Chapter 4: Aiden

It isn't until I am on a late-night Greyhound, headed cross-state to the airport, that the full extent of what I have done comes crashing in on me. I am Packless, an exile, without support or backup. No better than a rogue. If I stumble into the territory of a strange Pack without permission, they are within their rights to kill me or press me into slavery. Back home, I may have been a freak but I was protected by my position, as heir to the Pack Alpha of Shining River. Now that protection is gone. All I have is my piercings, switched to silver once I was clear of the Pack lands, because nobody will immediately jump to the conclusion that the guy with the silver ear- and eyebrow-rings must be a werewolf.

The bus is not crowded. I have the seat to myself, and I'm glad of it. I can huddle into the corner, under the window, and have a quiet panic attack. It's the internal whimpering of my wolf, Frost, that helps me get a grip on myself. If I let him take over here it is likely a death sentence for both of us, and so I give myself a stern talking-to. Bus stations and airports are both far too public for any Pack to claim them. Big cities tend to be the same way- individual Packs may claim residential areas, but public buildings and roads are usually neutral ground. I have no reason to think London will be any different. I should be as safe there as I am anywhere, from werewolf packs anyway.

Rogue 'wolves are another matter, but a lot of them are solitary and mind their own business when they can. If it comes to a one on one fight I can probably hold my own. A rogue pack would be a problem. I resolve to stay clear of rogues if I can. That could be more easily said than done.

By the time the Greyhound pulls in to the airport parking bay, I'm as calm as I'm going to be. Because of my heightened werewolf senses any journey like this is going to be stressful. The noise of aircraft taking off is loud enough to cause physical pain, but the sound is more bearable inside the terminal building.

Airports are huge. I've never been inside one before. This one is an international airport. Maybe national ones are smaller, but building for this one seems large enough to fit our whole Pack territory inside... my former Pack territory... Switching off that line of thought, I try to work out where to go. There are signs for “departures,” so I start to follow them, and end up in a cavernous, echoing hall full of rows of uncomfortable-looking seats. Someone has set up an easel. As I watch, a young couple pause beside it, exchange some words with the woman there then sit down in front of it. Once they are still, the woman at the easel starts drawing something.

I wander over for a better look and can see that there are a couple of large pencil portraits propped up against the easel case, and a price list... I raise my eyebrows. It seems humans are willing to pay quite a lot for a pencil portrait. They're pretty good, but no better than I can do. Shrugging, I return to my quest to figure out where I need to go to check in. Then I hit my first real hurdle.

There's a sniffer dog, working the crowd.

You see, a lot of animals don't like werewolves. They sense the predator in us. Prey animals, like horses, try to run away, although they can be trained to tolerate us and even to be ridden. Dogs tend to turn into snarling, growling, barking maniacs, and that's exactly what the sniffer dog does when it senses me. For the first few moments all I can do is fight Frost back down, my wolf sensing a challenge and eager to meet and conquer it. I can't afford to make a fuss. I have to act like a human. Bite my tongue, unclench my fists.

I don't think turning into a frothing maniac is what the dog has been trained to do when it smells drugs, or explosives, or whatever it is this one is supposed to be detecting. If I were back ho... back where I came from, I'd let out just enough of my wolf to terrify the dog into silence. I can't afford to do that here. I already have more attention than I can really handle. In my mind Frost is snarling right back at the dog, and I can't afford to let the fight show on my face.

The guy with the dog is some sort of Customs officer, or is working with them anyway. He's polite enough when I make it clear I’'m cooperating. I'm taken to one side, where there are rows of counters and computers, scanning machines and other items of equipment that I can't identify. Another Customs officer checks my passport, visa and college paperwork. Then they empty out my luggage.

I don't have much. When it's all out there on the counter top I can see how little it really is. It looks small, sad and rather pathetic. There's a battered rucksack, my leather jacket, a tiny pile of clean but worn underwear, a single change of clothes with a few extra teeshirts, a stack of sketchbooks, a tin of pencils and coloured art markers, my mobile phone and my guitar in its case. I had to leave most of my things behind. It would've been suspicious if it was obvious that my possessions were missing. I should probably have left my guitar behind, but I couldn't bear to do that.

They use a camera like a long silver snake to look inside my guitar, then put everything through one of the scanners. I'm jittery. I've got nothing to hide except my wolf, but Frost is making that part hard. He doesn't like being kept bottled up.

To distract myself I pick up one of the sketchbooks that has already been scanned, and do a quick cartoon sketch of the dog handler. As a dog. I make him a tough-looking guard dog, a German Shepherd- okay, I’ve drawn more wolves than dogs in my life, so sue me. The customs officers both peer over my shoulder to see what I'm doing, which makes me feel itchy all over, but then the dog handler grins and asks if he can have the sketch. Apparently I'm their friend now or something. They let me pack my things- without the sketch, which gets pinned up next to one of the computers- and take me all the way to check in so I don't get lost.

I'm already way more than stressed. When I learn that I can't take my guitar on as hand luggage and it'll have to go in the hold, it almost breaks me. I've seen videos of how badly hold luggage gets handled. It means opening my bag back up again, but I pack my few clothes into the guitar case, cushioning the guitar. The queue is building up behind me, starting up a chorus of grumbles and complaints at the delay that just keeps getting louder. Someone in the queue suggests special insurance, but I need to save my cash, and anyway I think if I caused even more delays now, the queue would start a riot. My insides churning with trepidation, I watch my guitar carried away by the belt, and am left to shoulder my bag and walk to the departure lounge.