14 Years Later

I wake to a slobbery tongue on my face. My black Labrador has his front paws on my bed, and is giving my face a thorough cleaning.

"Geddoff," I mutter, my voice slurred by sleep. I frown at my window. It's doesn't look, or feel, to cold, but not too warm either. I'll have to rug up if I want to go outside. Louis, our dog, obliges with my sleepy instruction. He begins prancing around the room. I laugh at his antics. "Don't expect to get walked!" I tell him. "It's practically yesterday!" I glance at my watch sitting on a pile of books beside my bed. It reads 7:17 AM. "Okay," I murmur. "Slightly less yesterday. Forget that happened." Smiling at the bouncing dog, I roll out of bed and follow him down the hall to the stairs, where I slip onto the banister and race Louis down the curling flight. As I step off the railing, I instantly smell a good something. "What good something are you cooking me, slave?" I call into the kitchen.

"Pancakes!" Comes a voice. Sam walks out, still in his pyjamas, track suit pants and a blue singlet. His black hair's a mess, yellow eyes hidden behind sleepy lids. He grins at me and opens his arms wide. I bound across the hall to him and laugh as he scoops me up and carries me to the kitchen, where he places me on a stool and slides a plate across the bench, a steaming pancake resting there in a pool of syrup.

Most girls my age, 14, would be horrified at the easy friendship I share with my parents, but I don't have any other friends, as I've been homeschooled my whole life, and my parents and I have a common...well, theme. Wolf.

"Oh! Pen! Quick! Never mind!" I dig in the pocket of my jumper, and pull out a black pen, which I use to scribble down the words "Good something - expand?". Sam peers over the bench to glance at my hand. He nods.

"Where's Grace?" I ask, mouth full. My father flips a pancake and gives the pan a little shake, the movement casual, though I see his shoulders suddenly tense up.

"Sleeping. She had a rough night," he says. My fork hovers in mid air.

"Why?"

He sighs and turns toward me, his expression unreadable. No, that's not true. In pain. I swallow worriedly. "Dad?"

Sam looks at me, surprised. I never call him Dad. He picks at a small scratch on his hand as he begins to speak.

"You know how I don't turn into a wolf anymore?"

I nod, cautious.

"That's because I was injected with liquid summer. Meningitis."

I suck in a breath. "Shit," I whisper. Sam nods.

"So was your mum, about the same time, thirteen years ago."

"The average wolf lifespan," I interrupt, and open my mouth to speak when I catch sight of Sam's expression.

Probably since I turned four, Sam would

"So the wolf inside her needs to be released. In about a month or so. It'll happen to me too, in a while. Until then, well, she'll be feeling not so great."

" 'Kay Sam. You know I'll take care of her." He smiles and ruffles up my white-blond hair. Then, he turns back to his pancakes and swears, quickly rescuing it, though it's already a dark shade of brown. He tries to drown the flavour of charcoal by lathering it in lemon juice and sugar. The result is a sour face that makes me choke on my pancake.
"How's the next song coming along?" He smiles, a shy, pleased smile. What is now his third album is like my dad's other child - he nurtures it and cares for it as much as he does Louis.

"Alright. I'm trying to find some suspended chords that fit so I can have some hammer-ons." I grin.

"Sounds awesome! Can I help?" He scratches his neck absently.

"Maybe." We both jump as Grace, blond hair a complete bird's nest, skin a pale version of itself, emerges from my parent's bedroom.

"Morning!" I call to her. She gives me a grunt and then a smile as she shuffles to kitchen, where Sam passes her a (non-burnt) pancake. I avert my eyes to my plate as he kisses her. I'm friends with my parents, but it doesn't mean I like snogging any more when they're the ones kissing. I scoff the last bit of my pancake and put the plate in the sink.

"What I don't understand," Grace mutters, chewing her pancake," is why musicians can just speak in the same language as everyone else!" I grin.

"Ah, 'tis the way of those who hold music in their soul and song in their heart!" Sam chokes on his breakfast at my words. "I'm gonna go for a walk. I'll bring Louis." Sam looks worried.

"Coat."

"Yep," I tell him.

"Don't shift." I stare at him.

"I'll try my best. And I'll bring my phone," I add at his unsure expression. He smiles and flicks me across the head before shooing me out into the hall, where Louis is waiting - we have a "No-Dogs-In-Kitchen" Rule. I skip to the stairs, and leap up, taking them three at a time. I make my way to my bedroom, and shut the door behind myself. I shrug off my pyjamas and pull on a deep blue camisole singlet and a pair of faded denim jeans. As I brush my teeth in the bathroom next to my room, I stare at my yellow eyes. They're not fine, like my Dad's, but, though they're tawny, they're definitely yellow. I leave my short, choppy, white blond hair out, not bothering to brush it at all. Then, I pull on a pair of green Converse High Tops and a black trench coat. I grab a battered, red notebook and an inky black pen, and stuff them both into a old brown, leather satchel. I hop down the stairs and, Louis trailing faithfully behind me, I head out of the back door and onto the street.