Factors of Change

I wasn't born a werewolf. I was Turned, unwillingly. It happened 30 years ago. On August 19th, 1984, precisely, but taking a month or two out of the years won't bring my old life back.

I was 24 years old when it happened. I was attacked by a crazy, rogue werewolf during a summer camping trip with friends in Banff National Park. We had expected bears in the Rockies, but not aggressive wolves. Two of my friends died that night, but I survived the bite. A third friend of mine came out of it unharmed, if a trifled shocked. She had sent the wolf away by slashing a kitchen knife at his face and was the one who drove me to the hospital in the middle of the night. We had both been sobbing the whole way but she bravely managed, through her tears, to get to the hospital in Banff without flipping us into a ditch. Her name was Nina. She got married three years later, and I was invited. That was the last time I saw her; I heard she bought a house in Columbus and raised her three children there. Her eldest is apparently a resident in medicine, but I only gathered that information through the branches of social connections – I haven't seen Nina in 27 years.

Actually, I don't see anyone from my old life anymore.

It hasn't to do with the fact that I turn into a wolf at will or that the beast lives in my mind and I hold private conversations with her (though it would be awkward if I did so out loud, I guess). But aging ten times slower than normal humans, while good for my complexion, became a problem after I turned 35 or so. Even now, nearly three decades after the incident and nearing 55 years of "real" age, I still look freshly out of college.

So at 35, I left my job, sold my apartment, and disappeared to travel the world. I still send birthday cards and postcards to my aging father regularly, but haven't gathered the guts to call him in the past 10 years, unsure if I can stand hearing him ask me to come home once more. How could I possibly explain my appearance, my lack of aging? I'm not even allowed to. Even werewolves have rules to obey, and revealing themselves to humans isn't only one of those, but the

first

one.

You will not let humans know about werewolves.

Sort of like a commandment, right? Actually, I like to think of them more like Asimov's robotic laws.

I knew there must have been other werewolves around me at the time, though I had no desire whatsoever to find them. My only experience with them had resulted in my near death, and until I knew for sure that they wouldn't hurt me, I would stay the hell away from any other specimen of my new species. Though it would have been simpler, I guess, to build a cabin in the middle of the woods and stay there, because werewolves are a damn organized sort, and you stick out like a sore thumb when you stumble upon their territory.

That's the second rule: protect the pack. They're pretty obsessed about it, actually.

The first time I met another wolf was in New York, in 1995. A beta male sniffed me out on the street and was unable to identify my scent as one of his pack. He quite boldly followed me back to the restaurant where I lead him, breaking down with nerves, in a desperate attempt to stay in a crowded place. He had been cordial enough, though, and apparently believed me when I explained that I had no idea I was on anyone's territory. He had turned stone cold when I explained my story, though.

It turned out that while they are tolerated, and even fully accepted and considered equals in certain packs, Turned wolves aren't generally considered too well in werewolf society. Being former humans, we're smaller than pure-blooded werewolves, have black-colored (thus ill-omened) wolf forms, and are therefore condemned to the lowest ranks in pack hierarchy. Upon learning I hadn't been

willingly

Turned, though, the reactions I've been getting over the years in various territories have ranged from cautiousness to pure fear, to the extent that I have feared for my life more than once.

I so learned another rule, the third most important one of the four: never Turn a human without their full consent. There are real risks of them dying or turning rogue if they can't come to terms with their new nature. Considering you're not even supposed to talk to humans

about

werewolves in the first place, and so could not possibly

get

their enlightened consent before you take a bite out of them, it's a sure way of making sure Turnings don't happen too often. Smaller packs don't even have Turned wolves among them; the biggest packs usually have less than a dozen.

We, Turned wolves, are also considered a dead weight to carry for the rest of them. History says we apparently cannot truly mate and therefore cannot have children and raise a family.

You see, werewolves are humans – sort of – who share their mind and body with a wolf's soul. It is common knowledge that werewolves born on the same moon are more compatible, even more in the case of wolves born on the same night. It is unproven scientifically but widely believed that each of them have a 'mate' – that their wolf soul has a sister somewhere, and that life throws events in their way that will eventually lead them to meet this soul sister. The inner wolf will, somehow, recognize them right away. Of course, not every werewolf will find their mate in their lifetime, and many of them find happiness anyways, but all of them look forward to it.

Not being born a werewolf, a Turned wolf would not have a soul sister in the werewolf community, and so would have no mate waiting for them. That doesn't make coupling impossible, of course, but it does make it that much harder to find a willing partner. Who in their right mind would risk losing their chance with their soul sister for a pretty Turned wolf who could never be their true mate?

Pair that with the fact that Turned werewolves are just about as rare as werebunnies, and you'll understand why my love life has been quite uneventful in the past few decades.

So I travelled from city to city, from America to Europe and back, hiding most of the time but also petitioning three times to enter a pack. Pack-life never worked out for me, though: hierarchic and membership rules change from one pack to another, and even more so from one Alpha to another. I could never fit in, whether because of my heretic origins or my incapacity to fit into the omega role reserved to Turned wolves in all the packs I've visited. I refused it with every fiber of my being, and the wolf inside me would snarl and growl each time a beta ordered me around; I hadn't come to terms with losing everything from my former life just to live a life of servitude. I was a free wolf.

I first heard of the Montreal pack three years ago while I was in London, when their old Alpha stepped down after a full century of leadership, and was replaced by a younger one named Gabriel St-Louis. While Alpha elections are a relatively regular event in werewolf kingdom, that particular pack stood out by accepting the first Turned werewolf as their Alpha in werewolf history.

Everyone was shocked and appalled, and the event was on everyone's lips. Alphas are elected by voting, you see, after showing their pack why they are the best choice. In our modern world, being the strongest physically is no longer as important as other qualities such as intelligence, business savviness and charisma, but it was still unbelievable that they would choose an Alpha who would most probably never find a mate and contribute to the pack's future with children. Modern world or not, family and pack traditions still being what they are, I was quite surprised and – I must admit – more than a little impressed by the man who had had the gals to not only try to accomplish such a feat, but had also succeeded.

I got more and more curious about it. With the thought that I obviously couldn't be more miserable in Canada than I was anywhere else, I petitioned to enter their pack. Once accepted, in the beginning of summer two years ago, I moved in Montreal and into an adorably small two-room apartment I found on the second story of a bakery store, on the Boulevard de Côte-Vertu. It was crazy expensive and not quiet in the least, but it was luminous, constantly smelled like fresh bread and was almost across the street from the metro station and the underground train that took me to work.

The contact in London that had helped me petition for the pack had also managed to get me a job as a "client relationship agent" at a cable company that belonged to the pack: basically a more politically correct name for "the person who deals with whinny clients". I first thought the contact had pulled a bad joke on me – I was hardly what you would call a social wolf after so many years in hiding – but I soon found out that the job was almost as good as the salary. I seemed to deal much better with people when speaking to them on the phone, I had a pretty decent boss, and the nice office they gave me on the tenth floor of the building, with its wonderful view on downtown, felt like the cherry on top of a sundae.

Life was suddenly looking to be much better here than it had been at any given moment in my past 30 years.

I quickly realized in the months following my move that the Montreal pack was much different than all the others I had seen until then. Whereas many Alphas would require services or financial compensation for the protection of their pack, it seemed the only requirement here was a strict obedience of the rules. Do not let the humans know about werewolves. Protect your pack. Do not chew on unwilling humans. And under all circumstances, as long as it didn't go against the other three rules – Asimov, remember? – obey the Alpha.

As ominous as it sounds, that last rule is quite easy to follow. In a city of millions, including a few hundred werewolves roaming everywhere, the Alpha and his council act pretty much like some sort of wolfish mafia, extending the ramifications of their power everywhere from the most popular dance clubs in town to the stolen jewelry seller in the Underground City.

I have never

felt

observed, mind you, but I did know that my nature was acknowledged by every werewolf I saw, with no way to know if they were regular nobodies like me, just trying to make a normal living, or secret agents in the gigantic business machine this pack seemed to be.

And unimportant as I was, chances of ever finding myself in the Godfather's—pardon, the Alpha's presence, let alone being on the receiving end of a direct order from him, were almost nonexistent. As it was, his orders to me were apparently to follow the four rules and be a good werewolf in general, and I was more than happy to indulge if it meant I could live a happy, uneventful life in the pack.

A nagging anguish, though, had me gathering information about this mysterious, faceless Alpha from the moment I arrived. And even though I wouldn't have known his face if I saw him, I had found myself increasingly curious about Gabriel St-Louis. Not only for a young wolf, but especially a

Turned

wolf, not born, to claim his place as Alpha of one of the largest, richest packs in North America was an event without precedent. The cosmopolitan aspect of the city, joined with the exceptional acceptance the pack towards newcomers, showed the reflection of a good, tolerant Alpha. Which was surprising to me, to be honest, after spending half a lifetime running away from hateful, intolerant werewolves.

But life goes on. And I was thinking that perhaps it could go on for a long time here.

And of course – such is my karma – something had to change.

I was getting dressed for work on one particular morning when the phone rang. I hoped ungracefully across my bedroom on one foot, pulling my other sock on as I did, before grabbing my cellphone from the night table on the fifth ring. "Yes?" I answered breathlessly.

"Leah," a male voice said, filled with relief. "Are you in soon? Where are you?"

I glanced towards the alarm-clock in surprise. "Hum... home. I'm leaving in about 30 minutes... Monsieur Beaulieu, am I late for something?"

"No! No..." he said hurriedly, and cleared his throat. "Just... something that came up on short notice. If you could come in a bit earlier?... I'll let you out early this afternoon."

"Yeah, of course," I answered with a frown. My boss was usually much more confident than this. He was also rarely in his office at 7 in the morning. I tucked the phone against my shoulder and reached out for my other sock on the bed. I tugged it out from under Berenice the cat, and she extended all of her claws to swat playfully at my hand. "Ouch! Yes. I'll finish up getting ready and will try to grab the next train."

"Oh thank you. Thanks, Leah. I'll see you later."

"Bye." I hung up and frowned at the phone for a moment before I shrugged and tossed it on the bed. I got up and walked to the closet to pick up a blouse, shrugging it on before I turned to the mirror. I looked myself over as I did the buttons before I smoothed my black dress pants, unconsciously plucking a few white cat hairs from the fabric.

Not bad,

I thought as I reached up to smooth back my hair.

A very dark brown, it also curled madly and looked half its actual length, twisting naturally in large ringlets around my shoulders. It was also an eternal struggle to make it look good in the mornings, but it seemed to agree with me that day as it fluffed gracefully around my face. I was tall, even without pumps, and dark clothes complimented my lean shape pretty well. I'd already put on makeup before the call, to make my dark blue eyes stand out, so the only thing I had to skip to make it on time to the train was breakfast. I sighed and slipped my feet into black pumps before I headed out with my purse and made my way down the stairs.

Summer was still a few weeks away, but May was being generous and I needed no coat, especially for such a short trip outside. I hurried over to the station, only briefly regretting not being able to stay out in the sun for a longer time than this, and proceeded down the stairs to catch the next metro train.

I reached my office building nearly 45 minutes earlier than the usual, but grumpy from a hot ride on an empty stomach. I patted my hair to check if it was dealing with the surprising humidity as I hurried through the Underground halls to reach the elevator under the building where I worked. I slipped in through the closing doors just in time and, with a sigh of relief, took a brief sniff of the air.

I glanced up to see a dark haired wolf standing right next to the buttons, a surprised expression fleeting across his handsome face for an instant before it closed into a damn serious frown. I held his gaze for a moment before I heard my wolf snort softly in my mind, reluctantly acknowledging his status.

Beta,

she whispered.

Defensive. Stay low. Don't anger him.

I lowered my gaze and took a step back to stand in the far corner, and stared at the tip of my shoes. "Tenth floor, please," I asked him as gently as I could, and added as an afterthought: "... Sir. Please."

He snorted softly and pressed the right buttons before he turned towards the closing doors. I looked up to find him standing right in front of me, showing me his back, and refrained from letting out a disappointed pout. Defensive or not, he was deliberately ignoring me, and I felt more than slightly self-conscious. While not necessarily breathtakingly beautiful, I generally felt quite easy on the eyes, and certainly worth more than a sneer. Apparently this particular male was too busy to notice, but with one thing and another, my last physical contact with a male went back quite a long way, and I felt hurt. I snorted softly to myself, before I felt a soothing mental pat from my wolf.

Mated,

she explained gently.

His loss.

I wanted to hug her. I smiled down at my feet and shifted my weight on my left leg, pulling up the strap of my purse.

Nice try,

I sent her.

I'm not sure he'd agree, though.

The man shifted uncomfortably in front of me, noticeably straightening his shoulders in his suit jacket and shifting his feet to stand between me and the door. I frowned, but turned my gaze to the doors when the elevator stopped at ground level, and two more werewolves, a blond and another dark one, stepped in when the doors opened.

An overpowering male scent suddenly filled the elevator as soon as the doors closed. Spicy and fresh, it completely covered the scents of the other two males and invaded my senses. I shut my eyes and grabbed for the metal railing beside me as my head spun and my knees buckled. I felt giddy all of a sudden, and the feeling was quite invigorating and as intoxicating as the man's scent was. My wolf was whining in joy with her tail thumping the ground in happiness, sending waves of excitement and adrenaline to rush through my veins. I inhaled again, slowly, to see if it would happen again, but quickly realized I must have been seriously embarrassing myself, and immediately opened my eyes to find the source of this amazing disturbance.

Though I was no small woman at 5'10", and often stood at the same height as many human men, the three Weres were several inches taller than me, but that wasn't surprising for werewolves. My gaze settled immediately on the one in the middle, the only fair haired one. He was a bit shorter than the other two, and leaner – not bulging with ridiculous muscles like most of our compatriots, he was built like a swimmer, with large, straight shoulders snuggly fitted into an expensive charcoal suit jacket over a white shirt. His dirty blonde hair was a snip too long and brushed the collar of his dress shirt as he tilted his head to the side, showing me a straight, strong jawline and high cheekbones. He exuded power and confidence despite the slight frown etched on his profile, and it filtered into his scent and through my senses to my overexcited wolf, who kept yipping in warning to me.

I blinked and tried to listen to her, just as he turned his head towards me, a confused, curious look written in his pale eyes. Time stopped, and I stood paralyzed for a long moment as I stared back. I was just thinking that hazel didn't even start describing the colour of those irises, when the word my wolf was frantically repeating to me finally got through my hazy mind.

Alpha,

she was saying.

Alpha!

I blinked again. He was still looking at me and seemed as transfixed and confused as I felt. A pale lock of hair barred his forehead to fall into his eyes, and a tingle went through my fingers at the sight as I fought down the ridiculous sudden impulse to reach out and brush it back behind his ear.

Alpha! Respect!

my wolf was moaning in my mind.

Look down!

I gasped softly and broke the stare to look down at the tip of my shoes, clenching my fists at my sides in frustration. How embarrassing! What would he think of me?

I felt rather than saw the sudden movement of his hand as he reached out, but the soft

ding!

of the elevator stopped him, and the soft, lusty elevator voice announced the tenth floor. The doors opened, but none of us moved. When the doors started to close again, the dark-haired werewolf who had been there first reached out for the button to keep them opened and nervously cleared his throat. Obviously the two others had felt something was off as well. "I t'ink dis is your floor, mademoiselle," he said hesitantly in a thick French-Canadian accent, and I nodded automatically. I kept my eyes on the floor, feeling mortified but also confused as hell as I stepped forward between him and the Alpha to get out.

I stepped out onto the carpet of the hallway and heard the ding of the elevator again behind me. I wanted to walk straight ahead towards my office, but felt compelled to stop in my tracks. I turned on my heels and looked up to find Alpha St-Louis' gaze on me still. The corners of his wide, fine mouth instantly curved up into a grin, and I saw his pale eyes narrowing in curiosity and speculation before the doors closed between us, and I was left with a thumping heart and boiling blood, alone in the hallway.