Academy of Shifters: Werewolves 101

by Marisa Claire

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Werewolves 101. Oh my. That’s marvelous.”

  Blushing, I scrunched my head into my shoulders. “Or something.”

  “I think you mean Intro to Therianthropy.” He touched me lightly on the shoulder. “It appears we’ll be facing our first class together.”

  A pleasant tingle radiated from the point where his fingers brushed my skin. Nothing at all like the ferocious prickling that came when I touched Laith. Maybe this dream wasn’t a lost cause yet.

  ***

  There are probably worse things a girl could do for her reputation than walk into a class five minutes late with a professor whose face belonged on the Most Eligible Bachelor issue of Shifting Style magazine—if such a thing existed—but not when the only remaining desk in said class was right next to Winter Davenport.

  My butt had barely touched the chair when she leaned across the narrow aisle and whispered, “You don’t waste any time booking private shows, do you, James?”

  “Saint James,” I hissed. “I’m not trying to be pretentious. That’s just what it is.”

  Winter opened her mouth, but the professor cleared his throat, and her head immediately snapped to the front.

  So she’s an overachieving mean girl. Duly noted.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to…” the professor smiled, clearly trying not to chuckle, “Werewolves 101.”

  Two nerds in the front row guffawed, then shrank into their seats when nobody else joined them. The professor glanced my way and gave a tiny shrug. I would have shrank into my seat, too, if it wouldn’t have made his implication that we shared an inside joke even more obvious. But from the corner of my eye, I saw Winter’s lip twitch, and I knew she’d picked up on it.

  Wonderful.

  “You know some of us are bears, right?” a voice growled from the back of the class.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Derek’s hunky pal turned sideways in his desk so his legs could violate the personal space of the girl sitting next to him. I tried to offer her a look of sympathy, but she quickly buried her nose in her open textbook.

  So that’s how it’s going to be.

  The professor smiled. “Yes, of course I know that. It was merely a joke. A bit of an icebreaker, if you will. Apologies if I’ve offended, Mr.… what is your name?”

  “Chad Tyson,” he answered through a yawn.

  The professor pulled a pen and piece of paper out of his satchel and made a quick mark. “Chad Tyson, present. Right then, let’s go around the room. Name and animal, please.”

  The class turned out to be split two-thirds between wolves and bears, with no mountain lions at all. I didn’t know if all lion guys were as off-putting as Laith Brighton had turned out to be, but I felt relieved to be free of them all the same.

  “Excellent. All present and accounted for.” The professor set the attendance list aside and clapped his hands together. “Now let’s—”

  “Sir?” Winter raised her hand. “You haven’t told us yours.”

  He smacked a hand to his forehead. “I’m so sorry. Of course you’d want to know that.” He cleared his throat. “I am Professor Daniel Helms, a gray wolf, and I am a graduate of the Hawtrey Academy of Great Britain.”

  A surprised murmur rippled through the class.

  “Yes, there are Academies on every continent except Antarctica.” Helms said as he moved around his desk to the blackboard. “We’ll actually discuss them briefly in this class when we go over the different international shifter species later this semester, but they will be covered in-depth in History of Therianthropy in the spring. Now, who can tell me what that word means?”

  “History?” Chad grunted.

  Ignoring him, Helms wrote ‘Therianthropy’ in large, neat letters on the board. “Come now, anyone? Don’t be shy.”

  One of the front row nerds raised his hand.

  Helms pointed. “Yes, Kanze, was it?”

  Kanze nodded. “Therianthropy is the ability of a human to physically transform into an animal, but…” He looked down at his desk.

  “But?” Helms prompted.

  Kanze swallowed. “But if you go online—”

  “Ah.” Helms lifted a hand. “Let me stop you right there, because that is a can of worms that we will be opening in a few weeks. Today, I want to focus on the historical definition of therianthropy, which is, as you said, the ability of a human to physically transform into an animal.”

  Helms moved to another section of the blackboard and drew a cross.

  “Now, I am sure that until very recently, most of you believed therianthropy to be pure myth. Most of what you know—or think you know—about the subject will have come from books, movies, television, comics.”

  In the top left corner of the cross, he wrote ‘FACT’ and in the top right corner, he wrote ‘FICTION.’

  “The purpose of this course,” he continued, “is to help you sort through the most basic misunderstandings, rumors, and outright lies surrounding our unique ability. I’d like us to go around the room one more time, and share one thing pop culture taught you about therianthropes.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, we learned that no, shifting is not caused by the full moon, but that the belief may have sprung from true shifters being spotted on brighter nights; we learned that yes, silver bullets can kill us, but only by virtue of being, you know, bullets, and not because they’re made of silver; we learned that, likewise, the wolfsbane plant is wildly poisonous, but not somehow more poisonous to us; and we learned that no, biting someone would not give that person the ability to shift, it would just give them a nasty bite and be considered “quite rude.”

  By the time my turn came around, the few things I’d gleaned about werewolves over the years from horror movies and blabber-mouthed fangirls had already been covered.

  “I’m sure you can think of something,” Professor Helms encouraged after I had awkwardly explained that I’d never really been into this sort of thing.

  When he smiled at me, his dimples appeared for the first time since we’d been alone in the stairwell, and my palms began to sweat. I rubbed them roughly on my jeans.

  “Um, well…” I stammered, heart pounding in my ears, racking my brain for anything else one of my foster sisters might have said over the years. A memory flashed across my mind, and before I could think twice, I blurted out, “Do werewolves mate for life?”

  The whole class snickered, and I felt my ears glowing red. But to make matters worse, it appeared my question had also made Professor Helms blush.

  He swallowed hard and tugged at his tie. “Ah. Well. Actually, there is a bit of truth to that one.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  Helms scratched the back of his head. “It’s not… I mean, there’s no loss of free will. Relationships do go south, and mates go their separate ways. Mine certainly did.” He laughed, and then looked adorably, heart-breakingly mortified. “Goodness. That was awkward. My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “But, ah, yes, in general the tendency toward monogamy is, shall we say, more pronounced among wolf shifters than other species.”

  Chad whooped and slammed his hands down on Derek’s shoulders in front of him. “Dude, I told you to slow your roll! You’re done for!”

  Derek shrugged him and reached back as if to slug him. “It’s not like that!”

  Casting a sideways glance, I noticed Winter had joined me in the bright red ears club. I had just started to feel sorry for her when her head snapped to the right and she pinned me with her icy blue eyes.

  “Well, I guess you didn’t waste any time locking down those A’s, did you, James?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My book bag landed on my desk with a heavy thunk, followed shortly by my forehead. I folded my arms over my head, rubbing out the knots of tension this day had left in the back of my neck.

  And it’s not even over yet.

  I thought about crawling back into bed, burrowing under the covers, and refusing to
move until I woke up back in the real world, but it hadn’t worked last night, so I didn’t have any real hope that it would now. Something had happened to the real me—of that, I was certain, regardless of what the Vice-Chancellor or any of these other dream people wanted me to think—and until that Remi woke up, this Remi was apparently going to be a student of the Gladwell Academy of Shifters.

  The question was… why?

  Glancing up through a curtain of messy hair, my eyes found my brother’s in the framed family photo on my desk. The glass in the lower right corner was cracked, and while I couldn’t say for certain it hadn’t happened on the way here, I was pretty sure I had Winter dropping my suitcase to thank for that. If I weren’t so sure the real version was safe and sound back in my dorm with Hickoree, I might have let my wolf out to snack.

  I had no memory of the photo shoot, but the low-res fireplace backdrop told me our parents had taken us to one of those cheap places in a mall. All four of us were decked out in cheesy matching Christmas sweaters, me on our dad’s lap, Rahm on our mother’s. My tiny reddened face looked unimpressed with the level of nonsense underway, but Rahm’s eyes danced with mischief, and his grin was borderline maniacal. I’d been carrying this picture around for thirteen years, waiting for a chance to ask my brother if he remembered what the photographer had been doing to elicit such different reactions.

  The Vice-Chancellor might not be blackmailing me exactly, but she was obviously using my brother as a bribe to get me to stay.

  No, not stay. Leaving was clearly not an option. It was a bribe to get me to play along. To pretend I was some sort of werewolf—excuse me, lycanthrope.

  On the one hand, it hardly seemed worth it. Finding my brother here wouldn’t be any different from all the other reunion dreams I’d ever had. Eventually I would wake up, and he’d still be missing.

  But on the other hand…

  What if the reason my subconscious had concocted this particular dream was to guide me to some long lost knowledge hidden deep inside myself that could help me solve the mystery of my brother’s disappearance in the real world?

  With a resigned groan, I emptied my book bag onto the desk. There were a handful of normal books for the writing class I’d be taking online, plus four remarkably abnormal titles. Aside from You, Your Body, and Your Other Body, there was the book for Helms’ class titled, It’s Not the Moon, It’s You, and then two workbooks full of journaling prompts and other odd activities, one titled Practical Shifting I and the other titled Exploring the Mindscape.

  I looked at my phone to check the time—the only thing it was good for now. It had zero bars, and no way to tap into the Academy’s network. The isolation was more than a little unnerving, but also understandable. If some random person’s leaked nudes could go viral, imagine if someone sent out pics of a student in mid-shift.

  It was 2:45. I slipped Exploring the Mindscape back into my bag, thinking I probably ought to get there early lest I accidentally give Winter the satisfaction of seeing me walk in with Dean Mardone too. Swinging the bag over my shoulder, I took one last look at the family photo, at my parents tired yet proud expressions, at my brother’s joyful grin.

  I can do this. For Rahm.

  ***

  Laith Brighton looked up from the ring of flat cushions he’d been arranging on the hardwood floor. That stupid, lopsided, lip-biting grin crossed his scruffy face, and the only thing that saved me from spontaneous transformation was the abrupt realization that he’d come to class in his pajamas.

  Made of hemp, my nose somehow informed me.

  “Well, well, well.” Laith folded his arms over his chest, just under his shirt’s deep V-neck. “If it isn’t my favorite new house pet.”

  I blinked. “Why are you wearing pajamas?”

  He looked down at his loose, cream-colored shirt and pants and lifted his palms. “I’m not?”

  “And where the hell are the desks?” I demanded, gazing around the mostly empty space. Blackout curtains were drawn, and the only light came from candles flickering on small tables around the edges of the room. The smell of incense assaulted my nose and some chime-y, ting-y music threatened to make me rip off my own ears.

  Laith swept his arms out, indicating the cushions. “Right here, Poodle.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I growled, dropping my book bag next to one of the mats.

  “Whatever you say, my little Bichon Frise,” he purred, brushing past me with such indifference that I could have sworn I felt the ghost of a feline tail tickle my nose.

  “What is all this?” I tried again for some kind of explanation as to why I had walked into a yoga studio, not a classroom.

  “Romantic dinner, can’t you tell?” He sidled past me again, carrying another armful of mats. “Me, you, candles, music… maybe a little elk?”

  My skin prickled like a million tiny hairs were trying to wiggle their way out, but I clenched every muscle in my body, refusing to let them. I would never give this arrogant ass the satisfaction of knowing even his faux flirtation made every cell in my body go haywire.

  “You okay there, Yorkie?” His eyes raked me up and down. “You look a little… constipated. Why don’t you sit down?”

  “You’re disgusting, you know that?” I crossed my arms and planted my feet, refusing to actually sit on one of the ridiculous cushions. “How did you manage to talk someone like Victoria into going out with you?”

  He snorted as he dropped the mats. “Our relationship is taking place as per her request.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means, Miss Maltese, that she asked me.” He kicked the mats into position. “And having no better offers at the time, I agreed.”

  “Ugh.” I shook my head. “Does she know you talk about her like this?”

  He opened his mouth, and then paused, letting out a pained sigh before he asked, “And what was it she told you about me?”

  I smirked. “She said you’re an acquired taste.”

  “Well, there you have it.” He bowed his head so his hair swung across his eyes.

  Those eyes. Hazel with golden flecks that danced in the candlelight. A wave of heat washed over my face, momentarily rendering me speechless.

  Remi, you’re swooning.

  Stop swooning.

  Right now. Stop it, Remi.

  You would never go after another girl’s boyfriend.

  No matter how gorgeous his eyes are.

  Oh, and also? He’s a total jerk. Snap out of it!

  “But seriously, what is all this?” I finally said out loud and gestured at the room again. “Are we having a séance or what?”

  He rolled his eyes. “The class is called Exploring the Mindscape. What do you think this is?”

  I lifted my arms and raised my eyebrows like, You tell me.

  He mimicked my gesture, but with a mocking edge. “It’s a meditation class? Obviously?”

  A scoff jumped out of my mouth. “Are you kidding?”

  He nudged the cushion nearest his toe. “Well, it’s not nap time.”

  “Unbelievable.” I combed both my hands through my hair, tugging on the strands. “I thought we were at least pretending this was some kind of real college.”

  The amusement left his eyes. A wall came down over his features, hardening them. “Do you have a problem with meditation?”

  I laughed, a little too maniacally. “Don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Meditation is the first step in making space to know our own minds.” He stepped closer, his voice fervent. “And until you know your mind, you can’t control it, and until you can control it, you’ll keep shifting in and out of your skin at the most inopportune times.”

  Oh crap. Does he know what he does to me?

  “Wow.” I held my ground, even though I wanted to melt into the floor, and something sizzled in the small space between us—the white-hot electricity of mutual disdain, I supposed. “I did not peg you for the woo woo, crystals and spells typ
e. What with all the blood thirst.”

  “Funny.” He arched an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what I had you pegged for. What with all the bleeding-heart crap.”

  We glowered, both of our lips curling, and though I wasn’t shifting, I could still feel all the hairs lifting on the back of my neck.

  If his face weren’t so handsome, I’d rip it right off.

  “Laith, what’s going on here?”

  He practically leapt backwards at the sound of the woman’s voice. I turned to see someone who could only be the infamous Dean Lenore Mardone standing in the doorway, one hand on its frame, the other on her ample hip. She was in her early thirties at most, with a fountain of hair that held all the colors of autumn leaves and a figure that stretched every limit of the faculty skirt and blazer in ways even I had to admit were… flattering. But the way she wore her light blue blouse significantly less buttoned up than either the Vice-Chancellor or Dean Belhollow added an off-putting air of desperation to the ensemble.

  She frowned at me, but her words were clearly meant for him. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, Dean Mardone.” His voice took on an extra layer of southern charm. “We were just, uh, playing a staring game.”

  She lifted one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and chuckled, but she didn’t seem all that amused. “A staring game?”

  I heard Laith swallow behind me. “You know, when you see who’ll look away first?”

  Mardone squinted at him for a moment, then burst into a true laugh. “Against a wolf!” She gestured at me dismissively. “Well, I hope you were winning, kitten.”

  Kitten? I had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh. That’ll put him in his place.

  Shaking her head, Mardone flipped her wrist at him like, You silly old thing. “I’ll be in the little girl’s room, freshening up. Everything looks fabulous, Laith. You’re going to be just what I needed this year.”

  I could hear his teeth gritting when he said, “I aim to please, Dean Mardone.”