He says nothing, again.

And I let us sit in that discomfort. I let him swallow, rake his hair back, clear his throat. The heat rises off him, stronger now.

"Does she?"

I laugh now. He's swung the ball right into my court—stupid move. Surprisingly stupid, but...vulnerable. There's a thousand ways to answer this; I decide to return the favor: remain silent.

Bonus—I know his answer to my question.

That was a slip on his end. I'm shocked. I smile.

"What else do you want me to do here? Am I still...wolfed out?" I run my fingers along my thumbs—no claws. Just long, manicured nails. "No—I'm not. I can tell. No slight lisp, either."

"Correct. Good. I want you to test your senses. Without sight, the other ones will be stronger—which is already compounded by being a werewolf. Are you alright?"

Now that he's pointed it out, it's overwhelming and distracting. I can hear the city's distant traffic, feel the churning sewers below, smell the last ten rats who have scurried under the tunnel. Every strand of pale hair that rises with the oncoming wind; the taste of the city, of cool and delicious air and less-delicious smog, of the trees in the park. The old stone, the way the rain has worn it away, left the bridge's underside damp and a bit musky, and—

Fuck.

"Why did you say that?" I hiss through gritted teeth, wincing at the screech of an ambulance. It's a half-mile away, probably, but it feels as though it's screaming directly into my ears. "Now I can't focus—this is terrible! Overwhelming. I—"

"I got something for this. Andrea. Hold on—" he's reaching into his backpack; the zipper's grating, makes me flinch. But he grabs my hands, slips something small and smooth into my right one. A pill capsule.

"It'll calm the overstimulation and dull your senses—"

"Is this some fucking pain medicine?" My nails dig into his palm, but Dante doesn't even flinch. I'm wolfing out again, aren't I? I'm hot and shuddery; my teeth are too big in my mouth.

"Of course not. It's made specially by stregas for werewolves—usually around puberty, when their wolves get active. It's just for senses. It's not addictive. No dangers. Promise."

"Name of it?"

"What happens when I turn back?"

"Nothing? I dunno—I mean, it should only work for weres, but shifters like you are probably cousins to shifters, so it might—"

I snatch the pill and swallow it dry. It takes a few seconds, but my head goes smooth. Calm. I shudder, senses duller. Distant noise; slight, faded smells; the feeling of my heartbeat. Better. Much better.

"I think it'd be best just to take the Ottlupo while you're Bianca." Dante notes.

"Yeah...good idea." I say between breaths. "I'd apologize if I clawed your palms a little, but you deserve it."

"Worse than that, actually." he says with a chuckle. "How about it? You...wolf out, you called it? We can start with stage two—mostly human, with a little wolf."

Wolf out. Yeah, a useful skill. I can do this, easily—I'm a shifter. So growing fangs and claws should be easy. I try to focus, picture it—but imaging things is challenging when I'm in a body with little vision. Right. I can't rely on that, so I try to focus on how it feels—the heat, the pulse, the jolt of adrenaline—

I hear it, feel it. My muscles are thicker, bones longer, features sharper and more animalistic. The urge to run deepens within me. I want to feel the forest, the cold air; feel it as I rush ahead, howl—

No. Focus.

The instinct goes too far. I yelp, spine curling, fingers twitching. My skin itches terribly; I scratch at it, snarling, body becoming increasingly animalistic, foreign. Fur rushes from skin. Ears rise, a tail splits from my back. My jaw extends. It's different—I can't picture it. I can only feel it. Instinct, so much instinct. I'm not on all fours, but my center of gravity has shifted forward—I'm hunched over, knuckles cracking, ears flat.

"Wh—" Panic. Thank G-d Dante's clothes are big, and can stretch; I try to feel myself, letting out a noise that's halfway between a gasp and a whimper.

"Okay, you're too good at this. You're at a stage three—halfway between wolf and human. So a...wolf-person. I'll need you to get back. Focus on humanity, on smooth skin, the city, on...human things you enjoy—like...what do you like? Reading, right? Focus on those activities; things that ground you..."

I listen, picture myself at the New York Public Library—the smell of old books, of stone, of their cleaning materials. The thought of listening to a good book—audio-books, right, Bianca—and the form reverts back to Bianca's normal. It's smoother, and much less painful, these shifts—almost...inconsequential. I'm sore, but not exhausted. I pat my hands over my face. No fur, no snout, good...

"Jesus, that was fast."

"This is...way smoother than...regular shifting."

"I guess that's the benefit, when you have just a few choices of what to bec—" His phone beeps. He sighs. I wait. He has the volume so low that I can't hear; of course. Even with these lycan ears...

"Mannaggia—" I hear his knuckles crack and tense. He stands. "I need to go. Emergency at work—you need to turn back to your regular self, Andrea. I can't risk having you be seen like this, not without me."

"I need time to shift back into me. It's too soon." I explain, slowly.

"How long do you need?"

"Depends. Since this body isn't even human, it'll probably take longer to go back. And the blindness, too—I want to make sure I have a fully-functioning set of eyes when I return, so—"

"How long do you think?" He's fervent. Rushed.

"I said it depends—"

"And I'm asking how long you think! Give me a friggin' time, Andrea."

"An hour? Two?"

He's shifting his weight between his feet. I stand, wincing—sore body. Sore muscles. Sore bones. Thankfully Bianca's mindset still hasn't rushed in yet. Distant storm. Closer. It's like I can feel the thunder, feel it creeping in—

No. The less I think about it, the better I am, right?

"I need you to come with me. Or can I just...command you to change back?" Dante offers.

"You do it, and I risk any number of serious complications. Don't you dare try. It won't work."

He swallows. "Fine. Fine—let's start moving."

"Where?"

There's a pause. "To where I need to go."

"No. I'm stuck with you right now as your...whatever, ex, I guess—and you're going to tell me where we're going. No secrets between us, especially if it's shit that'll risk my life."

"I—" Dante sighs. I can feel him throw his hands in the air. "Fine. We're going to work—the restaurant in Manhattan. You ever been to Arthur Avenue?"

"Of course...?"

"Great. You'll see it from the car, and stay in the car. Now I'm gonna lift you and start walking, so you don't trip everywhere, okay? It's easiest."

"Uh, lift me? I can walk! I'll walk."

"We gotta to run, and I won't get handsy, okay? Bianca lets me do this all the time."

"And I'm not her, s—"

"I'm sorry, but we don't got time for this..." he murmurs, hooking one arm under my legs, and the other at my back. I yelp; he curls me into his chest. I can feel him—the muscle under his shirt, the strength. The heat. The pull of his wolf. This close, and it stirs something instinctual, and foreign, and terrible within me. I scowl, trying to shove him off, but he's aware of my strength. He maintains the hold.

"You're more stubborn than she is, y'know..."

"Thanks." I say through gritted teeth. That comment makes me smile. "You're real fucking stubborn too. Always have been."

That last line slips out of my mouth, and I tense. Dante's step is a little uneven, too.

Shit.

I explain myself before he can ask. "She's starting to slip into me. Memories, mannerisms. Not entirely, not yet—just subtle cues. Like that line. I don't know you, obviously; that was...this body talking. When I become her, I become, like, an...echo of her, in a way. As a faded copy of her."

Dante doesn't say anything for a long, stretched moment. I run my hands along the hoodie; they're clammy now. He has questions; I don't want to answer them—not about Bianca, or the extent of my abilities.

"I take no joy in secondhandedly peering into people's brains. Just so you know." I mutter, gripping his shoulder tightly, as we walk away from the bridge. To where...I'm not sure.

"That's something we have in common, then—hating a part of our magic." Dante deadpans. "And somehow slipping into people's heads, one way or another..."

I raise a brow, about to ask—it must be about Commandments—but he changes the subject. "My chauffeur's coming right up ahead. We'll head south."

"Alright. Where, exactly?"

"Ferro II."

I nod, clearing my throat. People are walking past—we must be towards the edge of the park—and I can hear a pair of chuckling voices. I'm being hefted in some man's arms...embarrassing. For myself, of course.

But some part of me—deep, and foreign, and wrong—likes it a little. I feel oddly...comforted?

It's Bianca, this body—it has to be.

"Siri, set destination as Ferro II, New York City, New York City."

"Setting destination..." my phone rings. I'm making sure we're not diverging from the course.

"Smart..." Dante mutters.

I only smile, tightening my grip on his shirt. No way in hell I'll trust him—not yet.

***

The car's quiet, save for the soft jazz that the driver is playing. Dante gently sets me down on a seat—leather, warmed, fancy—and I fumble around for the seatbelt, clicking it in. Dante sits beside me. It's a limo, I think—the seats are sloped in a U-shape; I feel a side pocket with ice. Is that...?

"Prosecco. You want a glass?" Dante chuckles. I stiffen.

"You, just—have prosecco laying around? Always?"

"It's five o'clock somewhere."

I turn in his direction and scowl. The car's driving smoothly—too smoothly. Stops are slow; the motor doesn't shake. This must be some real luxury vehicle.

"I can't hear anything outside." I mutter.

"It's because the windows are soundproofed—even for wolf ears. No need for us to hear the whole world outside—and all that lovely New York traffic."

"I thought most para accommodations were banned?"

"They are. Because who needs equity, right? No, equality for all..." he says. "But anyone can be convinced to look the other way. You just need a little nudge."

"Right." I shudder, feeling a glimpse of something seep into the edges of my mind—glasses clinking, voices light, loud; car speeding, weaving through traffic, cash between hands, exchanged—

"We did good, Dante." you say, voice higher-pitched, fresher. "That pack won't know what hit 'em! Wait until they check their safe—"

"We're gonna get killed for this, y'know..." Dante—younger—replies. He takes a nervous swig of something.

"C'mon! You want me to tell you to toughen up? I'll do it—pretend to be your papa."

"Fuck you." He nudges you in the arm, skin lingering against yours a moment too long. "Idiota."

"We're goombahs here—nobody's taking the heat alone. Capiche?"

"Capiche." he says—

Before gunshots rattle the car's backside. We yelp, fall into the seat, glass shattering, falling, and—