A Trickster in Truth

Reports of my death are greatly exagerated.

I withered on the ground, one grey furred hand clasping desperately a my heaving chest. My pink tongue lolled limply from my gasping mouth. The sharp end of a long spear dug into my side, pricking black skin under my thick coat.

From the other end of the spear, there was a puppyish giggle.

I cracked one yellow eye open, pausing in my death throws.

"Sorry, I'm paying attention." My little sister squeaked. The stick in her hand nearly threw her off balance as she tottered and poked me. We were sitting in a shaded clearing, dressed in Sunday best, lazing through the long days of summer. Well, Molly was in Sunday best, I was in my great grey furry coat. The hot sun beat down on my wolf-y shoulders.

"You're ruining a perfectly good death scene." I accused her. She shrugged her little shoulders and jabbed my side again.

"Why can't I ever be the wolf?" She huffed. I sighed, rolling over onto my stomach. My little sister's name is Molly, ten years and multiple scoldings did nothing against her impervious belief that everything should be instant. As soon as it is known, it should happen. She crashed my bike when she was six, determined to get off the training wheels. She threw her whole being into getting out of diapers as soon as she found out they were for little kids, and stubbornly refused to believe patience was a virtue.

"You can't shift until you're thirteen, you know that." I nudged her arm with a great furry paw, pushing her over into the grass. She giggled again, smoothing out her pink, lacy dress. We had just got back from Sunday church and immediately launched into a game of imagination in the woods behind our house.

"When did you shift first, Micky?" My name was actually Michael, but Molly insisted it had been changed to Micky as soon as my back was turned.

"When I was twelve." I boasted. Werewolves first shift when they hit puberty. First you get acne, then you sprout sharp teeth and hairy ears. It's different for all wolves.

"Then why do I have to wait 'till I'm thirteen?" Molly pressed. I shrugged as best I could sprawled out on the grass.

"Go ask mum." I snorted, resting my chin on my forearm. Molly hopped to her feet, trotting off to the house with the long, pointy stick in her hand digging a furrow behind.

I huffed again and closed my eyes. I was fifteen now, I'd be starting grade 10 as soon as summer ended. What a horrible word, End. A limit, a line with nothing behind it.

I stretched my long legs and melted into the warm grass. My wolf form was just over six feet tall, ash grey fur crawled over every inch of my body, mixed in with specks of brown and black. It was more interesting then my 5ft 10inch, mousy-haired human self. I loved this form best, caught between human and wolf, in the middle, no end in sight.

Most shifters have three forms; Human, Mix and Feral. It meant we could blend in as normal people or normal animals if we needed to, but you can't talk when you're Feral and you can't howl when you're Human. Mix is the perfect inbetween, but we can't risk it in public. Mum would throw a fit if she found out I was like this in our own sheltered back yard.

"Michael..." A faint, strained voice called.

My eyes shot open, fur raising all over my body as I scanned the clearing. Empty.

Well, of course it's empty, the voice is far off, I can still hear it, strangled and thin, like it was so weak the wind ate at its corners and blurred its words.

"Michael..." I surged up on my hind legs, stretching high, ears pointed and quivering, nose twitching, eyes searching-

"Michael!" I jumped, twisting around. Molly pouted up at me, her little arms crossed over her chest. "Mommy wants to see you." I hid a sigh of relief. That's all it was, that thin, faint voice was just mom, standing at the back door, huffing and shouting for the middle child.