Excerpt

Prologue: Betcha Never Thought This Would Happen to You

Upstate New York

5:56 a.m.

I stared at the dead body on the floor in front of me, still not able to believe what I was seeing.

How could my therapist be dead?

And was I responsible for what had happened to him?

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would find myself in this situation. After all, no boy dreams about growing up and turning into a monster. Nor becoming a suspect in such a tangled murder mystery.

But here I was, caught up in the middle of both.

I looked up from the man's lifeless body, slowly panning the faces of my companions. They looked as shocked as I likely also appeared to them. I normally had the benefit of being able to smell the emotions that others gave off, could usually hear the beat of their hearts. But my senses were mostly dulled, and what little I was able to pick up offered none of the usual indicators I relied on to be able to effectively read people.

I stood in complete disbelief wondering how these two things I never imagined I'd be in the middle of came crashing together. Neither therapy nor being a prime suspect in a convoluted murder had been on my own personal bingo card.

As I've said, neither of those are the type of aspirational things a young man dreams about.

Being a policeman, a firefighter, or perhaps even a cowboy. Sure, these are the things the average boy from my era would often fantasize about and share with the people around him.

But no, not this.

'You know what I'd like to be when I grow up, Mom?'

'Oh dear. No, Mikey. Writers don't earn enough money to live. And New York is expensive. No, no, no. If you want to be a writer, you're going to need to make sure you have a good job in order to earn a living. Because neither writing nor being a superhero are ways to earn a living.'

'You're right about the fact that fighting bad guys as a vigilante doesn't bring in money. If anything, it'll introduce trouble and hardship. But I'll be one of those rare writers who strikes it rich, Mom. With movie deals, and every book I write becoming a New York Times bestseller.'

'Maybe. But that's what'll lead me to be in this cabin in the middle of nowhere with a half dozen other Paranormals, as we're all being treated in group therapy sessions. And that is what will lead me to being a main suspect in our therapist's brutal murder.'

No. Not this.

I shook my head. Of course, I'd launch into a much deeper dive into some made-up memory of chatting with my mother in that imagined fashion at a time like this. Ironic that Dr. Laurier, my therapist, isn't around to appreciate me engaging with one of the fundamental exercises he'd tried to teach me this past week.

But this was definitely not the time for such naval-gazing introspection.

I shouldn't be regressing to talking to my mother from the child persona that's buried deep within me.

What I should be doing, instead, is trying to figure out what went down here, and whether I am actually the one responsible for this man's death.

Frustratingly enough—and I know this sounds extremely selfish—but, though it was an excruciating experience, it had started to feel like it was working; that these types of regressive internal discussions were starting to make a positive difference.

Though my senses were muted, I was still able to pick up the most intense of emotions. But there was no such scent of guilt coming from any of the others who stood in a circle around the dead body.

The main emotive smell I was picking up, which layered the air around us, was shock, tinged with a layer of confusion.

But one of us had to be the guilty one.

The question was: which one of us?

I couldn't even be certain whether I was responsible. Last night was a full moon, and it was normal for me to have no memory or knowledge of what the heck I'm up to when I morph into a grey wolf.

That was, after all, one of the reasons I was here.

All the other were-creatures I knew were able to not only control the change between man and beast, but they also retained full consciousness, control, and memory of their time in animal form.

But not me. I've always blacked out. I only remember fleeting glimpses, smells, sounds, tastes, and touch, that linger, as if behind thick cloud cover, in the back of my mind.

Did I do this when I'd blacked out last night?

But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself here.

To properly examine the situation, what I should really do is go back to the beginning. To how I ended up here among a group of other paranormal creatures in this remote retreat in Upstate New York.

I looked around the room one-by-one at the other patients as we stood in a circle around the dead body of Dr. Brendon Laurier.

At Ellie, whose brow was scrunched up as she, too seemed to be deeply analyzing this situation.

At Shian, whose eyes were wide with shock and fear, reminding me of the first time we'd met.

At Linnaeus, whose hands kept gesturing in the air in front of him, as if he were trying to keep the entire group calm, but without knowing exactly how to do that.

At Chester, whose own body subconsciously followed Linnaeus's every move while absently reaching out to touch the fabric of his sweater, as if wanting to be picked up by the giant of a man.

And finally, at the thin and emaciated face of Vlastislav whose silent tears were thick and cloudy.

One of us had to be guilty of whatever lead to the death of the therapist who was supposed to help us learn to become better functioning Paranormals.