Chapter One:
"Merton Dingle?" The voice rang out in the hall of the Social Service building.
A sullen teenager sat in the deserted hallway. A black Tea Party pullover, faded black cargo pants, and a head full of rebellious black-blue spikes.
"Merton Dingle." She kept her voice soft. "My name's Violet and I'm going to be your caseworker from now on."
"Finally scared the last one away, did I?" Merton looked up, his face molded into an expression Violet knew only too well. This was a good kid. There was none of the edge she found in so many young boys. Violet prided herself on being an excellent judge of character. In the end, she found, it all came down to the eyes. There was a surprising openness to them, one that was usually mostly gone in the boys she dealt with.
"He had many responsibilities, Merton, his caseload was enormous."
"Don't you ever get tired of that excuse?" His eyes were piercing blue, the stark honesty in them overwhelming, and Violet couldn't help herself, she twitched.
"I've managed to find another foster home that is willing to overlook your record, Mr. Dingle."
"Congratulations. Where? New York? Canada?" His hands traced the anarchy symbols that decorated his pants. Meticulously drawn. Perfect geometric circles. Red fabric paint. Violet couldn't help smiling inwardly. This was a boy determined to be a rebel, with red fabric paint on his Wal-Mart specials. He probably had taken a compass to them.
"Actually, Nevada."
"You're kidding me, right? Who the hell is going to let me across the state lines of sunny California?"
"I thought you'd be happy to escape juvenile hall, Merton." An emotion flashed across his face too fast for her to read, and she instinctively felt a pain. Low blow, Violet, low blow.
"Did you come up with that on your own, or did someone help?"
"You'll be staying in a foster home that I have the utmost respect for, Mr. Dingle, and an excellent track record. Needless to say, there will be certain expectations for you behaviour."
"I know the drill." His voice was flat.
Her line was supposed to be 'if you knew the drill, we wouldn't be having this conversation', but somehow, she just let it sit.
He lost it. He had lost it. But thankfully, football uniforms covered everything. The pass he had thrown though, that was going to be a little harder to explain. In the eyes of the coach it was a miracle, but impossible for a high school student. Even the famous Tommy Dawkins.
Chuck had smirked at him. He knew the truth.
Tommy snarled, deep, low, and rasping.
And Tommy barely stopped himself from going over there and tearing out his throat. He could hear the blood pulsing, Chuck's heart increasing in tempo as he felt the undercurrents of the air. Tommy walked away, barely made it into the change room, and Chuck waited for Tommy to finish and leave.
He's smarter than I thought, Tommy shook his head. He was hungry. Starving. It would be so easy to just drop everything he owned into his car, and take off into the grasslands. Hunt something. Kill something. Eat something.
He walked across the parking lot. Ignoring the strange looks that everyone was throwing his direction. The red car, Dawkins, look for the red car.
He forced himself to think about his mom's fried chicken. The crisp skin, the juice that ran to his chin when he bit into it. He found his keys and slid into the seat. The car started easily, and Tommy took several deep breaths before driving himself home.
The Dawkin's residence was huge. It had been in the family several generations. It had been established by one of Tommy's ancestors after a long flight south. At one point there had been several generations living there. Tommy punched the key code on the gate, and drove through.
It still smelt like it. On the air and ground, there were the ghosts of hundreds of lycanthropes. They had lived here, worked here, played here; the place was littered with a hundred voiceless snarls, snaps, croons, and yips. Children had grown and had children, right here.
Only, werewolves were an endangered species now, especially the Dawkin's pack. There was less space in the world now, less food. And the cities – polluted the blood of werewolves. The constant noise, and constraints, and hell, maybe even the toxic chemicals, wore on them. Werewolves went feral, separated themselves from the pack, and died lonesome deaths. Even those who came back were never the same. They couldn't have cubs. And alphas, their packs growing ever smaller, became weaker.
Maybe, someday, Dawkins Mansion would be full again, but for now, it was just depressing.