He says it plainly, no drama, just the truth laid down between us, and then he stops and waits, braced, watching my face for the horror he's so sure is coming.
And here's the strange thing. The thing I'll turn over for a long time afterward.
I'm not afraid.
I wait for it, the fear, the recoil, the sensible terror any normal person would feel being told by a boy on a dark cliff that he's a werewolf. It doesn't come. What comes instead is a kind of vast quiet relief, because finally, finally, the pieces fit. All of them. Everything that never added up, the impossible speed and the silver eyes and the animal stillness and the way three words from me stopped his fist when a whole crowd couldn't, all of it clicks into place at once, and it's monstrous and impossible and it should break my wh
