Author: Thane

Cape Cod Regional Technical High smelled faintly of sawdust and cafeteria coffee — an odd mix that somehow worked. The main hallway was a low thrum of chatter and slamming lockers as I followed my schedule to the far end, where my assigned homeroom was tucked away behind the carpentry shop.

The door was open, and most of the class was already inside. A cluster of kids lounged near the back corner, their laughter sharp in that way that told you someone was the punchline. I stepped in, scanning for my seat, and that’s when I saw him.

Gabriel.

Same boy from outside, same hooded sweatshirt, black guitar case now leaning against his desk. He was slouched in his chair, long legs stretched out, arms folded. His head was tilted just enough that I caught a glimpse of his eyes — deep blue, like the ocean right before a storm. The same color as mine. Except his didn’t have the dark wolf ring circling the iris.

We were the same height, I realized — both standing at a solid 6’3” — but that’s where the similarity ended. He was thin, wiry, built like a runner who’d skipped too many meals. I, on the other hand, carried the kind of muscle you didn’t get from gym class. The kind that came from shifting — over and over, year after year — and snapping back into human form with the wolf still humming in your blood.

“Hey, guitar boy.” One of the kids from the back — a broad-shouldered junior with a letterman jacket — flicked the edge of Gabriel’s hood. “Play us something that doesn’t suck for once.”

Gabriel didn’t look up. “Not in the mood,” he muttered.

The second one leaned over his desk, grinning. “Aw, c’mon. What’s the matter? Strings break again? Or are you just scared we’ll laugh harder this time?”

Something in Gabriel’s jaw tightened. Not fear. Annoyance. He’d heard this before — probably every day since freshman year. The bullies looked comfortable in it, like they’d been doing this long enough to know there wouldn’t be consequences.

They were wrong.

I was already moving before I’d thought it through. My shadow fell over their little circle, and when the first one turned toward me, I let the wolf bleed into my gaze — not enough for fangs or claws, just enough for my eyes to go colder, sharper. Predatory.

“Why don’t you back off,” I said, my voice low and steady.

The letterman jacket kid gave a laugh, the kind people give when they’re not sure if they should be afraid yet. “And who the hell are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t like repeating himself.”

He took half a step back without realizing it. The second one’s smirk faltered. Predators recognized predators, even if they didn’t understand what they were seeing. A few beats of tense silence passed before they muttered something under their breath and retreated to the other side of the room.

I straightened, glancing down at Gabriel. He was looking at me now, those blue eyes sharp and searching.

“…Thanks,” he said quietly.

I gave a single nod, sliding into the empty seat behind him. Neither of us spoke again before the teacher walked in, but I could feel his attention flicker back toward me once or twice. Like he’d noticed something he couldn’t quite name — the same way I had with him.

The wolf in me was certain: this wasn’t going to be the last time we ended up on the same side.

The alarm went off at five-thirty, and for a few seconds I lay there, staring at the shadowed ceiling, wondering if it was worth moving at all. The mansion was silent except for the faint thump of my mother’s heels somewhere downstairs and the muted murmur of my father’s voice on a call. Even before sunrise, they were already living in a different world than mine.

By the time I stepped outside, the air had the sharp bite of ocean wind, damp enough to cling to my hoodie. The driver waited in the black SUV at the bottom of the steps, engine idling. He didn’t say anything as I got in — just pulled away from the house and toward the docks, tires crunching over the crushed-shell driveway.

The streets of Nantucket were still half-asleep. Porch lights burned against the fog, and shop windows reflected only the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps. The docks rose out of the mist, silhouettes of masts swaying gently. A line of commuters stood at the ferry ramp, clutching coffee cups like they were all that kept them alive.

The driver eased to a stop. “Six-thirty ferry,” he said without looking at me.

“Yeah,” I muttered, stepping out into the salt-heavy air. The wolf in me didn’t like the crush of people, but it listened — alert, watchful. It could feel that pull again, a faint tension under the skin, though I couldn’t place why.

Boarding was slow, the crowd shuffling up the metal ramp. I found a spot near the stern rail, keeping my back to the bulk of the passengers. The engines roared to life, vibrating through the deck as the island slid away into the mist.

The crossing took just under an hour. I spent most of it staring at the horizon, the wolf restless but not hostile, like it was waiting for something it knew I wouldn’t recognize until it happened.

When we docked in Hyannis, I followed the herd of commuters toward the waiting buses. One was marked for Cape Cod Regional Technical High School. I climbed aboard, claiming a seat by the window, watching the mainland roll by — clapboard houses, diners, stretches of pine forest cut by cracked asphalt roads.

By the time the bus pulled into the school lot, the sun was trying to burn through the fog, turning the low buildings and shop bays into a haze of pale gold. Students milled around the entrance — some leaning on cars, some clustered in tight groups, their voices a steady hum.

That’s when I saw him.

He was standing near the side door of the main building, a black guitar case slung over one shoulder. Hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he was listening to something only he could hear. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t part of the clusters of friends — just there, apart, like the air around him was a little quieter than everywhere else.

The wolf in me went still. Not cautious. Not hostile. Just… focused. I didn’t know his name. Didn’t know where he fit in this place. But I knew one thing: that strange pull I’d been feeling since stepping onto the mainland had just found its source.

The moving truck’s diesel growl faded into the salty Nantucket air, replaced by the hiss of waves against the breakwater. The breeze here was different from Indiana’s flatland winds—sharper, briny, and carrying a faint sweetness that stuck to your clothes and hair like it meant to claim you.

My parents called it a fresh start.
I called it banishment.

They’d sold the Columbus, Indiana house without ceremony—didn’t even let me pack my own things. When I’d come home from my last day at the institution, my room was already stripped bare, the walls naked. Now, they’d bought an oceanfront palace worth more than entire neighborhoods back home. Forty-two rooms, marble floors, glass walls opening to the Atlantic. Not because they loved the ocean—they didn’t care about that. No, this house was about distance. Distance from neighbors who whispered. Distance from the story of their son. Distance from the memory of court dates, medical holds, and the months they’d spent pretending I didn’t exist.

The werewolf in me didn’t mind the move—salt air was better than stale hospital disinfectant. But the human part of me… the human part had learned not to expect home from them. Not anymore.

The ferry ride over had been silent. My parents stood at the rail in their perfectly tailored coats, pointing out the island’s lighthouses like tourists in a coffee-table book, their voices light, practiced. I stayed below, leaning against the car deck’s cold metal wall, letting the thrum of the engines buzz in my chest.

It had been months since I’d seen this much open sky. The wolf in me liked it—the expanse, the smell of wind over saltwater. My parents? They liked the exclusivity. Nantucket wasn’t just an island; it was an escape hatch they could brag about.

When we docked, they didn’t look back to see if I followed.

The mansion looked like it had been grown from the bones of the coastline—white walls, black trim, every line crisp and deliberate. A driveway of crushed shells crunched under the tires as the moving crew unloaded box after box. Inside, the air was cool, faintly perfumed with something floral and expensive. Gleaming brass fixtures. Chandeliers. Floors polished so smooth I could see my reflection.

“This is where we live now,” my mother said, sweeping a hand at the grand foyer like she was revealing a stage.

“We” was a generous term. The way she looked at me, I could’ve been the hired help.

“Don’t scratch the floors,” she added, her voice low and sharp. “Or break anything. You have a history.”

I just stared at her for a moment, then walked deeper into the house without answering. She hated that—when I didn’t rise to her bait.

The next morning, over breakfast, I found out about the school.

“You’ll be going to Cape Cod Regional Technical High,” my father said, flipping a page in his paper. “It’s on the mainland. Ferry leaves at six-thirty. Don’t miss it.”

I looked up from my untouched toast. “Why not Nantucket High? Isn’t that the normal—”

“You need a life lesson,” he interrupted, folding the paper neatly. “You’ve spent too much time… indulged. At Tech, you’ll learn skills. You’ll meet ordinary people. It will be good for you.”

My mother sipped her coffee without looking up. “Humility,” she murmured. “It might even stick this time.”

I let the words hang there. They wanted me to protest, to give them something to crush. I didn’t. I just took another slow bite of toast and kept my gaze locked on my father until he shifted uncomfortably.

That evening, I stood at my bedroom window, looking across the dark water toward the mainland. Tomorrow, I’d take the ferry alone, join the commuter crowd, and walk into a school where no one knew my name or my past.

In Indiana, people had called me freak, monster, worse. Here? Here I was just another face. A blank slate.

But the wolf in me knew better. It could feel something out there, in those unfamiliar streets—a pull, a scent it couldn’t name yet.

Somewhere on that mainland, there was another one. He didn’t know it yet. Neither did I.