Mates, p.1
Mates, page 1
Mates: Xander
Bridget E. Baker
Copyright © 2022 by Bridget E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Elijah
It’s okay if you’re different
Our differences make us incomparable
And that’s how we’re able to change the world
Contents
1. Xander
2. Clark
3. Roxana
4. Bevin
5. Izaak
6. Minerva
7. Xander
8. Xander
9. Xander
10. Roxana
11. Minerva
12. Clark
13. Bevin
14. Minerva
15. Izaak
16. Xander
17. Clark
18. Roxana
19. Bevin
20. Izaak
21. Minerva
22. Xander
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bridget E. Baker
1
Xander
On my first day of school, my dad wagged his tail and licked me on the nose. Then he ran off, leaving me to cower in front of three dozen other wolf pups many of whom were much larger than me.
Unlike normie school, where you’re taught the alphabet and how to count, the main focus in the first year of were-school is learning your place. You then spend the rest of your formal education learning to excel in it or how to survive, depending on your family background and your strength level.
Something amazing happened on my first day—because of me.
It just didn’t happen to me.
It usually takes weeks or sometimes even months for a new student to discover what variety of werewolf he or she is: innovator, ranger, nurturer, or shredder. The instructors put the pups through a variety of tasks designed to push our inner selves to the forefront. But for one of the wolves on that first day, all it took was his first scent of a normie.
Unfortunately, that normie was me.
A large black wolf, the normies would call him a grey wolf, turned to sniff my backside. It sounds nasty to normies, but it’s a pretty common thing for werewolves. To be honest, anything that smells really strong smells pretty good to us in wolf form. Fresh-baked cookies, taco meat, and sizzling fajitas are some of my favorites. But a fresh pile of dung, an old puddle of vomit, or the back end of another wolf all smell almost as good.
It took me a while to realize that butt-sniffing wasn’t something other supernaturals really got.
So when this black wolf sniffed my butt, I just wagged my tail.
But then something strange happened. The fur along his back began to bristle, and a low growl started in his throat. His claws looked like they got longer and they dug into the dirt.
And then he attacked me.
Turns out, one of the major things that causes shredders to wolf, which is what we call leaning into the most primal part of ourselves, is the scent of a normie. They spend most of their training learning to rip other monsters to shreds, and learning not to attack people unless it’s a strategically good idea. I’ve always felt it was pretty strange that they work on both attacking better and attacking less.
On that day, Lars discovered he was not only a shifter, but one who could go alpha, and I learned that wolf school isn’t a very safe place. It took nearly three more years for me to figure out that I was also a shredder, just like Lars, because I also happen to be the worst, least intuitive shredder known to wolf kind.
If I could just have been born a ranger, a nurturer, or an innovator, I’d have been fine. Innovators come up with new ideas. They organize and manage and teach. Every night, when I finally curled into a ball, covering my face with my tail, I’d secretly pray that I’d turn out to be an innovator. A nurturer wouldn’t have been so bad either—they’re supposed to care for others, plus they fix problems and make rough things alright. I’d have loved to be a ranger, too. They test things, explore them, and scout new areas. Even as a halfie, I’d probably have been accepted if I were an innovator, a ranger, or a nurturer.
So coming up as a shredder was just really, monumentally bad luck on my part. They’re the worst of the lot. They just fight, and as a halfie, I smell strange enough to make almost all the other shredders irritable. It made for a lot of fighting, and on my side, a loooot of losing.
Funny enough, your average wolf usually wants to be a shredder. They change quickly, they’re stronger, and they heal the fastest of any type. They’re also the only type of wolf that can be born with the ability to become an alpha. It’s rare—maybe one in seventy-five shredders can even become alphas. Only alphas can start packs, of course, but even if I had been an alpha, it wouldn’t have helped me a bit.
No one would join a pack with a halfie alpha. In fact, in more than twenty years, I’ve yet to find a pack that will even let me join them. I’ve wondered from time to time, whether if I’d had those extra three years to learn to kill better and constrain my inner wolf with more strength, I’d have become a better shredder, but I doubt it. My weakness and my skill both suffer from the same thing: I’m a halfie, so my whole heart just isn’t in it.
Normies and shredders are just really incompatible. My dad should have known that. I mean, it’s not like your type of wolf is always passed on to your pups, but for him it was. He was a shredder, so what was he thinking with my mom?
My life has been like one ongoing cosmic joke.
After Dad realized I was a shredder like him, he did what any smart werewolf dad with a halfie son would do. He called up my mother and asked her to enroll me in normie school.
That’s how, at the age of seven, I wound up with a little blue backpack, a pencil box with very sharp, very yellow, very pointy pencils, and a pair of blunt tipped scissors, standing in front of Ridgemont Elementary. I clutched the handle on my Last Airbender lunchbox as tightly as I could and repeated the mantra Mom made me memorize over and over.
“I will not go furry. I will not go furry. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, I will not go furry.”
Three years at a were-school had taught me enough control for that, I hoped.
Mom was terrified it hadn’t.
But Dad told me that compared to were-school, normie school was a piece of cake. I hoped that was true, because I really liked cake. And as long as I didn’t get attacked in the first five minutes, it would be better than were-school, right?
Poor little Xander had no idea.
Nothing about my life would bear any resemblance to cake. People like cake. They ask for more. They pay money for it. They write songs about it, or if they don’t, they should.
But no one wants more Xander. They don’t pay for it—they don’t like it.
I’d barely put my Last Airbender lunchbox into the lunch wagon by my teacher’s desk when things went awry. It had been more than five minutes—probably closer to thirty—so I guess that was better than my were-school first day.
But that’s when I smelled it—someone was bleeding.
Wolves aren’t quite as bad as sharks. We don’t become mindless when we smell blood, but shredders react strongly to it. When I smelled it that day, the mantra ran through my head.
I will not go furry.
Shredders either shift in times of stress, or they step up and help in other ways. We aren’t made to just sit around. I’d had enough training to know that if I didn’t want to shift, I needed to find the source of blood and help that person.
“Who’s hurt?” I asked.
“Huh?” The girl next to me frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Someone’s bleeding,” I said.
“You’re crazy.” She scooted her chair as far from me as she could and glanced at me sideways.
“I’m not.” Although, my stress level was rising. “Someone’s bleeding.”
“Why do you think that?” The kid across from me shoved his glasses up. He looked around. “Everyone looks fine, new kid.”
“I can smell it,” I finally said.
And that’s when the teacher walked past, and the smell washed over me like an ocean wave. . .of acrid copper and tangy rust. It was strong—not just a small cut. “It’s you.” I turned and grabbed her arm. “Where did you get hurt? Why are you bleeding?”
She yanked her hand away. “I’m not bleeding.” Her lip curled.
“You are,” I said. “Actually—” That’s when it hit me. I’d smelled it before, from other wolves and even from my mother. My teacher was in heat. “Oh.” I smiled. “Never mind. You’re not hurt. You’re in heat.”
Her face had turned bright red and her lip curled. She practically snarled, “Shut your mouth, you little brat.”
The biggest thing I’d learned in three years at were-school was that you never, ever, ever back down when someone challenges you. If you do, you’re sure to be eaten alive. I can’t tell you the number of scratches, scrapes, bruises, and full-on lacerations I received because my natural instinct was to apologize. After literally having it beaten into me for three years, I had learned to stand up for myself. I’d still take a beating, but it wouldn’t be nearly as bad.
So when she told me to shut up, I got up in her face and gave as good as I got. “No, you shut up, you fema le dog.” Only, I didn’t say female dog. In my defense, the word I used was a commonly used word at were-school.
Before I knew it, she was marching me and my little blue backpack to the principal’s office. He called my mom, and that was my first and last day at that school. That stupid teacher never even gave me my Last Airbender lunchbox back. Of course, now that I’m an adult, I understand why she got so upset. But I was just a kid! I doubt the other first graders had any idea what was going on. Clearly she wasn’t someone with a very strong constitution.
Mom actually had to move us in order to enroll me in a new school. I’d have felt worse if she didn’t move all the time anyway. She was never very good at her job, and she got fired a lot.
On my first day at the next school, I didn’t have a Last Airbender lunchbox. All Mom could find was Sponge Bob, which was so cringey that I held it backward so no one could see the image. That third first day of school, I stuck to my mantra, but I took it a step further. I compiled a list of things to make it easier not to go furry.
1. Don’t say anything at all unless absolutely required.
2. Never draw attention to yourself.
3. Watch others to see what they’re doing before you act.
And above all:
4. Never growl, scowl, or call names.
Thanks to my comprehensive list, and my mother making me watch several hours a day of normie television, I was able to avoid any huge disasters this time around. In fact, I buckled down and worked as hard as I could. I studied, and I paid attention, and I became the best version of a normie child that I could possibly become.
I learned the alphabet, and then I managed to start reading Dr. Seuss. He was my favorite. The rhyming, the silly words, and the bright and cheerful drawings made me smile.
But when my report card came out, sealed in a little brown envelope that I could read, For Mrs. Binnigas, I knew that was going to frost her cookies. She and I didn’t share the same last name, since she never married Dad. I thought about crossing it out and writing For Mrs. Haverly, but I figured she’d notice. My handwriting wasn’t the best, yet. I felt proud when I handed it to her, in spite of my concern she’d be mad about the name.
Were-school didn’t have grades. They simply had winners and losers, and I was the consummate loser. I figured that had prepared me, just in case my grades were bad. So when Mom opened that envelope, already irritated as I knew she would be about the name, I thought she might actually smile. I imagined she’d hug me for once, and tell me good job or pat me on the head.
Instead, her face fell. Her eyes snapped upward, locking on mine. “Are you kidding me?”
I blinked. “About what?”
“You’re failing first grade? How can you fail first grade?”
And that’s when I learned that normies have winners and losers, too. It’s not as obvious, maybe. It’s not as savage, but it’s not as honest either. When I went home from wolf school as a loser, I was covered in blood. I was limping. I couldn’t meet my dad’s eye, and I knew why.
But the normies sent me home with a little brown square that looked just like all the other little brown squares that all the kids got. I had no idea that Mom would have the same look on her face that Dad had: disappointment, shame, and disgust. Because I wasn’t prepared for it, it hurt worse.
The normies make you think you might be alright. They make you hope that you’ll be accepted. And then they yank the rug right out from under you and make you sleep on the wood floor with nothing to eat for dinner. Over time, I was able to bring those grades up a bit, but Mom didn’t seem to notice or care by then. To her, as to my dad, as to my entire wolf pack and my normie teachers, I was the same.
A loser.
Not a good normie.
A miserably bad wolf.
There wasn’t a place for me anywhere in this world. So I stuck to the shadows around other wolves, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. And with normies, I’d crack as many jokes as I could and hope no one could tell how empty I felt inside.
2
Clark
My sister never forgot anything in her entire life. She’s the most Type-A, organized person I’ve ever met.
But one day, her junior year of high school—my freshman year of college—she was recovering from a cold, and she slept in, and she accidentally set her book report on the edge of the counter in the kitchen. It slipped off when she grabbed her pile of books, and that meant that when she got to school, she had no report to submit.
I’d already finished my classes and had driven home for the weekend, so I got her panicked message on the machine when I walked in the door.
“Hello! Mom! It’s me, Minerva!” As if Mom wouldn’t have recognized her panicked voice immediately. Minerva makes Jennifer Lopez seem low key. “I think my book report fell out of the pile of stuff I brought and it’s probably on the floor, either in the entry hall, or maybe in the kitchen. Or you could check my room. But I need it. Now!” She pauses, and somehow I can still hear the panic in her breathing. “Please, Mom! I need it!”
I laugh a bit at her complete terror—as if one book report could impact her bulletproof grades—but I scoop the report up off the floor where it’s innocently staring up at me, and I head back out to my car. I had no idea that one good deed would change the course of my life forever.
That’s the first time I ever clapped eyes on Roxana Goldenscales.
I had no idea what was coming, of course, not when I grabbed a name tag from the front office. Not when I sauntered down the hallway, looking for Mrs. White’s history class. And certainly not when I opened the door, completely unwitting. But when my eyes scanned the room, they stopped dead in their tracks.
Roxana was chatting with Minerva, a half-smile on her face, her golden scales gleaming at the edge of her cheek. Her shimmery golden eyes flashed, and her ebony hair shimmered, and my heart went into a-fib.
Okay, not really, but that’s what it felt like.
I didn’t make the best impression.
I’m not sure how many times Minerva’s teacher, Mrs. White, called out to me before I finally stopped staring at Roxana and noticed she was alive.
“Hello? Are you alright, sir?”
“He’s not a sir,” Minerva said. “He’s a Clark.” She chucked an eraser at my head. That woke me up. “Hey, dummy. I need that report for next period.”
I finally managed to peel my eyes away from Roxana and remembered that I was holding her report. “Right.” I crossed the room and set it on Minerva’s desk. I knew I should turn around and go, but I didn’t know Roxana’s name yet, and I couldn’t seem to leave without discovering it.
“Thanks.” Minerva flicks the top of my hand. “You can go back to researching spells that will make you a fake girlfriend now.”
People in the room giggled, and I didn’t care. But she giggled, and I wanted to die. “Shut up,” I said. “I don’t need that. I have a real girlfriend.”
Minerva’s eyebrows shot up like firecrackers. “No, you shut up. You’re such a liar.”
“I actually have a class to teach, Mr. . . .?” The teacher looked more amused than anything else, but I knew I couldn’t stay there, staring stupidly forever.
“Clark Lucent,” I finally said. “And what’s your name?” I stared down at Minerva’s friend, trying to look dashing.
Judging by the way she frowned, I had succeeded in looking more desperate than dashing. “Roxana.”
“Roxana Goldenscales,” Minerva said. “My best friend. Doy.”
That’s when I realized that she was the daughter of the Santiago Goldenscales, CEO of the Dagobar Group.
“When can we expect you to leave, Mr. Lucent?” In retrospect, Mrs. White was actually pretty patient with me. But at the time, I spent most of my walk back to my car thinking of ways to hex her.
