Unopened birthday cards 18-year-old Preston discovers in his grandmother's closet send him across the Atlantic to London in search of a man he never met—his grandfather. More than anything, he needs to know if his grandfather shares his full moon nights, when thick coarse hair covers his body, when running on all fours feels natural, when the animal inside him emerges.

He and his dad shared “this condition.” How Preston loved their moonlit nights running through the woods, but since Dad’s death, he has been alone and done things he should not, such as rescuing his graduate teaching assistant, Ms. Worth, which got him expelled from his university.

Will he find his grandfather? And if he finds him, will his grandfather welcome him after all these years?

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Teen

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Excerpt

Chapter One
Jet-Lagged

London 2003

 

Preston hesitates.

His finger hovers over the doorbell of 43 Cromwell Road, London SW7.

Beside the door, a gold plaque reads Canterbury House, International Student Housing.

He wants to ring the bell, but he needs a sign.

He sets his backpack down and considers the wonderful, awful things that brought him to this moment: getting kicked out of his university, not telling anyone about getting kicked out, discovering eleven unopened birthday cards from a grandfather in London he never knew. He used his tuition to fly across the Atlantic to find his grandfather.

More than anything, he wants to know if this man who shares his blood also shares his full moon nights when thick, coarse hair sprouts all over his body, when running on all fours feels natural, when the ferocious animal inside him emerges. An animal he loves and hates.

Tonight, the moon will be full. He must be ready to transform from a guy who hesitates to ring a doorbell to a predator.

Suddenly bells ring inside Canterbury House. Smoke alarms chime from every floor. Fire? Fire! 

Footsteps thunder on the staircase.

He steps back as students rush through the door, streaming by.

“Pardonnez-moi,” calls a bushy-haired guy who pushes past Preston, almost sending him and his luggage down the steps backward. On the guy’s shoulder, an old boom box playing French rap, thudding bass beneath rapid lyrics.

When two girls, one tall, the color of coffee, the other small and pale, pass him, he smells smoke and burnt wood. They have identical big shimmering eyes and full lips, pretty pyromaniac sisters in different colors and sizes. They’re so intriguing he can’t take his eyes from them.

“Let me help you,” a young man in a skullcap, his face half man, half boy, smooth skin, heavy black beard, says. Dimples dent his cheeks.

He manages to get Preston and his rolling trunk down onto the sidewalk among the throng of students. Even in the cold air, Preston picks up their scents, curry, onions, sweat. As international students, strangers in a strange land, they carry a hint of fear, a bitter and unsettling odor.

Wrapped in blankets like refugees, they move to reggae. No woman, no cry.

Preston closes his eyes and lets Bob Marley’s lyrics wash over him. Music and laughter surround him. The group could be a block party on a blustery January afternoon.

Interspersed among the students are older women, nuns. After years of Catholic school, Preston recognizes them even in plain clothes. They are the sisters of Notre Dame, who, according to the brochure he was given at Heathrow, run Canterbury House.

“Is this a fire drill?” he asks the guy who helped him, the one whose soap and cologne can’t mask his animal odor, an odor Preston finds familiar, comforting.

Shaking his head, he says, “I am Ameen.”

Preston introduces himself glad Ameen doesn’t offer his hand. This time of the month Preston avoids handshakes since his palms double as front paws and become calloused like the soles of his feet.

“Probably someone cooking in their room,” Ameen smiles. “Strictly forbidden of course.”

“Hey blondie, are you from New York?” the tall girl calls.

It takes a moment to understand she is speaking to him. He feels her intense gaze. Now everyone looks at him when a moment ago he was blending in. An introverted loner, he hates to stick out, to be the new guy.

How can she tell he’s American? Because he’s taller than everyone else? He’s wearing old clothes, Dad's knit hat and the leather bomber jacket Preston found in a box Mother was giving to Goodwill. “He’s been dead three years this spring,” she said. “It’s time we got rid of his clothes.”

But it wasn’t time for Preston. The jacket’s flannel lining still smells like Dad.

He tells the girl, “I’m from Virginia.”

When a young red-haired nun emerges from the front door, everyone turns to her.

“The culprit.” She raises a charred bag of microwave popcorn, its burnt kernel smell wafting over them like stinky incense.

They cheer.

An older nun in a long gray coat appears, and an immediate hush falls over the group. “Who used the microwave?” she asks, her English spoken with a French accent, her skin vampire pale. “I will find out who did this.”

Even pedestrians making their way through the students pause to listen. “Kitchen equipment is not for students' personal use. Obey our rules or suffer the consequences.”

“All right, everyone in,” the young nun says.

 

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