Chapter One - Leah

What I wouldn't give to be bored. Really, truly bored. Not "Oh, there's nothing on TV and my book's not interesting", or "Is a ten-hour patrol really necessary when the biggest threat around here is the one I pose to that incessantly squawking bird half a kilometre away" bored. The kind of bored you get after doing the same thing day in, day out for years:

Get up, grab a coffee, go to work, go for post-work beers or go home, make dinner (or have leftovers), have another beer, watch something, go to bed, only to repeat the next day like clockwork, until the weekend comes and you do nothing because you've got all these plans but after a week spent putting money in someone else's pocket (let's face it, capitalism) you're exhausted, and blah, and don't have the energy because you're bored. Well and truly bored.

Yes, I think I'd like to be bored. I'd like to be blah. I'd like not to have made it through puberty with my sanity intact (which I did, if you're wondering) only to be thrown back in soon after. Thrown to the wolves if you will. (Hah!)

A little context may be needed here: I am a wolf. (Find a mirror, look at your face, imagine me laughing at your expression, then come back.) I'm not a wolf wolf. I'm still human. I'm a werewolf. Of sorts. A shifter.

Now, I could get into the history (I know it all) and I could tell you all the names of the previous shifters (the ones we know about, and yes, I know all of them), or I could give you the summarised series of events that led to my people becoming shifters in the first place (please, at this stage just assume I know everything and you know nothing) but for me to do that, I'd have to trust you. I'd have to trust you: deserved the information; would keep it a secret; weren't taking more of me than you should have.

So suck it, that's all you get: I'm a wolf. (Alright, I'm breaking my rule to let you in on this intrinsically important piece of info: I'm the first female shifter (that we know of) in history.) That's all the context I'm giving you. Pick the rest up as we go, okay?

Anyway. I digress.

There's not much time to be bored (see: bored, defined by me a few paragraphs ago. I'm sorry if I'm assuming you can't keep up; I share too many thoughts with people who cannot keep up) when you're being flooded with hormones, anger, other people's thoughts and emotions and hormones, all at the glorious age of nineteen, a year after your childhood sweetheart broke off what was by all accounts (save an actual, real-life ring) supposed to be Marriage and Kids and Growing Old Together, only to shack up with your cousin to have Marriage and Kids and Growing Old Together.

(Note: cousin, who was supposed to be Maid of Honour. Pause, so that can sink in. Yep ... first cousin. Pause, for sinking ... By all accounts a sister. Soak it up. I expect indignation, anger, or at least a quirk of your brows at the news.)

Where was I?

Boredom. Right. I would like to be bored: that kind of bored. Or excited: good excited.

I'd like kind of excitement you get when you're in a really good patch of life, getting to experience good feelings. Bright feelings. Feelings that were so much harder for me after Sam left (that's his name. I know. I was left by Sam. I could have at least chosen someone with a less boring name to have my heart ripped out by), when my friends slowly but surely decided it was "true love" and "Sam had broken up with [me] before he got together with Emily" and "Sam did nurse her through the bear attack".

"Which HE caused!" I want to yell now that I know the truth. "Which HE fucking CAUSED!" But I don't, because rule number one of being a wolf: don't talk about being a wolf. It's a little like Fight Club, except ... No, it's exactly like Fight Club, actually, toxic masculinity et al.

It was harder after all of that, but I haven't felt bored or excited about many things at all since "The Loss", which is different to "the loss". I mean, it's not even been that it's hard, it's just ... not there to be had most of the time and when it is, it's because someone else is feeling it.

You do need more context for "The Loss". (See, I'm catching you up - you're getting it as we go along, just like I promised!)

"The Loss" is what I call losing my dad. Harry Clearwater. Out of the blue. Heart Attack, Nothing To Be Done. I call it "The Loss" because otherwise the rage and sadness and pain I feel can overwhelm me sometimes when I think about what actually happened. I share a pack mind with a group of teenage boys (and Sam, who left me for Emily, who is my defacto Alpha since Jacob won't take his rightful place and shut Sam the hell up) and if there's one thing we all know about teenagers, it's that they can be cruel and callous, and (if you didn't know, now you do) really, really shit at consoling people.

I'm talking: pity, pity, pity, "Why is it still happening?", "This is really awkward", "Are those tears?", "Do I pat her on the back, or...?", "Anndd, I've just remembered: under all that fur, she's a naked girl", shit at consoling people. And that was on a good day. That was when they weren't talking about how-

I won't add any more. I'll let you make your own mind up about them as we go along: the boys; my Pack.

After "The Loss", I've found it harder and harder to relate to who I was, to find those pieces of boredom or excitement I used to take for granted. Anger comes more easily. I wear it as a shield because I'd rather be angry and push people away than be sad and have them leave because they're bored of my sadness.

Moving on...

The hits just keep coming for me:

Sam;

Emily;

Dad;

Become a werewolf while I'm in the midst of overwhelming grief;

Get to listen to my ex preach on and on about how much he loves me but how much more he loves my cousin;

Listen to him justify himself by saying: "Imprinting steers you in the right direction. Emily and I would have one day been together, this just put us on the right track now." (I'm not the only one who thinks that's worse than saying "I love her more", am I?);

The pity turning to distaste, turning to dislike, slowly, ever so slowly coming full circle when the Pack realised imprinting didn't necessarily mean Marriage and Kids and Growing Old Together unless Emily wanted it to;

Seth (little brother, love him, amazing human and all-round good guy) becomes a wolf at the tender age of fifteen;

One new friend who stuck by me (lovely, bit hardheaded at times, stubborn, likes the occasional cigarette, beautiful inside and out but beware if you cross her, will give you the shirt off her back if only to spite you, holds a grudge) turns out to be marrying a vampire (mortal enemy, kind of alright guy in the end if not for him being a vampire, got himself bitten while on a vampire hunt so a bit ironic but can't fault him for trying);

And I get to also share a Pack mind (in wolf form only, thank goodness) with upwards of one mopey, lovelorn teenage boy at a time who's acting out his half of Romeo and Juliet to an audience of whoever's unfortunate enough to be in wolf form when he is.

(Ah, Jacob. Now, I do feel sorry for Jacob. He's kind of the closest I have to someone who empathises with me. Not sympathises. Empathises. There's a difference. More on him later, I think. He's the current Sir Mopes-a-Lot.)

I'm kind of known as the "hateful" one in the Pack, but I think that's kind of unfair. Let me give you the rundown: Flashes of intense anger, find solace in making people sad or hurt, spiteful, violent streak, not really a bad person deep down but uses anger as a shield. Sound familiar? Yeah, that's me, right? NO. It's Paul. But he's a guy and I'm a woman, and so I'm the one in the wrong when for him to do any of that same stuff, he's just a teenage boy who's a wolf now and struggling to contain himself.

I don't think I'm a horrible person really, not deep down, I just don't think people should be stuck listening to each others' thoughts because of course my thoughts aren't going to be good when I'm stuck listening to Emily's Greatest Hits for hours on end.

I just don't think I should be forced to listen to a bunch of peoples' innermost thoughts, and I don't think they should be listening to mine, either.

How is that fair? How is any of this okay? I have to lose everything I love (except Seth, and Mom, who I love but still treats Emily at the kitchen table and still manages to subtly suggest that Emily-)

I'm going to quit while I'm ahead.

There is no privacy. None. The only privacy I get is by covering my actual thoughts with louder thoughts, and what louder thoughts are there except: Here's something you don't want to hear today.

My cellphone is buzzing incessantly against my leg, annoying me, annoying the guys. It's been annoying us for the past hour. Every fifteen minutes it buzzes away against my ankle in the little bag of clothes and essentials I keep tied to myself at all times when I've phased. But as it's annoying them just as much as it is me, I'm not doing anything about it.

Would you shut that thing off?: Jared. Annoyed.

Fuck's sake, Leah! The buzzing's killing me!: Paul. Angry.

It'll stop soon, calm down before you find a way to double shift: Me. Secretly, not so secretly, amused.

We all know it's not an emergency because everyone In The Know knows to let it ring three times, hang up, another three, hang up, another three, wait.

Because it's not an emergency, Paul and Jared can't make me phase back to answer it, and, because Sam made Jacob Beta after he refused to take over as Alpha (Jacob: Sir Mopes-a-Lot, scion of a long line of Alphas, should be Alpha by birthright but, as I mentioned, lovelorn and moping), Jared isn't Beta anymore so he can't let me finish my patrol early.

So we're stuck here until I clock off in ten minutes.

Nine, Jared growls through the Pack mind. You have nine minutes left.

And you have six hours, I say back and instantly regret it as thoughts of Kim (imprint: forced love of his life; the person he claims he breathes for; his sun; perfection in his eyes; all-around pretty person: pretty nice, pretty shy, pretty pretty, pretty smart, pretty stuck with Jared) flood my thoughts. Can you keep it down!?

No, he thinks. I can tell he's grinning and that annoys me more. You can shift and turn off your cell if you don't like it. I'm perfectly happy as I am.

I'm not, Paul grumbles, and then thoughts of Rachel (imprint: forced love of his life; the person he claims he breathes for; his sun; perfection in his eyes; all-around very person: very nice, very kind, very confident, very beautiful, very much Jacob's older sister, very much stuck by me through the Sam and Emily thing even though she was studying in Seattle at the time, very much a twin to a woman who skipped town for Hawaii and got married to a surfer out there, very much a woman who wants to leave La Push as soon as her imprint can control his anger enough to resume full-time occupancy of a human form, very much stuck with Paul) take up residency, trying to out-think Jared.

The buzzing stops. We all breathe a sigh of relief. All goes quiet.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE I'M GOING TO DESTROY THAT THING: Paul. Incensed. Running in my direction. He's a kilometre away, I can see it. I hadn't planned on reminding the boys that I can outrun them on a slow day for a little while, but here I am, paws to the ground, pounding and racing through the trees so quickly that they blur around me. COME BACK HERE!

CATCH ME, SLOW-POKE!

Jared comes at me from the right. He was careful not to give too much away with my concentration on Paul, but I catch a glimpse of his heading right before he launches into motion and pitch myself in the opposite direction, speeding towards La Push. Towards home, like a childish (wolfish) game of It that I'll never lose.

I reach home before them. Home, with Mom standing on the back porch, watering can in one hand, the leaf of a plant she was inspecting in the other.

I skid to a halt, dirt and grass flying everywhere, bathing my fur in dark, earthy muskiness while the boys yell profanities through our minds, still running their little hearts out behind me. (Bless them.)

Mom stares at me. I stare at her. She blinks. I blink. She sighs. I trot up the back steps and straight through the door which she holds open for me, squeezing my way through the cramped entrance because I'm a wolf the size of a decent-sized shire horse and it's a door made for above-average height humans.

"I wish you wouldn't antagonise them," Mom murmurs, possibly forgetting the range and strength of my wolf-hearing.

Turning my head when I'm through, my ears pricked up, I narrow eyes the same shade as, and approximately five to ten times larger than, hers. As a human I'm taller than her. As a wolf, I dwarf her. No one seems to have told her this because she stands there, holding the watering can like she's debating hosing me down in the kitchen, defiantly meeting my eye.

"I said what I said," she says.

Hey!: Jared. Not happy he lost. Even less happy I'm being blamed for our game.

Not cool!: Paul. Grumbling. Why's it always your fault?

And that's why people should give Paul a chance: he takes credit where credit's due, and if anyone's getting credit for fucking with people, he wants to be the one to get it.

Exactly, he replies. Kudos for getting in the door by the way.

I'm small, I remind him bitterly, padding on all four paws through the kitchen, tracking dirt and grass across the floor.

I'll have to clean it up later if Mom doesn't take pity on me, but I'm in now and I'm not going to phase back and be naked in the middle of the house. I'm not Seth.

Cue: laughter. Jared and Paul this time, because if there's something to be laughed at, you can bet your bottom dollar they'll be laughing at it.

Two minutes before I can shift back.

One, Jared says, showing me that he's at the edge of the treeline and can see straight into the house. Cover yourself before you give some poor unsuspecting Elder the shock of their lives, would you?

What, can't handle a little flesh?

Paul barks out a laugh.

It's the fur I'm more worried about, Jared thinks, his amusement winning over annoyance. See you next time, Clearwater.

Not if I see you first.

Dropping to my belly behind the couch, I let my body do its thing: shifting uncomfortably, near-instantly now, back into human form. Reaching up a hand for the patterned, patchwork throw Mom's kept folded over the back of whichever couch we have since before I can remember, I tug it down over myself while I change.

Mom walks into the living room right as I pop up from my hiding place, dressed in a tee and shorts, covered in dirt and grass, refolding the blanket.

She's dressed in a floral dress which floats out around her calves and somehow gives the impression that she's only ever two words away from offering you a lavender scented hug. Her hair is perfect as always, long, thick, dark, secured in a braid at her nape, concealing the recent and premature addition of a cluster of white hairs.

"Mucky pup," she says under her breath with an affectionate smile, then raises her voice. "What was that about, or do I not want to ask?"

I shrug. "Cell kept going, annoyed the guys. Paul and Jared say hi by the way, and take full responsibility for my actions."

"Of course they do," she says, rolling her eyes. "They're not going to clean my nice floor though, are they?"

"Nope." Laying down the blanket, I brush past her on my way to the shower.

Mom stops me, laying a hand on my arm. "I'm glad you're getting along better."

"You're glad I'm not being bullied for being a girl, you mean?"

Deep breath, in and out. "Yes, I s'pose I do."

Here's where the conversation could either keep going, or it could end. A brief pause becomes a long pause. Neither of us says anything because:

1 - I'm not sure what to say.

2 - She's not sure what to say.

3 - We're not arguing at the moment.

I break the awkward silence with an even more awkward question: "Charlie coming by later?"

Mom nods. "I think so..." She shuffles her feet. "You don't mind, do you?"

I don't mind: That you're getting closer to Charlie, that people are wondering if something might happen between you, that this is all happening within months of Dad being gone, that you're smiling and happy again when he's around, or that you're afraid any of the above suggests you didn't love Dad as much as you very obviously did?

"Why would I mind?" I ask. "Doing anything fun?"

"Probably just watch something, have a beer ... I'm making a casserole if you're in?"

"No."

She visibly deflates.

"I'm not avoiding you," I say. Throwing a hand through my hair, it encounters resistance and I retrieve a stray twig from the mass. Mom holds her hand out for it, I drop it in her palm like an offering. "I'm staying at mine tonight."

It'll be quieter.

"Ah, it'll be quieter," Mom says, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. "I wish you wouldn't call it that though. This is your home, that's..."

"Carys' place?"

"Exactly."

"We've talked about this." Cue: exasperation and pushing it down. "I'm renting it."

"For a hundred dollars a month?"

"Yes." I nod, slowly. "A hundred dollars a month while she's gone."

"Which is potentially going to be forever?"

I don't want to think about that. "It's for as long as she's gone," I repeat. "And it's only that cheap because I have to suffer through the stench of vamp." Which is a bigger price to pay than renting the sucker, that's for sure, but it's worth it for the peace and quiet and seeing how much it annoys the other wolves.

The coward (Carys, friend, spitefully kind) didn't even bother to give it to me herself, just had Carlisle (vampire, ironic change) give Esme (his ... sister, vampire, mortal enemy) give me the keys and a calligraphed note at the end of their wedding last week.

"Well..." Mom hovers, not content with the conversation ending there, unsure how to continue it without getting into another argument about accepting a house owned by a vampire bride when she herself likes Carys more than most. "Have fun..."

"You too."

It's not long until I'm under the steady flow of hot water (which ceases to be hot when you run at one-oh-eight Fahrenheit as standard), letting the day wash down the drain and turning my attention inwards as my muscles relax.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Leah Clearwater emerges from the ether.

It's easier to be her (Leah. Real Leah.) when I'm all alone and there's no one watching or talking. When I'm alone I can shut out all the noise and just exist. I can get caught up in daydreams and wishes, let my guard down for a little bit. Under the flow of water, my tears are drowned out and if I smile, no one looks at me like I'm about to say something vindictive just for the sake of it.

I shut off the spray before I get an earful from Seth for wasting all the hot water, wrap myself up in one of the big towels, try to ignore how it still manages to smell a little bit like Dad even though Mom can't pick it up anymore with her fully human nose.

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, the air thick with moisture, steam swirling around me, I stare at nothing in particular. The door. The sink. The floor. Everything sort of melts away when I'm her. Sometimes I have so much to think about that it can't all run at the same time, but others, like now, no matter how hard I try to think of something, there's nothing.

It worries me a little: when there's nothing.

Am I becoming nothing? Or am I already there?

My cell is on the floor behind the couch, waiting for me when I return with a bag slung over my shoulder. Mom's in the kitchen, Charlie's low voice rising through the air between her quiet little laughs, as if they're worried about being too loud. They shouldn't bother. We all know there's something going on, even if they're not ready to admit it, even if they're not ready to think about how they feel, talk about how they feel.

I don't know how I feel about it, but I don't hate it exactly. Is that hypocritical? Is that wrong? It's not like I want them to be together, but I don't want Mom to waste away, and Charlie stopped her from wasting away.

They're friends. They'll always be friends. They always were.

I might hate it if anything changes. I know I'll hate it if anything officially changes.

The same name flashes across the screen as I scroll through the five missed calls: Carys Vale.

No new messages.

Why would Carys call me five times on her honeymoon without leaving a message? Probably to chat. He wouldn't have changed her, right? She wasn't going to do that for a while yet. Months.

Returning her call, I wait and try not to let panic take over. She'll have been calling for something small like to see how I like her house. It is her house, no matter what I said to Mom, even though Carys thought to leave me a new mattress and bedcovers, all in their plastic wrapping, laid on the bed so I wouldn't have to buy new ones if I accepted her gift.

That was another reason I took it: it was so neatly packaged, so carefully thought out, the cloying scents of bleach and expensive odour remover heavy in the air despite the open windows when I arrived. It was like a little new beginning. A spitefully well packaged little slice of peace and quiet, reminding me of all the times I went there to get just that: before becoming a wolf, a lot; after becoming a wolf, not so much until recently.

The call rings through to a voicemail telling me she's easier to get a hold of by text. I shut it off without leaving a message and call back.

She picks up on the second ring: "Hello? Leah?"

"Who else would be returning your fifty calls?" I snap. And then, because she still sounds human, I admit what I would never admit to anyone else. "You scared me."

Did Carlisle give Leah the house? Yes. Does Leah know this? No. Would Carys have given Leah the house if I'd remembered that incredibly important plot point before? Yes.