Becky couldn't think of anyone who would call her a creature of habit. In the women's locker room, she was one of the most spontaneous ones, always up for a late movie or an evening out. On most nights, anyway. Every full moon night, the saying became very apt and she was very much a creature defined by habit—emphasis on creature. She would usually make an excuse a few other times in the month just so her friends didn't make any connection between her absences and the full moon, and thus far she hadn't had a problem.
Up to that point, though, WWE had never had to relocate a show on short notice, at least not as long as she had been working for them. But a tornado had almost torn the arena in half, so they quickly booked one in the next closest city and did their best to honour all the existing tickets. It sucked for the fans who couldn't make the extra journey, although they at least had the option of getting a refund. She was left scrambling to find another location where she could shift; the one she had meticulously researched was too far away for her to make it back to the hotel before the morning meeting. A shift was mentally and physically draining, and she usually had to spend at least an hour or so recovering in her car.
The prospect of shifting in an unknown place had her on edge all night, making her grateful she didn't have a match, only an interview and a brief altercation. She could already feel her control starting to wane, and if she'd had to fight Natalya for real, the Queen of Hearts might have found herself with her heart not on her sleeve but on the floor—or worse, in Becky's mouth. "Hey, Becks." As if on cue, Natalya came up and hugged her. "Are you okay? You're looking a little pale."
"Ha! Nice one, Nattie." Becky's last attempt at a spray tan hadn't gone so well, and while she wasn't as violently orange as she could be, the difference between her natural skin tone and the fake tan was glaringly evident around her armpits, so she had switched up her gear to cover her upper arms.
Natalya frowned a bit. "I'm serious. You're not looking so good. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're always beautiful, but you look a bit under the weather. Are you not feeling well? We can ask if you can film your bit backstage and I can just say you're a coward for not coming out to face me. We should be able to bump the confrontation to next week. . . ."
Becky shook her head. The bosses were finally starting to take her seriously, in large part due to the swell of fan support she had online. She couldn't afford to squander a single opportunity now. "I'll be fine," she promised. Natalya was someone she knew from her earliest wrestling days in Canada, and she trusted her implicitly in the ring, which made her feel a bit better. "Just maybe avoid gut shots if you can?"
"You got it." Smiling, Natalya kissed her cheek. "But if you need to switch things up, just let me know and we can go talk to someone. I'm sure we can think of a quick fix."
It was an utter slog and she was sweating by the end of it, which wasn't like her, but Becky got through it. After thanking Natalya quietly backstage, Becky headed to Paul Heyman's office. "Paul, I'm not—"
"Lynch. You look like shit." As Paul rose, he made an apologetic gesture. "You know what I mean. What's wrong?"
Wrapping an arm around her stomach, Becky drew on all her acting skills. "I'm not sure. I think it's just a flu. Maybe something I ate? But I'm not feeling great. If you don't need me for the rest of the night, do you mind if I take off?"
Paul shook his head. "You're done. Did you want to check in with the doctor first and get looked over?"
Becky shook her head so quickly it made her dizzy, and she had to brace herself against the door frame. "No. I'm sure it's nothing a hot shower and some extra sleep won't fix. If I'm not better by tomorrow, though, I'll see the doc. I promise."
"Okay." Paul didn't look convinced. "Do you want someone to drive you to the hotel? There's plenty of people to spare."
"I don't want to be a bother." Becky gave him a strained smile. Can't be here, can't be here! throbbed in her head like a second pulse, and she felt her knuckles start to pop. "The hotel's not far. I'll be fine. But thank you. Can you please ask one of the girls to drive Charlotte back to the hotel so I can take our rental, though?"
He gave her a dubious look, but eventually Paul nodded. "Okay. If you change your mind, just call. Pull off to the side of the road and call me and I'll have someone come meet you, okay?"
"I will. Thank you." Becky backed out of the office and staggered to the women's locker room, debating how hard her ring gear would be to get off in the forest. If her sweat dried much more, it would be an utter pain, and then she would have to explain to Wardrobe why her gear had claw marks running through it. In the locker room, she forced herself to strip down and take a cool shower—if she could lower her body temperature, it would help hold off the change for a bit—before changing into yoga pants and a loose t-shirt. It was a cooler night, but she wore flip-flops as well, making sure everything she was wearing was not only easy to take off in a hurry but also to put on with shaking hands that used to be paws.
I must look REALLY BAD, Becky thought as she hurried to the parking lot. Normally everyone from fellow wrestlers to sound crew members chatted with her on her way out, but now everyone she passed just said quick goodbyes and that they hoped she felt better soon. Why did the full moon have to be TONIGHT? It hadn't been on a Monday for so long that she almost forgot how to cope on a wrestling night.
"Dad, you never said there would be nights like these," Becky muttered as she drove to the nearest wooded area she'd been able to find on a map. She had inherited her lycanthropy from her father, which was the main reason her mother made sure Becky always had access to him, and when Becky first fell in love with wrestling, she figured her father would be the first to discourage her. On the contrary, he thought it might hone her control of her wolf even more and even paid for her first wrestling lessons.
She had planned to drive out further, but she swerved as soon as the cramps set in, coming to a stop just before a tree. "This'll have to do," she muttered, grabbing a large tote bag that held a towel and a few bottles of water; her gear bag was stowed in the trunk and she thought she heard her cell phone ringing, but it would have to wait. "Sorry, Charlotte," she hissed as she shut the driver's door and headed into the woods. "I need a different type of bitch session right now."
Becky found a tree with lots of thick lower branches and took a quick glance around to make sure there wasn't anyone in the vicinity. She hadn't seen the kind of casual garbage that would imply a lot of human traffic—gum wrappers, condoms, tissues—but it was better to be safe. When she couldn't put it off any longer, she stripped down to the skin and put everything in the tote bag, stashing it in the highest branches she could reach and tucking it out of sight. Then she dropped to the ground and welcomed the wolf.
Movies never seemed to get it right. They always made the transformation look either majestic and wondrous or brutal and grotesque. Becky likened it more to a strenuous workout: the more often you did it, the easier it became. Since she had been transforming since puberty, she had almost two decades of experience. That certainly made it easier in some ways, but it still held a hint of magic for her. All she had to do was push: push her muscles to their limits, push her human essence to the side, push the idea of fur and claws to the forefront of her brain, and then her body would twist and writhe and before she knew it, she had four feet on the ground and a swirling universe of scents in her nose.
She took off at a light lope at first, swishing her tail back and forth happily. One of Becky's favourite parts of any WWE tour in Europe was being able to run with her father and brother and cousins again. She had met a few werewolves in the States that she trusted with her secret, but running with them almost felt business-like. It reminded her of being a kid and being expected to play nice with the neighbour's children just because her mother was friends with theirs; there was no real connection aside from one common bond, and that was forced upon them. Even when she was in the other werewolves' respective home zones, she only got in touch to let them know she would be shifting in the area so they didn't mistake her as a threat; if they asked her to run with them, she occasionally agreed, but more often than not she ran alone, letting the wind and the trees be her company.
Further and further she raced through the trees, up a gentle incline that looked like it had been carved out by a long-ago river. The scents were deeper there, richer and so pure that she almost didn't catch the intrusion into her wild wonderland.
"Hello?" It was only one human, so the voice didn't carry far, but Becky could tell that it was a man's voice, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. When he called out again, she started skulking her way back down to the lower forest, but by the time her car was in sight, she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary but taillights in the distance. Someone must have spotted her car—and the shitty parking job—and thought she might need assistance. She shivered a bit at the idea. On any other night, she would be grateful for the person's thoughtfulness, but if she had been much closer, the person might have felt threatened by seeing a wolf so close—and if she had picked up on his fear. . . .
Becky shook her head and huffed out a long breath. He hadn't seen her, so there was nothing to worry about, and she let out a modest howl to remind herself that the night was young and all the discomfort she had felt earlier had been burned away by the change. Now she just had to run and enjoy the night, shift back, find a place where her car could sit for an hour or so undisturbed while she recuperated, and then get back to the hotel.
But then another all-too-human sound invaded: a car door slamming shut. Becky slunk closer to her car, but there was no one near it and no signs of tampering. Heading back up into better cover, she followed the curve of the road until she saw an SUV pulled to the side—with a much better parking job than she had managed. Late night traveller, she thought, the words coming slowly to her wolf brain. Probably pulled over to have a piss. But then she heard the distinctive rustle of a plastic bag. Unless the person was very fastidious and brought toilet paper, why would they need to take a bag along with them? She crept under the low branches of a pine tree, growling irritably when some of the needles caught in her fur, and watched the SUV intently.
She recognized the man's paranoia, looking right and left for anyone who might be watching, then looking again in case he had missed something the first time. She recognized the possessive hold on the bag, as if it were his life line. She recognized the sound of quickened breathing and the taste of anxiety and anticipation that the man's sweat put into the air. More than that, she recognized the scent of wrestling: the singular smells of the mats, the ropes, the turnbuckles that never came out after just one shower, at least not to a werewolf's keen nose.
Had one of her friends followed her? Had Paul sent someone after her, thinking she might not be able to make it back to the hotel? Staying low to the ground, Becky prowled closer and closer, taking in more of his scent as she crept closer. There were two opposing scents her brain couldn't reconcile, though: wolf and Seth. She was close enough now to see that it was Seth, wearing one of his wrestling t-shirts and . . . sweat pants? That didn't seem right. He had been in a skinny jeans phase of late, not that Becky spent much time checking out what he was wearing—or him in general.
The loose-fitting clothing made her think of her tote, stowed in a tree back by her car. Comfortable shirt and yoga pants so they were easy to get on and off. And Seth's shirt was currently coming off, followed by his shoes—sneakers, not flip-flops like she had chosen—and then his sweat pants. Becky had always made a point not to look at her family members when they were shedding clothes or putting them back on; some glimpses of nudity were unavoidable, but they all tried to give each other privacy. On the rare occasions she had shifted with some of the werewolves she had met in North America, they had always shifted in separate areas out of politeness. This was the first time she would see the process from beginning to end.
No, I won't. Becky shuffled back a bit, still watching Seth rotate his shoulders back and forth. I have to leave. If she was quick, if she left that very moment, Seth would be in the midst of his transformation when he finally noticed her, too preoccupied to follow. She could start forcing herself back mid-run, pull on her shirt and pants, and drive off before he even knew. . . .
But if I can smell him from here, he's going to notice me as soon as he turns. . . . When he crouched down, looking like a sprinter ready to jump off the blocks, Becky allowed herself one last look before taking off.
"Wait!" Seth's voice was strangled by the change, his human throat already half-changed, but it was clear enough that Becky could tell it was more curious than demanding. She didn't let her slow her down, though, especially when she felt the familiar warm shiver of energy that came from another werewolf transforming in close proximity. Like natural wolves, werewolves were social creatures; if one was having difficulty transforming, their packmates could aid their transition with their energy.
Be slow, be slow. It was a futile wish, she knew. In human form, Seth was strong enough to last through Iron Man matches, so his wolf form was likely no different. She could only hope she'd had enough of a head start that she could reach her bag. Then what? Stopping to change and get dressed would waste time. Running with her tote in her mouth would slow her down and give Seth time to track her. That was where strength in numbers came into effect: If she'd had a pack with her, one wolf could lead him away while giving her a chance to escape.
Arms. Becky forced the thought through her body when it resisted. Fingers. She thought of only human things as she ran, dredging up the energy to change back while in motion. It was risky, but it felt like her best bet. Of course, if anyone else happened to be around, they were going to see a naked woman running in the forest, but since most humans' brains couldn't process the change, at least she only had to worry about being embarrassed, not having her secret blown.
By the time she reached her tree, Becky had fully changed back to her human form, stumbling as she adjusted to the abruptly different legs. Seth was still following her, though, so she scrambled up the tree, hissing in pain as the rough bark scratched at her bare skin. She was going to have some interesting abrasions in some very awkward places tomorrow, but that was tomorrow's problem. For now, she concentrated on finding a branch she could sit on, leaning against the trunk of the tree as she caught her breath.
Any hopes that Seth would have lost her trail were dashed when she caught a flash of fur down below. His coat was a mixture of rusty reds and dark browns, and the urge to see it more fully almost made her push a branch aside. She stayed quiet, though, gingerly pulling her shirt out of the tote and wriggling into it; she could forgo the bra and panties if she had to, and even the flip-flops, but driving naked was a surefire way to draw unwanted attention. Sap and sweat clung to her skin, but she didn't dare open a bottle of water to give herself a quick wash; that would all have to wait until she got to the hotel.
How did I not know? Werewolves generally smelled different around a full moon, and she had seen Seth wrestle on plenty of full-moon nights; she should have been able to register the unique scent. As she pondered that and tried to pull on her yoga pants without losing her balance, the tote teetered perilously, and she barely managed to catch it.
A long, low, plaintive howl cut through the dark, one she knew well from her youth. It was the equivalent of a child saying Come play with me! or a teenager calling his friends to ask why they were late. Where are you? it said. Why aren't you here? Where did you go? The sentiments were all similar in a wolf's howl, but her brain parsed them out. Seth had been raised by his mother and step-father; if his werewolf gene was paternal like hers was, he might never have had the comfort of a pack. Of course he would jump at the chance to interact with another of his kind.
But Seth was also a darling of the McMahons, while Becky still struggled to get on the pre-show of pay-per-views. Being outed would destroy her career; he might have to take full-moon nights off, but he would bounce back soon enough. Still, her heart clenched every time he howled—not out of fear or even pity, but a sense of longing. Her family was never far from her thoughts around the full moon, and just hearing another werewolf howl—it was different than a regular wolf's, and they tended to regard her with a grudging respect—made her homesick. As she wrapped her arms around the tree's trunk to keep her balance, she felt tears prick her eyes.
Seth kept circling and howling, confused at how her trail had suddenly stopped, and he was starting to approach the trunk itself when a car door opened—and then another. "Hello? Anyone out there?" It was a woman's voice, clear and confident; Becky immediately envisioned a police officer or someone else in uniform, but she didn't dare move a branch to confirm her guess.
"Are you in trouble?" That was a man's voice, friendly enough but firm. "Do you need help? We have some gas if you ran out." Clearly they thought some tourist had taken a wrong turn, got lost, and needed assistance.
Seth froze as soon as he heard them and then took off back towards his SUV, but Becky caught a glimpse of him looking back forlornly; he hadn't wanted to give up on the trail or his serenade, but he didn't want to be discovered either. "Let's go, Fran. Maybe they started walking for help," the man said. It sounded like he was only metres away from the tree Becky was in, and she willed herself still.
"But it's so far in either direction. We would have seen them if they'd gone north," Fran protested. Her voice got quieter, though, and Becky angled herself just enough that she could see the couple walking away. She chanced grabbing her tote and clambering halfway down the tree. If they bothered looking back, they would have caught a glimpse of her shirt through the branches, but they both got into an SUV and drove in the direction Seth had gone.
Good. Shoeless, Becky quickly scrambled down to the forest floor and ran for her car, rummaging for her keys in the tote on the way. She usually left one of the rear doors unlocked in case she had to make a hasty getaway, but she would still need the keys to drive. Fighting the urge to look back was harder than she expected, though. Seth's howl had sounded so sad, so incomplete. Becky rarely howled to herself, mostly because she was used to the call-and-answer exchange of a pack. Hearing his cry and not replying felt like a betrayal somehow, a violation of her nature.
After she got in the car, Becky tossed the tote in the passenger seat, went into reverse, and did a rough turn to go back the way she came. She knew she must be a mess and the sudden change back to human was going to leave her depleted far faster than she liked, but she needed to get away from the scene and fast.
Her breath started to come in great heaving gulps, making her ribs ache, but she managed to make it back to the hotel without hitting anything. Luckily it was a hotel used to celebrity clientele, so it had a convenient rear door that celebrity guests' keycards could access. After she parked, put on her flip-flops, and grabbed both her bags, she shamelessly used the entrance she usually avoided on principle. All the luck that hadn't been with her in the forest came in one great rush: She didn't encounter anyone on the way to the elevator, she was able to ride up to her floor alone, and the glimpse she caught of herself in the hall mirror made her just look run down, not harried and exhausted—at least if you didn't take her eyes into account. They had gone dark with shame and uncertainty, and Becky avoided the mirrors the rest of the way to her suite.
The door was the last hurdle, the last thing she needed to put between herself and the world, and once she had it closed and locked behind her, Becky slumped to the floor, letting her bags fall where they may. It could have been mere minutes that passed or more than an hour, but Becky only moved when her phone rang. Then she struggled to sit up and dig in her main bag, but it went quiet by the time she found it. Becky breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was just Charlotte again, not Seth. Sorry, Char, she typed out. Super tired. Talk tomorrow over breakfast?
As she waited for Charlotte's reply, Becky staggered to her feet and peeled off her post-shift clothes, stuffing them in the tote. She would have loved a long, proper shower, but at that moment, she needed sleep more than anything. Charlotte's answer came in as Becky was setting out her toiletries for the morning: Sure thing. If you need anything tonight, babe, just let me know, ok? Becky sent back a thumbs-up and hoped Charlotte would leave it at that. Then she went to the shower, just using the spray to rinse off the sweat and sap; a few pine needles and leaves tumbled out of her hair, and she did her best to brush it out after she dried off.
On full-moon nights, her dreams were usually in wolf-vision, the colours and depth different than her human eyes were used to. That night, however, the sounds were what she remembered most, Seth's mournful howl and the silence that answered him.