The next morning, I stepped off the bus into the chill Hyannis air and started toward the school entrance. The wolf was quiet now, buried deep, but the night before still lingered in my blood — sharp, hot, and thrumming under the surface.
People noticed.
They didn’t look at me directly — not for long, anyway — but I caught the flickers of motion at the edges of my vision. Conversations faltered when I passed. Shoulders angled away. A couple of kids heading toward the doors suddenly found somewhere else to be, letting me walk in first without a word.
No one could have explained why. But instinct runs deep, even in humans.
By the time I reached my locker, the hallway was strangely open around me — like a bubble had formed, a space no one wanted to cross. I spun the dial, slid my books inside, and shut it with a soft clack.
“Did you grow two feet overnight or something?”
I turned to see Gabriel leaning against the locker beside mine, guitar case propped up next to him. His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “Why?”
He tipped his head toward the hallway. “Because it’s like Moses just walked through here. Everyone’s parting the sea for you.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, the crowd was moving around my locker bank, the flow of students curving like water diverted by a rock.
“Guess they’re in a hurry,” I said.
Gabriel’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, but there was something in his gaze — a mix of curiosity and caution. “Nah,” he said quietly. “It’s not that. It’s you.”
I didn’t answer. Just shouldered my backpack and started toward homeroom. He fell into step beside me, and for a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then, almost too casually, he said, “Whatever it is… you wear it like armor.”
I met his eyes for a fraction of a second. “Armor’s useful,” I said, and kept walking.
He didn’t push, but I knew he’d filed it away — like every other thing about me that didn’t fit the usual picture.