Pack Mentality

Chapter 1

Boys will be boys. Holly knew that was bullshit, but she was told the same thing by doctor after doctor when she took Colby in to be assessed. "He's a growing young boy, ma'am," they would say, condescension rich in their voices. "He just has a lot of energy to wear off. He'll grow out of it eventually." Then they would recommend enrolling him in sports, as if their small town was just bursting at the seams with options. There were hardly enough kids to warrant having a school within the town limits, let alone recreational sports options. His gym teachers seemed to back up the doctors' assessments: "Colby is enthusiastic and always willing to learn and participate," they would say on report cards, "but often has time winding down at the end of physical activity."

It was a vicious cycle: the more sedate teachers—math ones, especially—would tell her that Colby needed more physical outlets, and the gym teachers would tell her he needed more restraint. She did what she could, making sure their backyard was well stocked with toys and sports equipment, but it never seemed to be enough. It wasn't until a member of Colby's biological father's family reached out to her that she got the slightest hint of the magnitude of what was going on with her son.

"He has werewolf genes." The man was a cousin of some sort to her former partner, and she only knew him as Michael, though she imagined that was likely an Anglicized version of his name. "We don't start to shapeshift until puberty. I thought you would have a few more years, but kids are developing so quickly now. . . ."

"Michael, please be serious. This is my son we're talking about. I know your cousin and I didn't end things on great terms, but Colby doesn't deserve to suffer for that." Holly had only agreed to the meeting in Davenport in hopes that Michael would be able to provide a family medical history that she could then take to the doctor so Colby could get whatever tests or treatments he needed. His moods were already getting dark and brooding like a teenager's, and he had accidentally punched a hole in a wall when he was upset. "Is it congenital? Is it some disease that runs in the family? If you can't give me anything official for . . . for whatever reason, please just give me something to tell the doctor. The name of the condition. A symptom. Anything. Colby's a good kid, a sweet kid, but he gets so angry sometimes and he doesn't know why."

Michael stared down into his coffee. "I already told you, Holly. It's because he has werewolf genes. Normally we're born into a family—our very first pack. And that's where we learn how to shift, how to deal with our dual natures. Colby hasn't had that guidance, so he's just doing whatever makes him feel better in the moment."

Holly rose with a huff. "Thanks for nothing, Michael." She had paid for a babysitter, for gas to drive to Davenport, for parking and for lackluster coffee, and all he had to say for himself was some psychological delusion? She didn't have time to indulge his power fantasies.

"Holly, wait." Michael stood so abruptly his chair clattered to the ground, and other people in the café glared in his direction. Strange how they didn't bat an eyelash over a conversation about werewolves, but apparently a fallen chair was a punishable offence. "I can't do much. I know that's not fair, and I apologize for that. But this should help." He reached into his thick coat and pulled out two books. The first had a golden cover with an almost velvet-like texture, and looked like a personal journal; the other had a simple blue cover and obviously been bound cheaply, combining many different types, ages, and sizes of paper. "The yellow one is one of my early journals. In a proper pack, we are encouraged to chart our symptoms, our feelings. They different from person to person, but perhaps it will make Colby feel . . . less alone. The other is a collection of data. Things he'll have to avoid or watch out for, that sort of thing." He stopped short of handing them directly to Holly, choosing to set them on the table instead.

Shaking her head, Holly looked down at the books. "Why can't you just be honest, Michael? Why can't you just . . . just talk to him? I'll tell him not to bring up his biological father. He doesn't care about him anyway. Just be honest with him and give him the answers he needs!"

"I can't, Holly." For a moment, Michael seemed legitimately apologetic. "I shouldn't even be giving you these books. But the boy needs a pack—"

"He needs a family!" Holly grabbed the books and jammed them in her purse so forcefully that the back cover on the blue book bent and almost tore away. "And he has me, but I'm not enough! I've taken him to so many doctors. I've put him in sports. I've had him talk to therapists. And none of it helps!" She slumped back in her chair, head in her hands. She was doing her best to be a good mother, but this was a problem she couldn't find a solution for.

"I am sorry, Holly. Truly." Michael squeezed her shoulder for a moment before stepping aside. "Colby sounds like a smart boy. He must get that from you. It will help. The next few years will be hard, I won't lie, but I think you two can make it through together. You don't need a dozen people to be a pack. If you get the right person, a pack of two can be stronger than a pack of twenty or more. Be his pack."

Holly waited until she heard Michael's footsteps recede and the café's door chime closed before she raised her head. Mercifully, no one was watching their spectacle anymore; there was too much happening in Davenport for one domestic squabble to rank very highly, she guessed. "Be his pack," she echoed, frustration warping her voice. "Right." She stood just as one of the baristas started to approach, probably worried about her emotional state, and she headed straight for her car. She had promised Colby answers, and all she would be coming home with some books that probably weren't worth the paper they were printed on.