Dad's laptop over and accessed the photos. The big screen was off, but when it came to his turn to talk about the capture of the girl, he turned it on, and a dark, noisy image of the beast lying unconscious on the forest floor became clear. Nichols turned off the lights so we could all see it clearer.

"It seems we have a problem," Griffin started, and I looked to Dad briefly. We decided not to spill the beans on the gender, but that seemed to be what Griffin was planning. What else was there to be concerned about?

"Can someone tell me the definition of a lycanthrope? I know you all took a terminologies class at school," Griffin ordered, waving his hand dismissively like it didn't matter either way. He didn't even have his gaze on the men watching him with distaste. He leant a casual hand against the table, the other hooked on his belt.

"'The assumption of the appearance of a wolf by a human being.' Ya don't have to give us a damn high school lesson," one of the blokes in the back spat out.

"That's one of the definitions. I don't really like that one because it doesn't apply anymore," he said, his voice rising as he continued to bite out the first one that came to my mind. "'A decision in which one imagines oneself to be a wolf or other wild animal.' Now, most of the time we just cut off those last four words because 'at's just crazy talk, isn't it? But as you all know, when we shift back most of the time we can see the creature we're meant to be. Those of us who give up our human selves to become full-fledged wolves turn into the wolves you'd see on Animal Planet or whatever. But for night runs, you couldn't even tell what we are. We just look like monsters, don't we?

"What I'm saying is that when this monster you see here on the screen changed back from the damage of a bullet to the skull, I didn't see a wolf in there," he said, clicking a button on the computer, and transitioning to an image where the flash went off, and scored the bloodied edges and damp fur of a—of a... what is that?

"Is that a bear?" Nichols erupted, looking fast at Dad and the rest of the men at the table. "That isn't a bear, it's too small—"

"It's probably not all that old. It's hardly an adult yet," Griffin said.

"Ya killed it, didn't you?" someone asked, and at Griffin's silence, he snarled, "Ya didn't kill it?"

"The shot was a hair or two shy from the eye socket. Any closer and this anomaly would have been gone," Griffin said. "I imagine this alpha wasn't alone. There are probably other communities like ours, but just as we hide ourselves from the humans, they hide themselves from the humans and other lycanthropes. My guess is that they don't associate with us because their population is small enough to avoid us.

"Now, 'at doesn't mean we actively find 'em—" he started to continue, but there was suddenly an uproar from Ron—damn you Ron.

"What you mean we don't look for 'em?" he exclaiming, shooting out of his chair. "They've been causin' trouble in our territory, and you're sayin' we just leave 'em be? When the government's blaming us for the killings and it's these damn bears?"

"It's not about blame, Ron," Dad said. "Perhaps not even the government knows about them. That doesn't mean we shine a light on them and have them punished, or worse."

"Wiped out," I murmured, and Dad nodded.

"This one here—he terrorized the national parks—the folks there came our way asking questions! 'Have we seen this, have we seen that'—"

"Ron, someone calm Ron down please," Dad said, pressing a finger to his temple while the man next to Ron pushed the man down into his seat.

There was a moment of silence as Griffin casually went to the next picture—the bear slumped on her hunches, collapsing, probably, now beginning to lose fur. I sure hope he didn't take any pictures of the final form—a girl on the ground of the Redborough forests.

"So you still have him?" the man next to me asked.

"Yes," Dad confirmed, answering Griffin's slight look his way. "He's unconscious, and will be staying at my house until further notice. And I ask that you all please refrain from causing a ruckus about it. I don't need you all making him feel he's not welcome in our community for the time being. Until we can return him to where he belongs."

"Perhaps he doesn't belong anywhere," someone commented. "I don't think it'd be a smart idea inviting... a different species around Redborough. It'd unsettle the folks 'round here."

"Then we don't tell them," Dad concluded. "What you've heard here today stays here, as always. Don't discuss this with your family, friends—I don't want a damn mob outside my house anyway. We all know how that feels."

Even as he said it, I saw the looks some of the folks around the table were giving us. I knew a few would stop by, and knew that Dad would be bullied into letting them in the house (out of courtesy, mostly), and eventually they'd wind up bothering the strange girl. And I knew I'd end up standing guard out of pure sympathy for the unconscious chick doomed to wake up in a stranger place anyway. I hardly imagined she'd even know who, or where she was.

So as Dad wrapped up the meeting and forced Nichols to hold them off until we reached the car, I stared at Griffin wondering just how mad he was for saying such things—for showing the whole damn lot of these men the girl in mid-shift.

Griffin followed us out, and I stormed out the back door of Brickley, I smacked him over the shoulder both ways—once for coming to the meeting, and again for talking in it. "Are you out of your damn mind?" I hissed, aware that the slapping hardly phased him when he rolled his eyes dully at me.

Dad grabbed my shoulder and roughly pulled me back from socking his beloved hitman. "Reagan, get in the car," he ordered as I started kicking my leg at Griffin. I didn't let up until he pushed me away from the both of them. "I'm not going to say it again, Reagan." His threat made me turn my scowl away from the fiend across from me. He looked so smug about watching me be scolded by my dad.

I muttered gibberish under my breath and stalked toward the car. I could hear them murmuring and keeping their voices hushed like suddenly I was a five year old who couldn't stand to hear cursing. As they wrapped up their conversation, I slouched in the passenger's seat of Dad's car, and listened to the scuff of boots against the pavement.

It was easy to smell Griffin before I saw him leaning his arms against my window, and casting a shadow over my lap. Just out of spite and angst, I refused to look at him and instead stared at the papers on Dad's dashboard. "You still have the tats?" he asked. At first I was confused—since when did I have tattoos?—and then I realized he was pointing to my arm full of faded Sharpie numbers.

He gestured when his middle and index finger, so I held it out to him. He produced a pen he probably stole from the Brickley front desk. "Let me know if anything changes with the girl. Do your magic, or whatever."

"What ya mean?" I said, scowling up at him. His hand scribbled out the numbers and I wasn't surprised that he had the script of a teenage boy without a care.

"You know—the whole mind reading thing," he explained, tapping at the side of his skull. It was the sort of thing that was hard to ignore, especially when he said it out loud like that. His head was about as readable as his eyes through a pair of sunglasses at the moment, so when he let go of my hand, not much had changed.

"She's kind of unconscious now—I don't know how much help that'll be," I confessed. Sure, sleeping and dreaming was one thing, but comatose? I never had to deal with that in my lifetime.

Griffin shrugged and pushed away from the car. "Just give it a try. Who knows how long she'll be out," he said, glancing away quickly and leant down to wave to Dad. "I'll get back to you tomorrow 'bout the alpha's whereabouts."

"Sooner the better," Dad said. He started up the car, and we were off, watching Griffin walk away from the parking lot, and wherever it was he planned to go next.