He was rocking back and forth, and then looked up at her, tears running down his eyes, defeat on his face. When he looked upon her face, memories of his childhood flooded him, and while a feeling of betrayal filled his mind, the memories of loving kindness and sacrifice and emotional support hit him, and he felt terrible in that moment. This was his mom, and he loved her, and she had done nothing but the best for him, and so he broke. “Mom? I’m sorry.” He cried like a baby, and she embraced him again.

“There, there, honey,” she said, holding him tight, her body shaking from her own pain and sorrow of the moment. “It’s alright. Everything’s alright.”

“I’m a monster, mom,” he said, holding tight. “I’m a freaking monster.”

He gripped at her clothes and snuggled against her, feeling like a small child again, the same child that often cried against her chest and held her close when he had fallen or been hurt or injured. She was still his mom, after all.

After cleaning, disinfecting, and bandaging his hand, the two of them sat at the end of his bed. While his hand hurt, the throbbing had gone down dramatically since the wound was inflicted. Perhaps his werewolf abilities also had increased healing, he surmised. He let out a little sigh, feeling as if a little bit of the weight had been lifted after crying it out again, even though he was completely drained and defeated.

He touched the bandage, then looked to his mom and smiled. “Thanks, mom.”

She rubbed his back lightly. “Well, I’m glad that you can still call me that.”

He gave a weak shrug and sighed. “You’re still my parents, and you’re still my mom. He smiled up at her. She took his bandaged hand in hers, kissing it lightly on the top in a way that only a mother could. It made him feel warm, protected, and safe, at least for a moment. He rubbed a hand through his hair. “This is all so unreal.”

“I know dear, I know,” she said, giving his hand a tiny squeeze.

“I think I need some time to process this all,” he said.

“You’re stronger than you know,” she said. “Let me help you clean up this mess.”

After cleaning up the glass, they hugged one more time, and she left him in the silence. He lay back in his bed, holding his bandaged hand in the air, then turned to the side, listening to the noises of the house. A soft of humming cars driving down the street – were they always that pronounced and clear? – gave him some ease as he peered out his cracked window, the last rays of sunlight giving into night.

Footsteps stopped at his door, followed by a knocking. It was much easier to hear, much clearer. Would have been odd if he didn’t realize he was werewolf.

He turned his head. “Yeah?”

His dad pushed through, leaning against the doorway. “How you doing, son?”

Vincent shrugged. “I’m fine.” He didn’t know what to say, just wanted to process things.

His father set next to him, staring out with the window with him. “You know, normally I’d give you some story about my first job, how I had to go out in the big scary world and do things on my own, but none of that would compare to what you are going to go through.” He chuckled, fiddling with his hands. Those same hands had built two local coffee shops and run them with tiring hours of blood, sweat, and tears. All on his own. Now they were thriving, but before that. How hard had it been? Sleepless nights, toil, struggling to find workers, to make ends meet to make sure the coffee was in, fixing broken machines, everything on him, on his own shoulders. “Or maybe it would, I don’t know.” He adjusted his glasses against his face. “What I’m trying to say, is that while you may be angry with us, we got your back, okay kiddo?”

Vincent remembered a time one evening when his dad just had one coffee shop, Vincent had tripped over one of the bags of coffee, spilling the beans everywhere. His dad had simply shook his head and smiled, then took Vincent and raised him to his shoulders, dancing around like a mad man, then set him on the countertop as he brought out a little shovel and broom and went about to cleaning up the beans and shoveling them into a plastic bin. It wasn’t a huge deal, nor a huge mess, but he always remembered his dad keeping his cool in situations like that, even the hard, rough ones.

“Thanks, dad,” Vincent said with a bittersweet smile.

“If you ever need anything,” he continued. Anything at all. We’re always here for you.”

“I appreciate that, dad,” Vincent said. “But I’d really like to be alone right now.”

His stood, nodding in a knowing way as he patted him on the shoulder, then made his way to leave, stopping inside the open doorway. “You know, I once knew a man that had a big heart. He lived a dangerous life, but he fought for what he believed in, and he died for it.”

“Dad, I don’t have time for some metaphorical speech about you and your coffee shop,” Vincent said with a bitter burst.

His father frowned, pushing a thumb against his palm. “It’s about a man that I knew well. A man that entrusted something to me.”

“Oh yeah,” Vincent said, wondering why his dad was giving him another story about some co-worker or employee of his as if that would help. He just wanted to be alone. “And who was that?”

“Your father,” his dad said, which made Vincent perk up. “Me and him were college buddies. Great guy, your dad.” Vincent’s dad chuckled. “He was the one that mentioned the coffee shop idea since I seemed so passionate about it.” Vincent’s dad smiled as he told this reminiscent story. “When I found he was… well, like you, I didn’t know what to do, to be honest. I considered many possibilities, ways to get out, to get away from him. Thought he was crazy, considered calling the psych ward, or the cops.” Vincent’s dad folded his arms as if ashamed by this. “But in the end, I stuck with him because that’s what friends do.” He chuckled again, meeting Vincent’s eyes. “Funny thing, though, about your mother. She was best friends with your dad’s wife, just like me and him, and it’s sorta how we all came to an agreement on what to do about you once you were born, considering their crazy life of keeping the balance and us humans safe. It was the least we could do as people, and I was honored to do it as a friend, even though it hurt to keep it from you. But that’s what we agreed to, and I stick to my word, son.” He had a serious tone, a confidence that Vincent had never seen before.

Vincent sat up, his eyes curious and attentive. “How did they die?”

His dad blinked, looking unsure what to say. “I’ll tell you when the time’s right.”

Vincent wanted the time to be now. He clenched his fist, determined. “I want to know now.”

His father shook his head, unwavering, his voice intent. “I will, but not now. You have my word that I’ll tell you when the time’s right.” Vincent folded his arms, pouting like a, well, child.

His dad nodded, deciding to give him something, just not what Vincent wanted. “They died doing the right thing, and that’s all that matters. Now, get some rest, you got a big day tomorrow.”

Why wouldn’t his dad tell him, Vincent thought. He deserved it. He had a right to know. Then again, he did say he would tell him, so it wasn’t like he was telling him no, just not right now. And while it would take a while to regain trust in them, his father had kept his word to his real father, so that was something, right? He’d wait, for now, and insist on it later.

“Night, dad,” Vincent said. “Shut the light off on your way out.”

He did, and then shut the door.

Vincent lay back, looking up at the ceiling, and after a few blinks of his eyes, he quickly fell asleep.

. . .

Sharp eyes opened to the brisk night. A long snout with sharp canine teeth exhaled a warm breath into the cool air. The feral green eyes of the beast searched, narrowing on a target – a street in the distance. The werewolf let out a grunt and leapt forward, bounding across the ground, and breaking into a sprint on all fours, moving with a gliding grace that covered much distance.

The beast’s heart thudded against its chest in anticipatory rhythms as it stayed to the shadows, moving between a building and down an alleyway that opened into an empty street. It leapt into the air and landed atop a roof of a neighborhood restaurant, turning in a slow circle, searching for something from its vantage point. It sniffed and narrowed its eyes, then jumped again, soaring high and far, landing atop the monkey bars of a familiar playground, still searching. It looked down a familiar street with a familiar house.

It bounded forward, paws thumping the asphalt, claws scrapping against the street. As it got closer to the house at the end of the street, its heart beating in anticipation as it snarled with delight. It moved quicker than any human could fathom, and finally slid to a stop, crouching before the sight of the home tilting its head in a ponderous posture. It stood and let out a little growl at the familiar sight of the house.

Vincent’s house.

Wait, what was happening? It was so unreal, yet felt vivid.

The beast pumped its powerful hind legs, letting out a mighty howl as it leapt over the fence, scrambling up the sidewalk, and smashing through the downstairs window.