CHAPTER TWELVE
I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed in my cell. Hospital room. With my new diet, I have put on enough weight so that it doesn’t hurt to be human—especially the pointy bits like my knees, elbows, and bottom. With more flesh on them, my bones don’t ache or crunch against each other, and I no longer look like a female version of Skeletor. I still look childlike, but I have hope. My strength has rapidly improved, and I take every opportunity not only to stand up and make myself walk but also to stretch and make myself more flexible.
My body is adapting, and everything is less alien. I’ve still not gotten used to the whole not-having-fur. I’m always cold, but all in all, I’m physically doing okay.
Except my voice. Talking is more complicated than anticipated. At first, the doctors were puzzled over why I’m unable to speak. Many tests were done, and while there’s damage to my vocal cords—they are shot to shit—it doesn’t account for my unwillingness to speak. The problem is written off as a mental health issue. Emotional trauma. All those years I spent locked inside my head with my inner voice screaming, I would have given anything to speak. Now I find using my voice disconcerting. Hearing my voice is extremely strange and I avoid talking out loud. I am not used to expressing myself vocally with strangers. Like a wind-up toy, I force myself to speak when required. Otherwise, I’ll never get out of here.
This afternoon, the doctors—the council— want me to work on my shifting; they want me to shift back into my wolf form.
I’m shitting myself.
I worry that I won’t be able to turn back, or even worse, I’ll get stuck in my wolf form again. The fear is a living thing inside me, eating me up. No matter what the doctors say, I’m not reassured, but I’m aware that it’s something that I have to do.
I’ve got to wolf-up—pun intended.
I’m sure not waiting for a gaggle of doctors to stare at my naked human form, adding pressure to an already stressful situation. I’ve decided to shift on my own in my room.
I know, I know, I’m crazy.
I should wait or at least ask Owen for help. But the anticipation is freaking me out, and I need to get this shit over with. I puff out a nervous breath, wet my lips, hop off the bed, and square my shoulders. I glance about uneasily and remove my clothes. I don’t know if it would be better for me to be on my hands and knees. But standing here feels right.
I take a fortifying breath.
I scrunch my eyes closed and think of my wolf, my fur, my paws. I start to tingle all over. I embrace the feeling. It’s surprisingly invigorating, and between one breath and the next, I am in my wolf form.
I feel like I’ve come home.
I do a little stretch. Oh my God, look at that! I wiggle my bum in disbelief and my tail moves. Wow, look at that! I marvel at my once-lame back legs, which are now strong and sure underneath me. No pain! My muzzle opens, and my tongue lolls out in a happy grin. I twist in a sharp circle and gape at my strong legs. I flop to the floor, stunned. I squirm onto my back and wiggle each paw above me.
Wow. The magic fixed me…shit, the magic fixed me! I knew it would have done, but seeing is believing and I feel stunned, overwhelmed, and light-headed.
Dimly in the back of my head, I think that I’d better turn back; otherwise, I might stay as I am. Hell, it would be much easier to keep in wolf form. Simple. Unless they chuck me in another cage. I do a full-body shudder. Even thinking about it frightens the crap out of me. I can’t tempt fate. I scramble to my feet.
Sighing, I again close my eyes, and I imagine my human self. My pale hands and toes, and astonishingly I think of my pink hair.
God, the relief I feel when I stand on my two human feet. I grin and fist-pump. I did it! I did it! I’m a proper shifter. I promptly burst into tears.
That’s how Nanny Hound finds me—a naked, snotty mess.
“Forrest, are you alright? Did you…did you shift?” My lips tremble, and I nod. “Are they happy tears?” I wobble my head weirdly, nodding and shaking my head at the same time. Hell, I’m not sure. “You shouldn’t have done that alone…do you want some cake?”
“What’s wrong?” Jodie says as she comes into the room. She steps around Owen and eyes me up and down. I stand hunched and snivelling. I don’t bother to cover myself.
“Forrest shifted into her wolf and is feeling—”
“Why is she naked?”
“Shifters shift naked. Clothing doesn’t shift.”
“Oh, I have a potion for that.” Jodie rubs her hands together with a grin.
* * *
An hour later and I’m in the dining room, nestled at a table in the corner, my back to the wall. I’m next to the window, which overlooks the courtyard garden. When I arrived, they thoughtfully put me in a downstairs bedroom with access to the same courtyard.
The double doors to the kitchen swing open and Karen, a skinny blonde human nutritionist, shuffles across the room.
Karen gives me a nervous smile as she holds a plate of chicken, peas, and mashed potato in a white-fisted grip. I hum in approval—it has gravy.
Karen has been hired to sort out my dietary requirements. The poor lady is so frightened of me; her distress wafts around her, filling my nose, making me want to sneeze. I wiggle in my chair and attempt a reassuring smile. The human’s eyes dilate and go round. Her fear floods my senses.
I sag in my seat, pout, and glance down at the table as Karen’s whole body starts to shake; a pea rolls off the plate onto the floor. I wrinkle my nose at the pea, sadly wishing it goodbye. They don’t like it if I eat things off the floor. So the poor pea has to stay where it lands.
Karen places the plate in front of me with a clunk and quickly backs away. “Okay, F-Forrest, try to eat as much as you can.” I mouth the words “thank you” at the trembling Karen.
I smile again, this time at the plate. I practice on the chicken and this time try to show fewer teeth. Everything at the moment is practice. I will have to add my smiles to the never-ending list, and maybe practice in the mirror.
Clumsily I take hold of my utensil. I still find it hard to hold my fork; my hands are going to be useless for a while. I grimace as I struggle to rotate the fork. I make a fist and stab down, effectively spearing the chicken. The human squeaks and scampers away out of the room. I hunch my shoulders and cringe.
For fuck’s sake, why did I do that?
Owen, who is silently sitting opposite me, lets out a snort. I peek up at him. His eyes are crinkled in the corners and his lips twitch—he’s fighting back laughter. I pull a face in the direction Karen ran. I didn’t mean to frighten her.
He nods at my meal. “Don’t worry about it; eat up.” I don’t need telling twice. Hell, at least I’m trying to use the fork. It would be much quicker and easier to use my hands—again, not allowed.
I lift the speared chicken, almost going cross-eyed as I watch it, until I stuff the whole chunk into my mouth. I go in for another piece.
The hairs lift on the back of my neck.
The room is unnaturally quiet, and I glance up; the few people that are around are staring at me. What are they looking at?
I pull the plate towards me as I chew.
Owen lets out a little cough. “Forrest.” I meet his eyes; he’s frowning at me. I must have done something wrong again—when he pulls that face, it’s a good indication.
Oops, I’m growling. I stop, huff out a breath. My eyes dart about, doing a double-check to make sure that nobody is looking at my food. “Don’t worry; I’ve got your back, no one is gonna take your lunch.” I nod a thank you, trusting him, and continue eating. A happy hum replaces my growl.
With my stab technique, I finish eating within minutes. Not pretty but effective.
Owen excuses himself from the table. When he returns from the kitchen, the most fantastic thing happens: my empty plate is exchanged for a slab of chocolate cake.
Chocolate cake! I beam a smile at Owen.
I honest to God can hear angels singing; thi
s is a heavenly cake, and I am positive the cake has a glow around it. I take a bite. My eyes roll into the back of my head.
I decide from this moment on chocolate cake: Owen and myself, we’re best friends.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The meaty fist hits me directly in my face. Blood fills my mouth, and I snarl “You're not even trying,” Owen grumbles, the arsehole, his eyes narrow the sweat is dripping off his forehead.
“I so am trying!” I bare my bloody teeth at him, and he chuckles.
“Again. This time block my strike!” He comes at me again; he feints a punch to the left. Which I catch, and I block his blow to the right. But I miss his left hand, which catches me in the stomach. I oof out a breath and a pained groan.
Owen steps away and circles me. He’s so light on his feet for such a big guy. “Come on; fighting should come naturally to you. You're a shifter. Block me, hit me. You're fighting like a human.”
I growl.
I quickly dart away as he dives towards me, and I hit him on the jaw with my closed fist, finally making contact. My hand crunches. Owen stumbles backwards, and for a moment, I allow myself a little bit of pride. I made contact with his face. Go me.
My taped right hand throbs; I think his face broke my knuckle. Damn it, I should have used my palm to hit him.
Owen hits me again. “Stop getting ahead of yourself—one hit and the fight isn't over.” He narrows his eyes at me; his voice is laced with frustration. “Where are the combinations that we've been practising? The strongest part of your body is your legs, where are your kicks? Come on, Forrest, you can do better than this.” Owen taps me on the shoulder with his left fist; I brace myself so I don’t fall over. “Today, with me, you get it easy. It won't always be the case. Our life isn’t rainbows and kittens. Even sparring, you’ve gotta fight hard.” We go at it again.
I wobble slightly on my feet. Shit, I'm tired. But I force myself to focus. I watch his eyes, and I wait for an indication of what Owen's going to do next. I block his left and then block his right fist, which is heading again for my stomach. Owen tries to sweep my legs from underneath me, and I jump away. I go to punch him in the face with my left hand, and while he's blocking that move, I aim a palm-strike at his throat with my right. He blocks both. Owen doesn’t see my left shin coming as I kick him in the side, knocking him sideways. I follow that up with an elbow to his temple. Owen goes down on his knees.
I grin. Owen’s big fist hits me in the chest, and I find myself flat on the mat, unable to breathe.
I gawk up at the ceiling, gasping. It takes me a few minutes to learn how to take a full breath. Owen is sitting next to me. I roll my eyes to the side and glance at him. His dark skin is glistening, and he looks completely unruffled. Ha, I’m not glistening—I’m sure I look like I feel: a disgusting, sweaty mess.
“You did better,” he says, eyes sparkling. “You need to shift to heal that hand.” He nods at my now-swelling right hand. I grunt out my acknowledgement. “I will see you later tonight... movie night?” I can’t move my head to nod; I wiggle my finger in confirmation. “Great, I want to introduce you to Iron Man,” Owen says over his shoulder as he leaves. I scrunch my eyes closed. Even my hair is hurting.
I think I did better today.
It has been three weeks since I was finally away from the hospital of horrors, and I’m living with the hellhounds in an apartment building owned by John. It used to be a hotel on the seafront, but when it fell into disrepair a few years ago, John bought it and had it converted.
It now has sixteen self-contained apartments. It also has a modern gym with a pool. It’s a lovely building. I have one of the penthouse apartments, which has a fantastic private rooftop garden.
The building is tall, so it isn’t overlooked; the roof garden is perfect; and it has the most fantastic sea views on one side and a view of the city and the ocean amusement park on the other. That side of the building is crazy busy.
I often find myself sitting huddled outside and watching the world go by, the excited screams from the amusement park a steady piece of soothing background music. It's a confirmation that life exists outside my new prison walls.
The building is magically shielded; the ward stops the uninvited or people with ill intent from entering the building. The magic warns people away, and it can even zap them unconscious. If you look up, you can see the glittering gold of the ward like a dome around the whole building. It’s beautiful.
If you think about it, who in their right mind would want to attack somewhere that hellhounds live? You would have to be a complete crazy person with some kind of death wish. I am in the safest place imaginable.
The best way to describe my apartment is “modern bland.” I spend most of my time on the roof, bugging Owen, or like now—a sweaty mess splattered on the gym floor.
This afternoon, I’ve decided that while Owen is off doing what he does while not watching me, I am sneaking out.
I want to do something on my own, venture out and buy some clothes. Everything John has kindly gotten for me is a bit naff. I am sure some department-store personal shopper out there had a wonderful time picking out all the pretty outfits. Not that I am not grateful for everything—I am. John has been thoughtful in arranging my fancy clothing. But I can’t shake the urge to shop for myself and find my style.
I will probably order stuff online in the future, once I get to grips with using tech again. I need only a few things, as I want to wait until my weight has stabilised. I am still underweight but no longer skeletal. Gentle curves have replaced skin and bone, filling out my once-emaciated frame. Parts of me almost jiggle! I look like a woman instead of a child. Delicate and ultra-feminine, the outside clashes with the person I am inside, and my visage is an outright contradiction of what I imagined myself to look like, with no trace of the statuesque shifter I dreamed I would be.
At least my skinny arms have slightly more definition, and I’ve got good lean muscles developing.
I also want to explore the city without having my hellhound buddies escorting me. The urge to explore: to find out if there is more to the world than I have experienced so far.
I want the freedom to choose.
I spent fourteen years not only being a prisoner to my pack but also a prisoner to my wolf. I have a lot of things I want to do, and a lot of time to make up for; my life will not include hiding behind bodyguards or the dictates of the bloody council. If I don’t aim to gain a semblance of freedom in some form, I’m frightened that I will never learn to live. It’s easy to allow others to dictate my life. But how can I grow if my dreams aren't planted in the dirt? How can I grow if I have no human experiences and no mistakes?
The security risk to my person, I think, is low.
Nanny Hound will still lecture me when he finds out that I left the building on my own. But in my defence, I haven’t been working only on the walking-and-talking stuff; I have spent the last few weeks fight-training, with Owen and the other hellhounds. The fight training has massively helped improve my coordination and fitness. I might not be that good yet, nor at the standard I was as a kid. But I can handle myself. My mum insisted on fighting skills, so from the age of three, I learned the human fighting forms Krav Maga, Muay Thai, and the demon style Fbeed znvrhnjv.
Owen knows I’m not a pushover, and I’m certainly not a regular Princess break-a-nail-and-cry female shifter. Hell, he has spent weeks punching me in the face and throwing me around the gym. I’m a tough cookie. So I’m sneaking out.
* * *
I’ve finished my shopping, and although I haven’t bought much, I feel a real sense of achievement, shopping for myself. I guess it’s a milestone. I meander down a side street away from the main shopping area. I allow my shopping bags to bounce off my leg and swing as I wander. My eyes dart to each new thing, and my blood thrums with excitement.
I grind to a screeching halt.
Creatures grumble as they swerve around my motionless form...oops, I almost caused a pileup on th
e busy pavement. My brain has zero hope of scrounging up apologies, as my whole focus is on the glorious sight before me. My mouth fills with saliva and my face hits the window, and it squeaks as my nostrils squish against the glass. I can almost hear the angelic choir in the background. Eyes wide, I stare without blinking at the sight before me—oh my God, so many cakes! Homemade cakes.
The bell over the door jingles as I stumble inside. Mmm, cake. My nostrils flare with the scent of sugar, chocolate, and coffee. I’ve found a gem of a café; it’s fantastic, small, and quirky.
My eyes swing from cake to cake, then back again. I feel dizzy and overwhelmed at the choice.
I take a deep breath, which frankly doesn’t help.
I might have a cake problem.
I swallow my saliva and slowly back away from the display.
At the side of the cake counter is a colourful handwritten chalk menu, and prominently placed next to it is a board that says, “Pending food and drink.” What is “pending food”? I shuffle towards the board. God, I hope reading will distract me from going into a cake frenzy. I’m at serious risk of pouncing on the counter display.
The sign on the board states: If any person (creature or human) cannot afford to eat or drink, please pick an item(s) that someone has kindly bought in advance.
I run my fingertips across the words reverently, and my heart misses a beat—it sobers me. I blow out a breath and the white receipts attached to the board flutter in the slight breeze.
Gosh, that is absolutely beautiful.
I know what it’s like to go hungry; my circumstances have changed, but so many people are not as fortunate. This concept is beautiful, kind and thoughtful; it gives me hope that there’s not just evil in the world. That kindness exists too.
After I order, I quietly point to the pending board and hand over a wedge of cash that I had left over from my shopping trip. The lady at the till blinks at me a few times in shock, her blue eyes filling with tears. I give her a shy smile, grab my order, and totter away, my cheeks undoubtedly radiating pink.
Cursed Wolf: Urban Fantasy Shifter Stand-Alone (Creatures of the otherworld Book 1) Page 8
