[ A N D R E A ]

I think I'm going to explode.

"Good job, Charlie. That's the correct answer." I say, forcing a thin smile. I lean closer to my laptop, the kid's face on the screen. He's texting and picking his nose. Gross.

I look behind the laptop, at the line of patrons waiting for their drinks and late-afternoon snacks. A woman's complaining, fanning her face. "It was my favorite restaurant! Yes! The pasta? Ugh. Yum." she sighs. "Can you believe it? Stupid wolves! They keep ruining everything! Next thing I know, this place's gonna blow up too."

The barista, a college student named Oreya, gives the woman a soft glare, brows furrowing. Oreya mouths something about jinxing it, spinning around, locs swinging with every move. She goes off to make the grumpy woman's obnoxiously long order. Another barista uses the blender, ice churning to slush.

An older man who's seated at a table beside me, sweating through his business clothes, is three large coffees down. He has the news blasting on his phone. "Has New York City gone to the dogs? Deputy Matthew Smith is on with us tonight to talk about rising rates of organized crime with regards to paranormal groups—and what the NYPD is doing to combat these attacks. In specific, from packs of werewolves. Deputy, take it away—"

There's too much noise. I suck in a breath and stand, grabbing the laptop and coffee cup, to get an outside table. I look down at Charlie...who's now studying his finger. And the blob on it.

Lovely.

New York City's surprisingly cold for late October. Overcast skies oscillating between rain and snow. Gray slush is collected at the side of the street. The wind howls through the buildings. It's mostly empty outside; a few people walk past. When I look up, I see Luci's Coffee on a rustic wooden sign that's swinging in the wind, creaking. But it's mostly quiet otherwise. I find a table that's mostly dry, umbrella shading the space, and sit down, taking a swig of my drink. Black coffee. No creamer, no sugar. Bitter and hot and good.

I deserve this, I think. Then again, I deserve a lot more.

Especially after being in a weird, all-too-vivid dream where I'm butt-naked, sleeping-slash-floating in a weird cloud...with a stranger who I've never seen before. Not a celebrity crush, a familiar face—just a man.

And then the world tried to make me a wolf, then a woman, and—

It shattered in a very not-dreamlike-way.

I should've asked a witch to investigate it, see if there was any residue on me—maybe it was a curse, or some latent spell, or something—but I was working, doing some prep for today and Charlie. And consulting a witch would cost too much.

So I just...tried to forget it. And work. As usual.

But the image of the man, the feeling of his warm skin against my cheek—

No. Focus. I snap myself awake, straightening a little.

"How about the next question?" I ask Charlie.

"I dunno." He sucks at his finger. I shudder. "Uh, A?"

Wrong. Every answer, aside from the one before the last, has been wrong so far.

"...have you been guessing the answers the entire time?"

Charlie just shrugs; he's still texting on his phone.

I swallow, unsure what to do. It's the third session with him and he's given me...nothing. No engagement. He's a sophomore in high school, failing out—his dad's some big-wig lawyer in the city. Old money. Hence how he's able to continue while failing out.

And that's where I come in—the virtual tutor, to make it seem like he's working toward better grades.

"Charlie, please stop texting. Your parents are trying to help you, and—"

"They don't give a shit about me. I'm on my twelfth nanny."

"Oh." I blink a few times.

"I ran the other eleven off."

"Oh." I say, quieter, before clearing my throat. "Uh, w—"

"I'll run you off too. You're my seventh tutor."

I say nothing for a moment and let the words sink in. Jesus.

"Well. Seven's a lucky number. And unfortunately for you, your family pays better than most. So I'm sticking around, and we're going to lift your grades, okay? Y—"

"You're a cold bitch who only cares about her job."

My brows rise. I cough a little. Blink. "Excuse me, what the—"

"You're really standoffish and cold. You ask me how I'm doing at the start of our meetings, but that's it. You then go straight to work, and you don't stop. You look annoyed whenever your roommate talks to you. You don't get texts, you don't have any photos of you and other people in your room, and your pathetic apartment's cramped. You go to shitty artisanal coffee to try and feel something. Sometimes I see you start to change when I frustrate you. Like now. Check your face."

I'm speechless, jaw slack. When I glance at my reflection in the mirror, a patch of tanned skin on my cheek's changing, starting to sprout fur. I cover it with a hand and look ahead. Standard cars and taxis rush through the street—then black cars. An entire entourage, matching. The city's gentrifying, and anything's possible, but still—those cars are too nice for this part of Manhattan. Is a famous person being driven south?

The cars are gone, though; I look around. Nobody's nearby. I drop my hand and glare at Charlie's reflection, about to talk back—

But again, he's faster.

"My parents don't deal with Paras—" he spits that word. The shortened word for paranormals. "—Even for lowly jobs like housecleaners and tutors. You didn't disclose that to them, did you...?" He waits. I'm dumbfounded. Where the hell did this come from? Charlie had potential. Was this where he put all of his brainpower? To turn on his workers?

He finally looks up from his phone and chuckles, darkly. "You didn't tell them that. I guess I'll need to do the honors."

A sixteen year-old's blackmailing me. Okay. Not on my 'this-is-kinda-fucked-up' bingo card.

My heart races. I lean forward. Getting angry at him won't solve anything; I need to think fast, be smart. Logical. He's saying all this because he wants something, right?

"What the h—what do you want me to do, Charlie?" I glare at him. Something shudders and sharpens within me; my nails, teeth, scalp. Hair on-end. I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood, and it dispels the widening shifts within me. I revert back to human. I wait. I'm focused on the screen now, and nothing else.

Charlie smirks. It's the first time I've seen him smile at all. He always gave me creepy kid vibes; the type that's gone down some scary rabbit hole and calls people slurs in video games.

"First, what kind of shapeshifter are you? Were-creature? You're Mexican, right? So a...nagual, or—"

"Argentinian." I correct. "And I don't know what kind of shifter I am—just that I can turn into a cat. Like, a domestic cat."

I'm telling the truth until 'cat' comes out of my mouth. That's a partial truth—yes, cat. But also people, other animals, and other paranormals, in theory.

"Oh." He's disappointed; it's clear in his expression. "I was hoping that you could turn into a hot movie star for me."

That's the grossest thing he's said so far. I visibly shudder and twitch. "Yeah, no. That's disgusting."

"In that case, first thing: I want you to write my essay first. A thousand words about 1984. Go. Now."

I can't help but laugh a little, looking up away from the screen and ahead, into the road. There are two black cars, moving fast, down the street. I hear something—a faint buzzing—ahead, and look up. Above the café is a set of apartments, metal ladder outside. A man's standing over the railing, saying something into the phone. I don't know what.

Something shifts uncomfortably in my gut, but I just swallow it, frown.

"You're kidding, Charlie. Jus—"

"I'm sorry, shifter. Did you want me to tell my dad?" he pouts and points, floppy hair in his eyes. I bite my tongue again. Swallow the rage. No need to be unprofessional, even to this spoiled brat. If he spills, I'm in trouble. Not disclosing paranormal status to an employer, even as a freelancer, is a criminal offense.

But nowadays, it's especially hard for paranormals to get jobs.

My brain's spinning. I grab the edge of the metal table with both hands. It's cold, but it wakes me up, helps me focus.

Blackmailed. By an angsty teenager.

My skin prickles. I figure it's just my anger, nothing more, but something is wrong. Again. I look around, then back at the boy on the screen.

"When do you need this essay by?"

"Tomorrow." Charlie shrugs casually, but his eyes are sparked with mischief.

Fuck him, I decide. This kid's getting the shittiest essay I can write. At least it'll be on-par with his usual skill.

"No, I need this now! They're gonna get away!" the man yells above, talking in a thick Brooklynian accent. Tires screech. One car now: the black, sleek sedan from before. It stops in front of the café; two men rush out from the passenger seats, broad-shouldered, tall, wearing all black. No skin is exposed; their faces are covered, too. They walk quickly, a gun in each hand. The back one's partially shifted into a wolf. His hands are too large, claws and fur bursting through his gloves, back arched forward.

My stomach drops.

They're not here for me, I know that—but I'm not about to become a victim in someone else's attack. I ignore Charlie, who's now asking what's happening, why am I ignoring him, and I stand upright, skin tingling from my rising nerves, panic—

"Stay down." The wolf says in a voice that's too deep and a bit garbled, raising the gun, slowly, as he steps closer. The barrel's like a hollow eye. Waiting. Watching.

It's the first time I've faced down the barrel of a gun; strike two for my 'this-is-kinda-fucked-up' bingo card. In one day, too.

I don't sit. Not yet. I just stare. Wait.

And think of what the hell I need to do to get out of here safely.