I felt like the walking dead by the time I stepped inside the studio room. I dropped my bag on the floor at my feet and locked the door behind me. $50 a night didn't buy much, but there was a double bed and a small bathroom, so compared to where I had been living, it was the Hilton. I pulled the curtains and made my way to the shower. As I pulled my boots off I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I really did look like hell. My hair was a mess, my eyes were bloodshot and there were bags under my eyes. My skin was dry and my body ached all over. Thanks to the wolf, there were no bruises or grazes, no marks of any kind- I could tell all the aching and bruising was internal. But it was a different kind of aching. It wasn't the emotional longing I had resigned myself to; it was different. It could have been the physical exhaustion, but even though I looked like hell and I was tired, I felt alive. I couldn't help but smile a little to myself.

Still smiling I turned the hot water on and waited for it to gain temperature. In my haste to leave La Push I had completely forgotten to pack any of my favourite soaps and shampoos, so I raided the complementary basket that sat on the sink.

"You'll have to do." I murmured to the tiny bottles, making a mental note to go shopping as soon as I could. When I got to the school in Maine I wanted to be presentable. It wouldn't be right to look like a dishevelled beggar. I stepped under the flow of water and immediately felt the tension and anxiety of the last week wash from me and run down the plughole. It was heaven. The soap smelled like cinnamon, and the shampoo smelt like cherry blossoms. I drank in the scents as if they were vintage champagne and by the time the water ran cold I felt relaxed and human once more.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped the motel towel around myself. I wiped the condensation from the mirror and once again looked at my reflection. Chet was right. My 'boy cut' did make my features look severe and angry. I pulled at the two-inch strands and decided to grow it into a bob. A bob would look nice but at the same time, it wouldn't be too hard to control when I phased. I quickly pulled on a singlet and tucked myself under the covers. The mattress and the sheets seemed to cradle me and I fell asleep almost immediately.

Almost every time I slept, regardless of my form, I dreamt as the wolf. Today was no exception. I was running through the forest, feeling the wind tugging at my coat, leaping over fallen logs and ducking around trees, when suddenly I smelt something strange. I stopped to sniff the air trying to locate the origin of the unfamiliar scent. I found the trail and followed it, curious as to what could have been making such an odd scent. I followed it into a small clearing where a campfire burned, and suddenly I was very alarmed. Had I stumbled onto some campers?

"Do not be afraid, grey friend, there is no danger here." Came a voice carried on the wind. I turned around, feeling the voice had come from behind me, but there was nobody there. Puzzled and slightly irritated, I jumped back around to face the fire. There he stood, an old man, wearing the pelt of a white wolf, with the wolf's head atop his own. The man stood unassumingly, but power, confidence and peace rolled off him in waves. I knew immediately he was one of the ghosts of my ancestors. He shuffled forward and took a seat beside the fire, rubbing his hands and toasting them against the flames. I stared at him, captivated and awe struck. The man peered across at me, his black eyes almost hidden beneath the deep wrinkles in his face. His thin lips sagged down at the edges in a natural frown, giving him the look of someone with a wealth of knowledge and wisdom. His snowy hair was long and tied into twin braids with coloured cotton wrapped around them. He wore no beads, no feathers, or jewellery of any kind. It was at that moment I realised; he must have been a shaman. Immediately I dipped my head in respect.

"Leah, daughter of Clearwater, and child of the Quileute people," he stated, "You are seeking something." I peered at him through my wolf eyes, not knowing what to do or how to communicate with him. I had only ever heard of Shamans before, never had I seen one, in a dream or otherwise.

"Find your voice, wolf. Tell me what you seek." He said, gazing back at me with ink black eyes. I opened my mouth, but the words would not form. Frustrated I tried to project my thought the way I would with one of the pack.

"I seek peace, and power." My thoughts twisted trough the air, enunciated in a melodic way that wasn't entirely my own. The old Shaman closed his eyes and began to chant into the fire. He waved his arms slowly and smoothly through the smoke in an ancient dance, rocking back and forth on his seat. I stared intently at him, hypnotised by his graceful movements.

Abruptly he froze, carrying his final note for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually his eyes opened and I saw a great sadness in their depths. Suddenly I felt like crying, I didn't want to know what he was going to say.

"There cannot be both." He shook his head and got up to leave.

"Wait!" I called to him, my thought-voice tainted with panic. What did he mean? The shaman paused, his back turned to me. I tried desperately to phrase a question for him. I had to know. But my thoughts wouldn't organise themselves. Suddenly, the Shaman phased into a great white wolf and with speed that belied his years, he launched through the flames at me, snarling viscously.

I woke screaming and sat bolt upright in the bed. Reality returned to me and I quickly clamped a hand over my mouth. I was hyperventilating and my pulse was pounding in my throat like an animal begging to be released. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on trying to regulate my breathing.

"It was just a dream." I reassured myself as I sucked in big deep breaths. A dream where a powerful spirit had told me I wouldn't achieve my goal. I threw back the covers and went to the window of my pokey hotel room. The sun had set while I was asleep and it was night in the sleepy town of Devil's Lake. I heard the Shaman's voice once more in my head: There cannot be both. I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and sighed. Nobody said life was easy, but why did it have to be this damned hard? A dream visit from a Shaman was not something to be taken lightly- I didn't have to be an elder to know that. There cannot be both. I stood up straight and sucked in the biggest breath my lungs could accommodate. Well, I could always try. Even if I failed, I had to try. What other option did I have?

With my newfound sense of determination I packed my things back in my bag and marched out the front door. I needed to find a steakhouse for dinner, and then… I was going to Maine.