Chapter Five

“SO, on a scale of one to ten, how freaked-out are you?”

A laugh with only a tinge of hysteria coloring it burst out of me. “Oh well, you know. Maybe a thirty.”

Owen grimaced and nodded. “Yeah, I bet.”

I wrapped my arms around my knees, making sure I didn’t flash my junk at Owen in the process. “What’s happening to me?”

“I wish I knew. I take it you weren’t aware you were a shifter?”

This time there was more than a tinge of hysteria in my laugh. “I’m not even sure what a shifter is.”

He shook his head. “That’s… wow, I don’t even know what to do with that. I mean, how can you not know?”

“Easy. People who turn into animals don’t exist. Shouldn’t exist. Whatever. Why in the world would I suspect I was one?”

“It’s part of your heritage, of who you are.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed sprouting fur before now.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. Usually someone’s first shift happens when they’re pretty young. I’ve never heard of anyone changing for the first time when they’re in their twenties.”

I shrugged. “Just one more way I’m special, I guess.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so we sat in awkward silence for a moment. I caught the lingering traces of bear on the air. I licked my lips and voiced one of the dozen or so questions clamoring for attention in my brain. “Uh, why did you bring in the bear? I mean, I assume you’re a shifter too, right? Or how else would you know so much about it? Couldn’t you or your dad have done the same thing to spur on my change?”

His gaze flicked to his feet before bring coming back to mine. “Well, that was my dad. I mean, yeah, we’re shifters—great horned owls, to be specific—but we’re too small. There was no telling if your feral half would have recognized our humanity or simply thought we were prey.”

If I opened my eyes any wider, they’d probably spill out of their sockets. “So you had to bring in a bear?”

His lips quirked, but he didn’t really smile when he answered. “I don’t think you realize how big you really were. You’re a lion of some kind. Like, three-hundred-plus pounds of pissed-off cat. We needed something just as big, just as strong, nearby in case you woke up violent.”

I thought about the reflection I’d seen in Matthison Hall’s front windows. “Lion? Are you sure? It didn’t look right for that.”

“Some kind of lion. The body shape was right, even if the mane was a little shorter than what I’d have thought. Maybe a juvenile lion? Maybe you’re not quite fully grown or formed?”

Before I could say anything, the doctor was back, a stack of folded clothes in his hands. He rolled them and passed them through the bars to me. The action reminded me that I was actually behind bars, something I’d been trying not to notice. Remnants of the too-tight feeling that led me to pace the halls at night instead of sleep skittered along my skin, and I broke into goose bumps.

I wrapped my arms around myself, anchoring each elbow with the opposite hand. “Any chance you’ll let me out of here?” I jerked my chin to the gate of the cell and the monster steel lock keeping me in.

Dr. Weyer looked askance at his son, then at me. “I think we should—”

“Here’s the thing. Being locked in, trapped, is kind of freaking me out.” The walls of the cell felt like they were closing in on me even as I said the words.

“Is the tranq gun loaded?” Dr. Weyer asked Owen.

“Yeah, but—”

“Keep it handy.” Owen’s dad pushed the last of the clothes—a blue T-shirt—through the bars, then reached into his pocket and retrieved a ring with a dozen keys.

I snatched the shirt and the sweatpants that preceded them and tugged them on, even while the doctor took his time inserting the key. I got it. I really did. He wanted to protect himself and his child. My dad would have done the same thing. To try to ease his mind, I stood toward the back of the built-in cage and let my arms dangle nonthreateningly at my sides. I took a minute to try to calm my brain, to slow my breathing.

Dr. Weyer swung the door open and stood aside, careful to keep a safe distance between us as I passed by him. When it was clear I wasn’t going to rush him or Owen, he let out a breath of his own.

I searched for pockets to shove my hands into, but the generic sweats, which were about four inches too short for me, didn’t have any, so I crossed my arms again. It might be a closed-off look, but I needed to hide my trembling hands. “So… um, how long was I out of it?” There were no clocks I could see in this supersized exam room. Of course, even if I knew what time it was now, I didn’t really know what time I’d stumbled out of my room.

“You were only knocked out”—Owen winced when he said it, as I remembered it had been he who shot me with the tranquilizer gun to begin with—“for about twenty minutes.”

“A shifter’s body metabolizes quickly, so it didn’t take long for the effects of the tranquilizer to wear off.”

Shifter. There was that word again. “Are you going to be able to explain any of this to me?”

“Sure. We’ll talk while I examine you. I don’t like those circles under your eyes, and you look about thirty pounds underweight for your height.”

As if agreeing I needed to eat more, my stomach rumbled loudly enough we all heard it.

“I think we’d better feed you. Owen, there are some protein bars in the clinic’s breakroom upstairs. Grab some, will you? In fact, bring the whole box.”

I didn’t want Owen to leave, which was stupid. His father likely had all the answers I needed.

“I’ll be quick,” Owen said, as though he’d caught my hesitancy.

I nodded, relieved.

After Owen had darted out of the room, clearly intent on fulfilling his promise to be quick, Dr. Weyer gestured to the oversized examination table. I hitched myself up onto it, cringing at the shifting sound of the protective paper that lined every exam table I’d ever been on. “I’m going to start with a couple of basic checks. Nothing too stressful.”

Easy for him to say. You’d think after years of “basic tests” I’d be bored by them. Instead, as each year progressed and with every specialist the immunologist who coordinated my treatments consulted with, the same battery of tests were repeated to the point they’d become something stressful to be endured. I tried to keep my breathing smooth and even as he clipped a disposable top on the ear thermometer. There was no pain, of course, but the cold plastic being inserted into my ear canal was a violation that made my insides run cold.

A few seconds later, the device beeped and Dr. Weyer scanned the display. “Temp’s 101. Excellent.”

That got my attention. “Excellent? Why is a fever excellent?”

“Fever? Yusuf—”

“Call me Joey,” I interrupted. For some reason I didn’t mind when Owen called me by my real name, but it seemed weird, or wrong, whenever anyone else did.

He nodded. “Joey. Shifters in general, and big cats in particular, have a higher body heat than a human. A temperature of 101 is perfectly in range for you.”

It took me longer than it should have for what he said to register completely. My parents, and every doctor I’d ever seen, had obsessed about my “feverish” temperature. For years. And he wanted me to believe it was, in his words, perfectly in range? How many tests had been run on me? How many treatments had been attempted to regulate my body temperature?

“But—” My voice cracked and I had to swallow past a fist-sized lump in my throat to breathe correctly.

The door crashed inward, and Owen burst in, an industrial-sized box of protein bars in one hand and a gallon milk jug in the other.

My mouth began to water. As soon as Owen was within reach, I grabbed the gallon of milk, twisted the top off, and started chugging. After I’d emptied half the jug and lack of breath had me dizzy, I pulled away, gasping. “Damn, why is that so good?”

Both Owen and Dr. Weyer gaped.

I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. “Um, sorry about that. I’ve always had a thing for milk. There was about half a year when I was younger when my doctor assigned a no-dairy diet, thinking lactose intolerance might have been causing some of my problems.”

“A dairy-free diet isn’t practical for shifters.”

I shrugged, glancing at Dr. Weyer. “Yeah, well, I don’t think my doctor suspected I had an inner-lion thingy. He tried a lot of things. Once he prescribed a vegetarian, then a vegan, diet plan. That was after the dairy-free. Then there was a low-carb thing, then gluten-free. Last year he went with a paleo plan.”

“Why?” Owen inspected my body in the baggy, yet too short for me, sweats. “You’re too skinny as it is. Why would they have you on a diet?” As if to emphasize the statement, he passed me one of the protein bars.

“It wasn’t a weight thing.” I tore open the square packaging, revealing the dense brown bar inside. It didn’t look very appetizing, even if the wrap claimed it had real apricot inside. “I’ve been sick most of my life. Symptoms always changed, but it’s definitely been a chronic thing. When all the tests came back negative or inconclusive, he tried managing some of the symptoms through very specific diet plans. He ruled out Celiacs, for example, when the gluten-free diet had no impact on my symptoms.” I crammed half the protein bar into my mouth. I really was hungry, and luckily my stomach hadn’t rebelled yet. Especially with half a gallon of two percent in my belly.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said at one time.” Owen unwrapped another protein snack and handed it to me. He looked awed.

I paused my reach for the other bar. “Oh. Um… yeah. Maybe?”

Dr. Weyer didn’t seem impressed by my unusual word-vomit. “Sick? What kind of sick? And what kinds of tests?”

I took another swig from the milk jug before shrugging like it was no big deal. “Pretty much you name it, they tried it. In the end, the closest anyone was able to come to a real diagnosis is some form of autoimmune disease.”

“Autoimmune? Sounds pretty serious.” Owen placed his hand on my knee. Even through the thick fabric of the sweatpants, I could feel his warmth, his energy, seeping into me. Added to it, my skin seemed to be extra sensitive, like whatever the whole shifter thing was had activated new nerves. Goose bumps spread over my body, and I shivered.

“And your parents let you leave for school, given what you were—are—going through?” Owen asked.

I snorted. “I didn’t give them a choice.”

“In what way?” Dr. Weyer asked.

“I didn’t wait for their permission,” I said simply. At his disapproving fatherlike look, I got a little defensive. “Look, I’ve been sick for years, undergone every test anyone has ever heard of. Nothing was helping. I decided I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life as a test subject. Since nothing was fixing it, I was just going to have to deal with it. Live with it. And since I’m of age and mentally competent, no one could force me to see another doctor. So sometimes I ache. Sometimes I have headaches. Sometimes it’s worse. I’ll deal with it, but I’m going to do it on my terms.”

“Yusuf—sorry, Joey,” Dr. Weyer corrected himself. “Will you give me access to your medical records? I’d like to take a look.”

“I guess. But why? I mean, no offense, but I’ve been to nearly every specialist in the country already.”

“Well, two reasons. First, it’s important someone local is aware of your history in case an emergency comes up. And second, maybe more importantly, as a shifter and a doctor, I might have some insight the human doctors don’t have.”

My stomach lurched and the milk I’d slammed jostled sickeningly in my gut. Sharing a bit about my medical history had distracted me from the earlier insanity. But now it was time for some answers. “Yeah… there’s that word again. Human. And shifter. And then there’s the fact I turned into some kind of scrawny lion.”

The two Weyer men looked to each other.

“Seriously,” I said. “What’s a shifter? And since when do men turn into bears and then back again?”

“So you’ve never heard of shifters before?” Doubt colored Dr. Weyer’s tone.

“No. Why is that weird?”

“When your parents adopted you, didn’t they—”

I jerked up my head, cutting him off. “Whoa. Adopted? I wasn’t adopted. What the hell are you talking about?” My heart beat quickly, almost as quickly as when I’d morphed from paralyzed-on-the-ground human to terrified cat. My vision started to do that fade-to-green thing too.

Strong hands clamped down on both sides of my face. “Breathe, Yusuf. Deep breaths.”

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on his campfire-at-midnight voice. After a long count to ten, I opened my eyes and met Owen’s concerned gaze. He’d stepped close. So close, in fact, he took up the open space between my spread legs, our chests nearly touching. Dr. Weyer had a white-knuckled grip on Owen’s shoulder and looked to be trying to pull him away. Owen didn’t budge, though. He swiped his thumb along my cheekbone. “There you go. Relax.”

I swallowed, nodded. After another moment, he stepped back.

“You take too many risks,” Dr. Weyer snapped.

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” Owen said.

“You can’t know that.”

“I won’t hurt him.” My voice cracked a bit as I said the words, but I meant them. There was no way I’d hurt Owen, no matter what happened to me.

Neither Weyer said anything, but the elder released his hold on Owen’s shoulder.

“If I promise to keep control, can you explain about the ‘adopted’ comment?”

Dr. Weyer tugged the hem of the simple white short-sleeved button-down he wore. “Simple genetics. Genetics and deduction. Being a shifter is inherited. You’re a shifter, ergo your parents must be shifters. If they were shifters, they would never have subjected you to the tests they did.” He paused, searching my expression for something. “I take it you didn’t know you were adopted?”

“I’m not adopted. There’s no way. I mean, my dad’s Caucasian, my mom’s Iranian. I’m clearly a mix between the two. There’s got to be another explanation.” I searched frantically for some other—any other—explanation. “Some of the tests were experimental. Maybe they, I don’t know, triggered something.”

Dr. Weyer shook his head. “I’m sorry. You are clearly a shifter, which means your parents—or at least one of your parents—are shifters. It’s possible only one of your parents is a shifter. It might explain why you’ve gone so long before shifting.”

“But wouldn’t I know if one of my parents was a shifter? I don’t think I’d have missed a three-hundred-pound feline roaming the house.”

He just looked at me, sympathy shining in his amber eyes.

“You have to be wrong,” I said. If they weren’t wrong, it meant one or both of my parents had been lying to me my whole life. Or they weren’t my parents after all. “You have to be wrong.” I repeated the words, but they’d lost some of their conviction. “You’re wrong.”

AN hour later, Owen walked me back to Matthison Hall. We didn’t speak. I was stuck in some kind of dazed out-of-body existence. The word why churned in my brain, stuck on repeat. Why me? Why now? Why was this happening? Why why why why.

I shivered. Admittedly it was a little chilly in the predawn air. Cody’s high elevation meant that early mornings could often be jacket weather, even in July. But my shivers had less to do with temperature than shock. On the whole, I figured I’d handled everything okay. I mean, sure, I’d turned into some kind of lion and then commenced chuffing, hissing, and snarling at people when I was cornered. But who wouldn’t? And, yeah, maybe it was easier to focus on me turning into a fucking cat than to wonder if my parents had lied to me my whole life. Because, of the two, betrayal by my parents was even more unthinkable than the existence of human-to-animal shape-shifters.

Another shiver racked my body, so I crossed my arms over my chest, gripping my opposite elbows tight.

Owen reached over and pried one of my hands free. He laced our fingers together, letting our linked hands dangle between us. A little of the tension crushing my heart eased. Not a lot. Not completely. But enough so I could breathe.

The sun peeked up from behind the Tetons to the east, a neon orange-and-pink halo brightening the sky. I sighed and let the peace of the moment—a breathtaking dawn and Owen’s hand in mine—soak in.

Jesus, I was tired. I retreated deeper into my mind, trusting Owen to get me where I needed to be.