I fling open the west entrance door of Radley High, a strong gust of wind pushing the solid wooden slab with enough force I nearly face plant because there wasn't enough time to release the handle. Stepping into the dimly lit entryway, a blast of dry, hot air slams into me. My nose wrinkles at the faint musky smell emanating from the school heaters as I rush up the five gray-painted concrete stairs to the security desk.

The gray-haired school safety officer gives me a quick once over, a disapproving frown plastered on her face. A few feet away, a group of students linger at their lockers. Guess I'm not the only one late.

The school safety officer pushes her glasses up her nose. "You better hurry up and get to class. Teachers not havin' it for anyone tryin' to use the memorial as a way to miss class."

I can't help but suck a breath. "I'm going."

I blink and swing my bag onto my other shoulder when I spot a poster over the woman's shoulder. That's right. Today was the early morning memorial for Tori Milton, who was killed last year. Can't believe kids would use something so sacred as an excuse to miss class.

I dash down the hallway, which is broad and long like the St. Croix River on the west end of town. Matte amber tile climbs midway up the wall, while the top half is accented by peeling eggshell-white paint and student work. The floor is shiny, just like water in the morning sun. While the building doesn't compare to the liveliness of the forest, the concrete walls keep me safe from danger. I take a deep breath and the last of my anxiety drips away.

When I reach the scarred white oak door to my chemistry class, I peer through the glass window with the number 219 printed on it. A tall, balding man with thick glasses stands in front of six rows of students slumping in their chairs.

I take off my coat and tuck it under an arm, my weight shifting between my feet as I rock from side to side. Time to face the meanest teacher I have ever met. The door lets out a tired old groan, the hinges protesting as I push it open. So much for being inconspicuous. Everyone turns to stare at me.

My heel bounces against the linoleum, my throat dry as sandpaper. "Hi, Mr. Ortiz."

Mr. Ortiz clicks his tongue. "The memorial ended ten minutes ago. Is there any reason the rest of your classmates got here on time?"

I smile feebly, my fingers curling around the strap of my bag.

He snorts and his eyes crinkle in disgust. "Go to the main office and get a late pass."

I am so not in the mood for this and I don't particularly like his tone. I angle my head toward the light so the bright fluorescent bulbs can cast a brilliant sparkle to my eyes. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Can I go to my seat, please?"

Mr. Ortiz meets my gaze. His pupils dilate and all emotion washes off his face, his expression resembling a blank sheet of paper.

Bull's eye.

He smiles brightly. "Yes, of course."

I pull my shoulders back and make my way down the third row to the window, plopping into a tacky, plastic blue chair. The kid next to me gawks like I'm a magician. I sigh, smile weakly, and bring my attention to the front of the classroom as Mr. Ortiz scribbles a new equation I can hardly read on the board. Ugh, this man's handwriting is the worst I've seen from a human.

I grunt low in my throat and gaze around the olive-green room decorated with the Periodic Table and posters of atoms. He should take a class on penmanship or use PowerPoint. I inhale slowly to calm myself before I say or do something stupid but grimace as an odor, stale of boredom and bleach, consumes my nose. While being in the classroom isn't where I want to be, at least I don't have to worry about catching the sharp metallic aroma of blood as it rides on a breeze through large trees in the forest.

Blaire turns, her soft mauve lip gloss accentuates her warm, light brown complexion. "How did you do that?"

The confident smile on my face melts away as I bend over to grab a pen and notebook from my bag. I'm supposed to blend in, not stand out. Maybe I should have just gone to the main office like Mr. Ortiz requested.

I place the notebook on my desk and shrug my shoulders. "Lucky, I guess."

"Well, anyone who can get by Mr. Ortiz rocks in my book." Her thin lips stretch into a smile that doesn't quite reach her large, round eyes.

The blonde white girl sitting to my right—Gretchen, I believe—leans over. Her glossy pink lips twist up into a grin. "Speaking of Tori, you must be really lucky to be sitting in her chair."

"Uso! Majide?" My pen slips from my fingers and clicks against the linoleum. The hair on the nape of my neck bristles and a gaggle of goose bumps covers my forearms as Gretchen and the girl behind her chuckle.

Blaire tenses and her entire body trembles. "Don't you dare, Gretchen. Today is her memorial. Don't shit on it." She emphasizes "memorial" with a hiss.

"Calm down, Blaire. Gretch didn't mean anything," Aimee says from behind me as she waves her hand dismissively in the air, spreading her potent citrus perfume in the air. Not sure how I am going to survive the rest of the school year drowning in the noxious odor. And pairing up with her in class yesterday was worse. I swear the girl drinks Listerine for breakfast.

Gretchen snaps her gum and returns to her chemistry book as I reach down to grab my pen off the floor. Blaire turns toward Mr. Ortiz, who's scrawling the remaining part of an example using the equation from earlier on the whiteboard, the squeak of his pen grating in my ears.

A few minutes later, the classroom phone rings. As Mr. Ortiz is distracted, Gretchen turns back to me. "Tori was Blaire's best friend and she got hit by a car. It was grisly. Bashed-up face. Broken bones. But it was an accident."

Accidental deaths happen. They are natural. One of the last kitsune I met who didn't belong to my skulk got hit by a car almost forty years ago. To this day, the metallic monsters scare me. Kitsune or not, getting hit by a car would severely injure me or kill me, especially in fox form.

Blaire slams her palms onto the desk, her face a blotchy crimson. "You know it wasn't an accident. Your stupid ex-boyfriend and his equally stupid lacrosse friends killed her." She spits out the words with the ferocity and rapidity of machine gun fire, turning to the girl sitting behind me. "Yeah, Aimee, that includes your boyfriend, too."

Mr. Ortiz slams the marker on his desk and clears his throat. "If the three of you choose to keep interrupting my class, you'll find yourself in detention after school."

"Sorry, Mr. Ortiz." Gretchen glares at Blaire, nose wrinkling and her top lip curling in warning.

Leaning back in my chair, I return to my chemistry book and do my best to pay attention to the lecture. I am not getting involved in whatever is going on with these two girls.

Kitsune talents help me understand language—hence, my perfect English skills—but they fall short when it comes atomic theory and chemical reactions. I can't write fast enough to keep up with Mr. Ortiz's chicken scratch. I bite my lip in frustration. How can we learn anything if he erases his examples before anyone can copy them down?

The door screeches open, and a broad-shouldered figure saunters in. Short cropped blonde hair. Prominent jaw. Deep, stormy eyes flash a quick glance my direction, widening the slightest bit.

Baxter Warren.

The lead scorer for the school's lacrosse team, Gretchen's apparent narcissistic ex-boyfriend, and the sheriff's son. When Blaire told me these tidbits about him, I couldn't help but wonder why her words were so venomous. Now I understand. A low growl emanates from in front of me and I swing my head around to find her glaring at the boy, knuckles turning white as her fingers tighten around her pen.

Mr. Ortiz huffs and I face forward as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Baxter. Nice of you to join us for the last five minutes of the period."

Baxter holds out a bright pink slip of paper. "I have an excuse from the principal." His gravelly voice is unexpected from someone with such a powerful presence.

Mr. Ortiz chuckles bitterly. "Of course, you do. Because we all know being able to catch balls with a little stick is much more important than having passing grades. You don't need those to get into a decent college, do you?" His biting sarcasm cuts through the room cleaner than fangs through flesh.

A grin spreads over Baxter's face, wide and open, as if he wants to eat everyone. "Do you do a lot of that, Mr. Ortiz?"

"Excuse me?"

Baxter leans against the door jamb, crossing his arms. He may be cute in a boyish, charming way—dimples punctuating the curved angles of his tanned face—but the last couple of days have taught me he's nothing but an egotistical moron.

Baxter flashes a coy smile. "Play with balls using a little stick?"

The classroom erupts into a raucous explosion of laughter.

My mouth falls open.

Uso!

No one in Japan would dare say that to a sensei, no matter how disliked the teacher was.

Mr. Ortiz turns back to the whiteboard. "I'd give you detention for that vulgar jibe, Mr. Warren, but we both know you'd get out of it. Go sit down and keep quiet for the rest of class."

Baxter makes his way across the room, high-fiving a few guys along the way. He pauses when he reaches my row. Static fills the air around me, enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.

Gretchen stabs her pencil into her desk. "Won't be doing much ball handling with that bandaged hand, will ya? Guess, the team's lucky Greg got voted in as captain."

Baxter bares his teeth in a growl before storming down the row, his boots thwacking against the floor. He slams his chemistry book onto his desk, three seats behind Gretchen, with such force my chair vibrates. Words brew at his lips, but nothing comes out.

As the chuckles die away, Baxter drops into his seat. He bites his bottom lip and scribbles away in his notebook.

I stare at the second hand of the clock, waiting for the bell to ring. There's no point in listening to Mr. Ortiz or taking notes. I'm going to leave this room with a few lines of unfinished equations that are undoubtedly wrong anyway. The school bell finally blares through the classroom and I hurry to gather my books before Blaire and Gretchen get into another verbal spat. But the familiar thwack of boots against the linoleum catches my attention and I still. Bax walks toward me, his eyes—a vivid baby blue like the Caribbean Sea melted into a milky green—are focused and unblinking. The stench of woodsy body spray and sweat causes my nose to scrunch.

"Problem, newbie?" Bax laughs and wriggles into his letterman jacket.

I nod toward his bandaged hand. "Looks like you're the one with the problem."

He snarls, muttering a curse under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair. "Some stupid owner let their dog off leash. Fuckin' mutt bit me."

Blaire snorts and I take a step back. No way am I getting caught between these two. Every time Blaire and Bax are within a foot of each other I swear my skin burns as if I was standing in the middle of a forest fire.

"What's so funny? You saw that mongrel with its white fur and blue eyes. Do you think it was a Siberian husky?"

Blaire rolls her eyes and waves her hand in dismissal. "Oh please. It was probably a toy poodle."

Bax steps forward. "No fuckin' way. That dog was huge. Abnormally so. Its teeth were longer, sharper. Its eyes vibrant and three dimensional. Like a wolf or something."

Blaire crosses her arms and tosses her head back in amusement, elbowing me. "Have you ever seen a wolf? Been attacked by a wolf?"

My heart thumps in my chest, threatening to break every bone of my ribcage. No, it couldn't be.

Blaire lifts an incredulous eyebrow at Bax. "It wasn't a wolf. Stop being ridiculous. Like wolves even live here near the school. You're so full of it."

Bax's face turns red. "Watch it. I know this memorial has you all worked up, but we all know what happened to poor Tori's father with his witch hunt based on false accusations."

She steps closer to him, nudging me sideways. Her fingers ball into fists as she tilts her head up and glares at Bax. "I have no idea what I saw, but it wasn't what you're describing. Whatever bit you disappeared...if anything really did bite you. We all know what a liar you are."

Blaire turns and stomps toward the doorway to exit class. I take a few seconds and swallow hard to chase away the lump in my throat before turning to face Bax. "What did this...dog look like?"

He shrugs, his eyes tracking Blaire.

"Did he have huge feet? Did he have any scars? You said its eyes were blue? Was its head more pointed in the back, or rounded? And its fur, was it solid white or more of a translucent gray?" Every question spills from my mouth like rapid fire.

Bax cocks his head to the side and laughs. "You seem to be spitting out a lot of details. Did you lose your dog? Should I be looking into suing you or something?"

Without another word, Bax weaves through the rows of desks and exits the room, leaving me standing in the middle of the aisle like Queen Dork of Dorklandia. A white wolf with blue eyes. Panic sparks like live wires in my abdomen while heat crawls up my neck until my cheeks burn while chills spiral up and down my arms. Raiju might have found me. Here. In Afton.