Werewolf's Humanity

Ashes, Ashes, Part 3

He wasn't sure how much time passed while he recuperated. He woke up once to find a full plate of cold cut sandwiches and a pitcher of water on the table beside his bed, and once Elizabeth came in to check on his condition. As he all but swallowed the sandwich hole, he could smell richer, fancier meats wafting up from downstairs, but the cold cuts were a good idea--his stomach felt delicate, and he wasn't sure if he could keep anything more robust than sandwich meat and bread down. Besides, it was still a step up from his usual diet.

Eventually, though, he could sleep no longer. This room, which had been a haven at first, started to close in on him. He could hear activity downstairs, new voices adding to the general cacophony all the time. He still couldn't make out any words, but he could tell from some tones that a few people were upset.

About him?

He eased off the bed and padded carefully to the front door. The metal knob felt cool against his hand, and seemed to throb--but that was his just own pulse, he realized, pounding though the palm of his hand. He winced, preparing for the knob or the hinges to creak, but they had been well-oiled. He managed to crack the door open without a sound.

"-kid is a killer!" He heard that loud and clear from one of the angrier voices.

"And how would you know that?" Came Odysseus' voice.

"You just said it yourself, he tore apart a room full of humans."

"Under extreme duress and in the influence of psycho-stimulant drugs." Ruth's voice was on a razor's edge.

"So, he cracked. Look me in the eye and say he won't crack again."

"You questioning your alphas, Roy?" A new voice, growling, almost chainsaw-like.

Silence.

The chainsaw-voice continued. "I've seen killers. So has Odysseus. I've also seen the terror on that kid's face. What's the worst you've ever dealt with, Roy? A few drunks in a bar, anything worse than that?"

More silence.

"Didn't think so. Now, you've expressed your opinion, but your alphas' ruling stands. A kid who's been through what he has deserves a chance. And if he is more broken than we realize... we'll deal with him."

And just when Sammy thought someone was in his corner. Gravity quadrupled in force and his heart plummeted to his stomach. He clutched hold of the door as if that could keep him standing. "Deal with"? That could mean a lot of things... a lot of awful things. He had no idea how this society functioned, but he could discern at least one obvious thing; clearly, werewolves meant business.

That thought sparked a full-blown episode of paranoia. He couldn't just sit in this room while others decided his fate. He had just escaped that exact kind of situation. If he was going to be cast out or killed--well, better to get it over with now than get a full taste of what could have been.

At the foot of his bed, someone had left a large gray cotton A-shirt and black athletic shorts, the kind with elastic and a drawstring. The clothes smelled of detergent and someone else's scent, so they were obviously used. But Sammy had spent the last four years wearing clothing he had to steal out of donation bins. At least these had been cleaned. He put them on descended down the stairs, finding Nicholas, Ruth, Elizabeth, and several others milling about. One of them wore a sheriff's uniform, giving Sammy pause halfway down the stairs.

All conversation stopped and all eyes turned to look up at him.

"Hello, Sam," Nicholas said, a bit cautiously.