Call of the Wild

3 - The Peace Offering

Voices drag me awake, and for a moment I'm blinded with panic. I didn't mean to fall asleep and now I've missed something. I scramble further into the shadows beneath the piano, forgetting about my leg.

I remember soon enough, when a sharp jolt of fire makes me yelp. Fuck, it's still not healed. Shifters like me have heightened healing abilities— if we don't bleed out from our injuries, we recover a whole lot faster than humans can. And, from the pain in my leg, I know that streak of fire isn't just from putting pressure on it.

In fact, I'm fairly certain, in my sleep, the bone has snapped back into place, tugged by invisible threads. It's bound to be painful. I lick the dried blood and dirt from my paw, my tongue scraping over the almost-healed cuts scattered across my skin.

My thoughts are all fuzzy and I know it's from hunger. And thirst. And the remnants of mental fatigue after healing so many injuries. It doesn't help my mood much. If that boy comes cooing at me again, I'm certain he'll lose an arm or two.

"You say he came in through the bedroom window?" a deep, unfamiliar voice asks. The sound is muffled, but I flinch as my drifting thoughts slam back to the present.

I tense, drawing back into the furthest, darkest corner beneath the piano— with more care, this time. My claws slip on the hardwood floor and I curl up as small as I can get.

"Yeah, no idea how. He just broke in, stole my clothes and took off. I don't know where he is." This voice, I recognise. The boy. The asshole.

"Can you describe him?"

"Uh, not... not really. Just... dark hair, pale skin, really fucking scrawny. Like, borderline malnourished. I think he's homeless, or something. Maybe he thought the house would be empty."

He's not wrong about the homeless part, I reason. But I glare at the sheet anyway. The first chance I get, I am going to shit on his floor, right by his bed. Maybe even on his bed. And then I'm going to bite him.

"We'll take a look around."

"Thank you. Uh— I've got a dog hiding somewhere. Just a warning. He's pretty freaked."

"Dog?"

"Yeah— a husky, I think. Or some type of cross-breed."

A fucking husky. I wish he'd left me to bleed out and die. The sweet release of death would be a blessing compared to this endless torture of offensive remarks.

"You... think?"

"I, ah... found him on my way home. He's hurt— I was gonna take him to the vets but they're closed until noon so... he's here. Somewhere. Probably scared shitless."

Fucking found me, did you? Asshole—

Without fear to distract me, something else he said hits me like a strike to the face.

Vets? Vets.

Oh, fuck no. That's not happening. Not a chance. He's trying to repent for running me over— but one, my leg's already healing without having all kinds of pins and springs and fuck knows what else shoved into my bones, and two, I don't want them to get overexcited and fucking neuter me or stick a microchip in my neck.

I'm not a dog. I don't do vets.

I listen as several footsteps come and go, giving the house a once-over, looking for me in the wrong form.

One cop wanders into the room I'm in and, upon finding me still hiding under the piano, he grins and makes kissy noises.

"Hey, fella!" he greets, whistling and clicking his fingers. "C'mere, boy. You're a beauty, aren't you?"