Chapter 2

Therapy Scareapy

Chapter 2: Therapy Scareapy

“What are you doing out here!?” Wendell stormed over to his not-quite ex-husband, Cayden, alpha of the Howley-Kirkwood pack.

“Marking the perimeter,” Cayden said, eyes and attention focused purely on his urine-y task at hand. “I’ve been hearing rumors from some of the other nearby packs that a bunch of lone wolves are infiltrating Connecticut.”

“If it’s a ‘bunch’ of lone wolves, how do you know they’re not actually a pack?” Wendell challenged, crossing his arms.

“If that’s what their game is, it doesn’t hurt to reinforce that this is Howley-Kirkwood territory. I don’t sense any alphas, though,” Cayden said.

Divorce didn’t and wouldn’t take away that Wendell was still living on Howley-Kirkwood turf, even though he wasn’t with the pack anymore in their neighborhood community. The Howley-Kirkwoods were a proud (and huge) pack, and they had the land to show for it.

Wendell wondered if an influx of lone wolves prowling would be enough to push the hellhounds out of their territory. He wasn’t sure what the supernatural canine hierarchy was. But he didn’t care enough to ask Cayden either.

It was none of Cayden’s business that Wendell and Aurora faced off against a trio of hellhounds wielding witchcraft.

A part of Wendell questioned Cayden because he didn’t sense any encroaching werewolves at all.

But maybe that was because Wendell wanted absolutely nothing to do with his own wolf.

Was that compartmentalizing, neglect, and denying what was an inextricable part of himself impacting him psychologically?

Of course.

Was he going to change anything about it?

Not a chance.

Emotional instability and the aches, pains, and weight gain were a small price to pay to keep himself and the people around him safe.

“You haven’t been answering any of my calls or texts, and I know you wouldn’t do this yourself, so I figured I’d pop by after work,” Cayden said, still diligently peeing. He was wearing his uniform from the wildlife rehabilitation center and nature sanctuary he worked at upstate.

Wendell didn’t see Cayden’s car. So most likely, he ran the forty-some miles. A purebred werewolf with a pedigree that went back hundreds of years, Cayden’s fitness and athleticism were always one of his defining features. Even at age thirty-two, that hadn’t changed.

Cayden by Shaarpie

“Done,” Cayden said with relief. He gave himself a shake and zipped back up.

“You are so lucky none of my neighbors are home at this time, and that none of them have kids. They’d think you’re a perverted creep,” Wendell snapped.

“I don’t care what people think about me,” Cayden said, and Wendell knew he meant it. “If me looking like a ‘creep’ in your yard is going to be what keeps those wolves away from our territory and away from you, I’ll be that creep ten times over. But I’m not just here for this. I need to tell you about–” Cayden’s jaw dropped when he finally turned to look at Wendell head on.

Cayden’s green eyes bugged out as he took in Wendell’s figure. “Wen, you are not still doing that,” Cayden groaned.

“Doing what?” Aurora panted. She rushed out for backup, always ready to play wingwoman to Wendell.

“Oh no,” Cayden groaned again, “And you have Aurora in on it too.”

“In on what?” Aurora asked.

“You’re renting a mini moving van, parking out at the edge of the remote woods, and chaining yourself up in there with pounds and pounds of crappy meat for your moonset, aren’t you? And you have Aurora locking you up and letting you out,” Cayden winced. “Wen, that’s no way to go through your moons. Your wolf is sick and miserable. I can see it all over you. Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I’m enormous. I get it. All of my students came up with a mind-blowingly original insult for me: Mr. Fatty,” Wendell said flatly. “I’m getting really sick of my weight being a punchline there.”

Sick of it was putting it lightly.

Last month, Wendell had a breakdown in front of his fifth-grade class.

It was bad enough that he let the crude notes and drawings from a class of ten-year-olds devastate him, but it was made all the worse that said breakdown happened on take-your-child-to-work day, when the daughter of his boss, the school principal, was eagerly sitting in on his lesson about shapeshifters in folklore.

Later that day in her office, Principal Penman was quick to remind Wendell that it wasn’t his first time having an emotional breakdown on school grounds.

He transferred to the elementary school earlier that year from his former role as an English literature teacher at the nearby high school, where he had a string of other breakdowns over the course of the year he spent there. Unsurprisingly, they coincided with the three nights of his monthly moonsets.

“In light of your recent behavior, we can’t trust you with our vulnerable, young population of students until you get to a more stable place, Wen. We’re all concerned about you,” Principal Penman said. She passed him a thick packet of paper. “This is just as hard for us to tell you that you’re suspended as it is for you to hear.”

“So I’m not… I’m not going back to my classroom on Monday?” Wendell asked solemnly.

“No, Wen. We’re arranging for a long-term substitute to come in until school lets out for the summer. If you do what I’m asking you, once you complete these sessions with this school-appointed therapist, Dr. Silvia Gray, and she gives you the all clear, you can come back to your classroom right after Labor Day, as your best self. Until then, I want you to take it easy. Go to therapy. Take care of yourself. Maybe get some extra counseling to help with your divorce.”

“It’s not about your weight, Wen, although when you are treating your wolf better, you don’t have the same… shape,” Cayden said patiently, cutting into Wendell’s reminiscing.

“I’m not avoiding you. I’m divorcing you, and I want you to leave,” Wendell said bluntly.

“Ten minutes,” Cayden said, holding up his two large hands.

“Five?” He pleaded when Wendell refused to budge.

“Fine,” Wendell sighed. “Talk.”

“Can I see Mary first? Please?” Cayden pleaded. “She’s my girl, too. You can’t keep her from me forever.”

“Fine,” Wendell sighed again.

Wendell and Cayden didn’t need to use their werewolf senses of smell to track down Mary Shelley. The massive eighteen-pound Maine Coon-Ragdoll mix was splayed out in the sunshine on her favorite carpet. The majestically fluffy brown and white cat had a melodious meow and the expressiveness of a Disney animal sidekick.

Cayden and Wendell adopted her together a year into their marriage when they went to an animal shelter just to “look”.

Cayden dropped down to sit cross-legged on the carpet.

Mary Shelley scrambled up into his lap and bonked her head into his chest as he leaned down to kiss her striped head.

“I wonder if she was bred by lycans,” Cayden said as he scratched Mary Shelley’s lower back above the base of her tail.

She happily grooved her swishy, bushy tail.

“I’ve never known any other cats to have zero reactions to my lycanthropy,” Cayden continued.

“What do you want, Cayden?” Wendell sighed impatiently.

“Astrid’s having a baby shower. You know how much it’ll mean to her to have you there,” Cayden said. “You don’t need to stay the whole time, but it’d be nice for you to make an appearance. You’re still a Howley-Kirkwood alpha even if you want to pretend it’s not true.”

“Astrid and her husband are what? Breeding? How could you be okay with this?” Wendell jerked away. “There are so many werewolves already. We don’t need more.”

“So what? She’s not allowed to have children because you don’t agree with it?” Cayden asked.

Wendell shook his head in disgust. “She’s going to have —”

“Another purebred like me?” Cayden asked with a humorless smile. “I won’t have any pups myself, Wen. I won’t be able to pass on the alpha mantle to a son or daughter. The Howley-Kirkwoods are going to need a strong, capable, and resourceful alpha to take over when I’m gone. Astrid has excellent breeding. Her mate Lucan does too. So yeah. I approved their request to breed. We haven’t had a pup in over a decade, and we’re all excited. I thought you’d have a reaction that wasn’t … well… disgusted,” Cayden said, disappointedly.

“Auri, you might as well go; this might be a while,” Wendell sighed to his friend.

Aurora’s cheeks turned pink, and she hustled off with a speedy goodbye. Wendell wished he could flee with her.

“Astrid’s always been good to you, Wen. She always stood up for you and backed you in the pack,” Cayden continued.

“I know,” Wendell sighed. It was true. Astrid never made him feel lesser for being bitten, and bitten by a lone wolf at that. He missed her even though he wasn’t about to admit that to Cayden.

Astrid also sold Wendell his house. She was one of the most successful realtors in this town and several of the nearby ones that surrounded it. And Astrid’s husband, Lucan? He was Wendell’s doctor. As a DONHE-compliant werewolf doctor, it meant Wendell wouldn’t need to work with a one-on-one case manager from the werewolf registry anymore. Lucan would report Wendell’s health record to DONHE directly. Instead, Wendell chose to cancel his physical appointments with Lucan and ignore all of the follow-up calls to reschedule.

“Lucan said you’ve been ignoring his calls, too. So I guess you’re working with Todd again?” Cayden said, as if reading Wendell’s mind.

“So much for doctor-patient confidentiality,” Wendell grumped.

“How about this then. You make an appearance at Astrid’s baby shower next week, and I’ll consider signing the divorce papers,” Cayden said innocently, raking a hand through his auburn hair. It was a move that Wendell always found sexy, and he knew Cayden knew it. Especially with the little smirk on his stupidly kissable lips.

When Wendell first met Cayden at the college he transferred to after a near accident at his first college, he described Cayden to Aurora as looking like Nick Carter, but with dark red hair and freckles. That comparison to Wendell’s favorite Backstreet Boy was still an accurate assessment of Cayden.

“Are you serious?” Wendell groaned.

“No? You let me take Mary Shelley with me today, and I’ll sign them right now,” Cayden grinned and signed an imaginary paper with an imaginary pen.

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there. Now you really have to go, because I have to go.”

“Hot date?” Cayden asked.

Wendell could see he was trying to look casual as he asked it.

“No. Therapy,” Wendell said dryly, grabbing his car keys. “Do you want me to give you a ride somewhere?”

“Nah. I’m good with running,” Cayden said, following Wendell out the door.

Wendell locked the front door and unlocked his car. He had his hand on the driver’s door when Cayden called out, “Wait! Wen, with these lone wolves suddenly infiltrating the area, werewolf hunters are bound to start coming out of the woodwork to put them down. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are human lyc-chasers too.”

“Who’d be turning them? And why?” Wendell asked. He never understood why anyone would actively try to become a werewolf. Especially because most new werewolves didn’t survive their first transformation, let alone all three nights of their first moonset. It was sickening.

“Some of the lone wolves, no doubt. It’s a cycle. Just be careful, Wen,” Cayden said softly.

“You’re here for a reason, Wendell, and I don’t think it’s to sit with your head down staring at my carpet,” Dr. Silvia Gray, the therapist who owned Silver Linings Therapy, said.

There was a yellow pillow on the couch next to Wendell demanding he RELAX in curly embroidered letters. Wendell turned it so the text faced the couch.

“I’m surprised you didn’t cancel again,” Silvia said to Wendell’s silence. “This is progress, Wendell.”

“Wen,” Wendell said.

“What?”

“I go by Wen. Not Wendell,” Wendell asserted.

“Wen,” Silvia acknowledged. “Tell me what you’re hoping to get out of our sessions.”

“My job. I want my job back,” Wendell said. “My boss demanded I talk to you, or she won’t let me start the new school year.”

“Do you remember what we talked about the last time you were here? It was last month, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you need a refresher.”

Wendell made a noncommittal sound.

“I asked you about your marriage and Cayden, and you described him as your, what, almost ex-husband? Why don’t you tell me more about that?”

“We’re from different worlds,” Wendell said. “It’s a miracle we stayed together as long as we did.”

“What was the tipping point in your relationship? When was the moment you knew you had to walk away?”

“It’s his family,” Wendell sighed. “He has no boundaries with them. Especially his cousins. He’ll drop everything for them.”

“So you’d say you’re not close with any of them?”

“It’s not that I’m not close. It’s just that, again, we’re from different worlds. We weren’t raised the same way. We have different values,” Wendell said, trying to keep things specific yet vague at the same time.

Flat out saying “my almost-ex-husband’s whole family are purebred werewolves with a lineage that goes back a century if not longer” wasn’t a truth bomb Wendell wanted to drop.

“How about your in-laws? Do you see them at all?”

“Never. It’s like we speak a different language. I can’t get through to them, and they don’t want to hear me out,” Wendell said.

That was true too.

Cayden’s parents, Wendell’s father-in-law and mother-in-law, decided to live out the rest of their years in their wolf forms. Purebred werewolves could opt to transform into their wolf selves without the influence of a full moon with the right shapeshifting rituals. It wasn’t to be taken lightly, and trying to reverse it could have grave consequences.

As per the Howley-Kirkwood tradition, they ceded their roles as alphas to Cayden upon his marriage to Wendell. They lived in the acres and acres of protected Howley-Kirkwood packlands.

If Wendell wasn’t actively trying to divorce Cayden, that was where he would spend his three-night moonset every month: in a heavily guarded and fortified, carefully curated woodland stocked with all of the live prey and enrichment a werewolf needed.

Unlike locking himself in a mini moving van with crappy cuts of meat, when he ran free in the Howley-Kirkwood packlands, Wendell wanted for nothing.

“Wen, are you still with me? You seem more on edge than usual, ” Silvia said. “You’ve been rubbing at your ankle this whole time. Is that where you were bitten when you were attacked on your Boy Scout camping trip?”

Wendell felt cold all over. “I never said I was bitten,” he said slowly.

“Right, of course not. I just assumed because it was a wolf attack that you were bitten.”

“It wasn’t a wolf attack. There aren’t wolves in any part of Connecticut,” Wendell said casually. It was a reaction he practiced and perfected. “It was a coyote.”

“One coyote wiped out the whole troop of your fellow scouts and the adult and teen leaders?” Silvia asked, raising her skinny eyebrows.

“No. It was a whole pack of them. They were savage, and I don’t want to talk about them anymore,” Wendell snapped, rubbing his hands over the goosebumps breaking out over his arms.

“That’s okay. We’re out of time anyway. Thank you for your vulnerability, Wen. It’s not easy. I’ll see you next week, yes?”

Unfortunately, Wendell thought exasperatedly to himself.

He nearly made it to his car in the parking lot when a male voice behind him called, “Wendell Batty?”

With his hand still on the handle of the driver’s side door, Wendell turned to the man who spoke. “Yes?”

“Agent Gideon Crow,” the man said. He looked like he was in his early twenties. His floppy blue hair and triangular sunglasses clashed with his DONHE uniform. “I’m taking over your case.”