The food poisoning plan had been abandoned when Mrs. Blackwood had insisted on cooking Christmas dinner herself, using ingredients she'd brought from home and prepared with military precision. There was no way to contaminate the meal without arousing suspicion, and frankly, I'd been too impressed by her organizational skills to sabotage them.
Instead, we'd fallen back on Plan B: tire them out so completely that they'd sleep through any supernatural disturbances.
"Boxing Day sales," I'd announced over Christmas breakfast. "There are some brilliant deals in town. We should make a day of it."
"Lovely idea," Mrs. Blackwood had agreed. "Though I'm not sure Marcus is up for crowds today."
She'd been right. Marcus had been increasingly agitated as the day wore on, checking his watch obsessively and flinching at every unexpected noise. The transformation was still hours away, but his nervous system was apparently already preparing for the event.
"Just tired," he'd mumbled, pushing food around his plate without eating it.
"You've barely touched your dinner," Emma had observed. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"Fine. Just not very hungry."
"When did you last see a doctor?"
"I don't need a doctor."
"Marcus, you're exhibiting signs of chronic stress and possible nutritional deficiency. When did you last have a proper medical exam?"
I'd seen panic flash across Marcus's face. A veterinarian's clinical assessment was the last thing he needed right now.
"He's been working too hard," I'd interjected. "I keep telling him to take better care of himself."
"What kind of work requires someone to be awake all night and sleep all day?" Mr. Blackwood had asked suspiciously.
"Security work often involves unusual schedules," I'd said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
"I've done security work. This seems excessive."
"Different companies have different protocols."
"Which company did you say he works for again?"
I'd realized we were trapped in an increasingly complex web of lies that was about to collapse under the weight of parental concern and professional skepticism.
That's when Marcus had made his decision.
"I need to tell you something," he'd announced, standing up so abruptly that his chair had scraped against the floor with a screech that had made everyone wince.
"Marcus," I'd warned quietly.
"No, Jamie. They deserve to know."
His family had looked expectant, probably anticipating news about a girlfriend or career change or financial difficulties. Normal problems that families dealt with all the time.
"I'm a werewolf," Marcus had said simply.
The silence that had followed had been so complete I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
"A what?" Mrs. Blackwood had asked finally.
"A werewolf. I was bitten three years ago during a camping trip in Scotland. Every full moon, I transform into a wolf-like creature. Tonight's a full moon."
More silence.
"Marcus," Emma had said carefully, "are you having some kind of breakdown?"
"No. Well, maybe a little. But I'm definitely a werewolf."
Mr. Blackwood had cleared his throat. "Son, I think you might be under more stress than we realized."
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you?" Mrs. Blackwood had asked gently. "Because it sounds like you're telling us you turn into a mythological creature once a month."
"I can prove it."
"Marcus," I'd said urgently, "maybe we should think about this."
"No more lying. No more cover stories." He'd turned back to his family. "The transformation starts around sunset. Usually takes about an hour. I'll probably destroy some furniture, definitely do some howling, and then spend the night running around the neighborhood on four legs."
His family had exchanged glances that clearly communicated their shared concern for his mental state.
"The scratches on the furniture," Emma had said slowly. "You said they were from a previous tenant's cat."
"They were from me. During previous transformations."
"And the unusual diet?"
"Raw meat. Werewolf nutritional requirements."
"The night schedule?"
"Easier to manage lycanthropy when most people are asleep."
Mrs. Blackwood had stood up, moving toward Marcus with the careful deliberation of someone approaching a potentially dangerous situation. "Sweetheart, I think you need help."
"I don't need help. I need understanding."
"You need medical attention."
"Medical attention won't cure lycanthropy."
"It might help with whatever's causing these delusions."
Marcus had looked desperately in my direction. "Jamie, tell them."
I'd found myself at a crossroads. I could support Marcus's confession and risk his family thinking we were both delusional, or I could side with his family and betray the trust we'd built over months of supernatural crisis management.
"He's telling the truth," I'd said finally.
"You believe this?" Mr. Blackwood had asked incredulously.
"I've lived with him for eight months. I've seen the transformations, dealt with the aftermath, helped him figure out how to manage the condition."
"Both of you think Marcus turns into a werewolf."
"Both of us know Marcus turns into a werewolf."
"This is ridiculous," Emma had declared. "People don't just turn into wolves."
"Generally speaking, no," I'd agreed. "But Marcus isn't most people."
That's when the sun had set, and Marcus had begun to change.
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