Our system faced its greatest test in December, when Marcus's family decided to visit for Christmas.
"They don't know," he'd announced over breakfast, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Don't know what?"
"About the lycanthropy. They think I'm just going through a difficult phase."
"A difficult phase that's lasted three years?"
"They're very patient people."
"Marcus, you can't hide being a werewolf during a family visit."
"I can if they leave before the full moon."
I'd checked the calendar. "Christmas is on the twenty-third. Full moon is on the twenty-fifth."
"Right. So they just need to leave by Christmas morning."
"Your family is coming for Christmas and you want them to leave on Christmas morning?"
"Early Christmas morning."
"That's not how family visits work."
"How do family visits work?"
"They stay for several days. They ask intrusive questions about your life choices. They comment on the state of your flat and your eating habits. They definitely don't leave early on Christmas morning unless there's a family emergency."
Marcus had buried his face in his hands. "I'm doomed."
"Not necessarily. When exactly are they arriving?"
"Twenty-first."
"So we have four days to figure this out."
"Four days to figure out how to hide lycanthropy from my parents and sister."
"Has anyone in your family ever been particularly observant?"
"My mum notices everything. She once spotted a hole in my sock from across a crowded restaurant."
"That's problematic."
"My dad's a retired police constable."
"More problematic."
"And my sister works in veterinary medicine."
"Oh, that's just brilliant."
Marcus had looked up hopefully. "Maybe they'll cancel?"
"When did they last see you?"
"Six months ago. Before I moved in here."
"They're not going to cancel, Marcus. We need a plan."
The plan we'd eventually settled on had been ambitious, complicated, and probably doomed from the start. We'd decided to temporarily werewolf-proof the flat, hide or explain away any supernatural evidence, and keep Marcus's family entertained enough that they wouldn't notice any odd behavior.
Step one had been removing all traces of lycanthropy from the premises. The custom dog door had been temporarily boarded up and disguised as "renovation work." All of Marcus's raw meat had been moved to a mini-fridge in his bedroom and covered with a blanket. The claw marks on various surfaces had been filled, sanded, and painted over.
Step two had been developing cover stories for Marcus's more unusual habits and possessions.
"If they ask about your night schedule, you're working security at a warehouse," I'd instructed. "If they ask about your diet, you're trying a new fitness regimen. If they ask about the noise complaints from neighbors, you've been learning to play the drums."
"I don't know how to play drums."
"You don't know how to explain lycanthropy to your parents either. Pick your battles."
Step three had been the most ambitious: we'd planned to keep Marcus's transformation schedule secret by ensuring he was never alone with his family during potentially problematic times.
"I'll run interference," I'd promised. "Keep them distracted, ask lots of questions about their lives, maybe suggest some local tourist attractions."
"And if they want to spend quality family time with just me?"
"Then you'd better hope your small talk skills have improved."
The Blackwood family had arrived precisely on schedule, loaded down with luggage, Christmas presents, and an alarming amount of curiosity about Marcus's living situation.
"So you're the flatmate," Mrs. Blackwood had said, looking me up and down with the shrewd gaze of someone accustomed to spotting problems before they fully developed. "Marcus has mentioned you."
"All good things, I hope."
"He mentioned you were very understanding about his schedule."
I'd glanced at Marcus, who had been hovering nervously behind his parents like he expected them to start interrogating him at any moment. "We work well together."
"And you're a student?"
"Final year chemistry."
"Chemistry!" Mr. Blackwood had perked up with interest. "Fascinating subject. I did a bit of forensic chemistry back in my police days."
That conversation had lasted twenty minutes and had given Marcus enough time to relocate his emergency raw meat stash from the kitchen to his bedroom. So far, so good.
Marcus's sister Emma had proven to be the wildcard. She'd spent the first hour systematically examining our flat with the methodical thoroughness of someone trained to spot health problems in animals.
"Interesting scratches on the furniture," she'd observed, running her fingers along the gouges in our coffee table that we'd thought we'd successfully disguised.
"Old furniture," I'd explained quickly. "Came that way."
"Very uniform scratches. Almost like claw marks."
"Probably from the previous tenant's cat."
"Must have been quite a large cat."
Marcus had made a strangled noise that he'd tried to cover with a cough.
"Are you feeling alright?" Mrs. Blackwood had asked immediately, switching into concerned mother mode. "You look pale."
"Just tired. Work's been demanding lately."
"What kind of security work do you do again?"
I'd seen Marcus freeze, his cover story apparently abandoning him under parental scrutiny.
"Warehouse security," I'd jumped in. "Night shifts. Very irregular hours."
"Which warehouse?" Mr. Blackwood had asked with professional interest.
Another pause. Marcus had clearly not anticipated follow-up questions.
"Industrial estate," he'd managed. "Out by the ring road."
"Lot of crime in that area?"
"Some."
"What kind of security protocols do they use?"
"The... standard kind?"
I'd realized we were approaching dangerous waters. "Anyone fancy a cup of tea? I'll put the kettle on."
The next two days had been an exhausting exercise in misdirection, distraction, and increasingly creative explanations for Marcus's odd behavior. His family had been polite but clearly puzzled by his nervous energy, strange eating habits, and tendency to disappear for long periods without explanation.
"He seems different," I'd overheard Mrs. Blackwood telling her husband on Christmas Eve morning. "More... restless than usual."
"Always been a bit restless, our Marcus."
"This is different. He keeps looking at the calendar. And have you noticed he's barely eating?"
"Maybe he's on one of those diets."
"What kind of diet involves staring at the moon charts I saw on his desk?"
My blood had run cold. Moon charts. Of course Marcus would have moon charts lying around, and of course his mother would notice them.
"Probably astronomy homework," Mr. Blackwood had suggested helpfully. "Didn't he always like space when he was young?"
"Marcus never showed the slightest interest in astronomy."
"Well, people change."
"People don't usually change into the sort of person who tracks lunar phases and keeps strange schedules and lives in flats with mysterious claw marks everywhere."
I'd realized we were running out of time and believable explanations. The full moon was less than twenty-four hours away, and Marcus was already showing signs of pre-transformation anxiety. He'd been pacing constantly, eating almost nothing, and jumping at every unexpected sound.
"We need an emergency plan," I'd whispered to him while his family had been distracted by Christmas Eve dinner preparations.
"Like what?"
"Food poisoning. Sudden illness. Something that gets them out of the flat tomorrow night."
"I can't give my family food poisoning for Christmas."
"Do you have a better idea?"
Marcus had glanced toward the kitchen, where his mother was interrogating our spice rack with the thoroughness of a forensic investigator. "Maybe I could just tell them the truth."
"The truth?"
"About being a werewolf."
I'd stared at him. "Marcus, your sister is a veterinarian and your father is a retired police officer. What do you think their reaction is going to be to 'surprise, I'm a supernatural creature'?"
"Skepticism followed by concern for my mental health?"
"At best."
"At worst?"
"Involuntary psychiatric evaluation."
Marcus had paled. "Right. Food poisoning it is."
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