───── ─────

"Look at all those chickens," Lawrence drawled, elbowing me in the side as he quoted his favourite viral video of all time.

It had actually startled a laugh out of me the first time I saw the little girl claim an entire field of geese were actually chickens. Now my amusement only diminished every time Lawrence forced me to relive the joke, as it hammered home how starkly different I had been at that age. I hadn't had the luxury of making silly mistakes like that. The luxury of parents who laughed, who encouraged their child's curiosity and found joy in their child-like wonder, like it was something to be cherished and memorialised through video instead of thoroughly stamped out.

I glanced at Lawrence sidelong, trying to determine if he was actually pointing out something worth my time. He'd bound his wine-red hair back with a headband today, emphasising the expressive canvas of his freckled face. He was hopelessly earnest, and so it only took a second for me to realise that he was actually intrigued by whatever he was looking at. Curious, I followed his toffee brown eyes, scanning the courtyard beyond the senior locker bay.

There weren't any chickens to be found, but there was a rather conspicuous group congregating around a girl with a campus map. The breeze carried their scents away from us, but it was obvious they were new to Ridgeview Academy, because the idiots were standing smack in the middle of the school's most popular four-square court. Disgruntled students milled on the sidelines, quietly seething at the inconvenience. No doubt they'd wanted to sneak in a quick game before the first assembly of the year.

But the new kids had enough of a presence that the regulars held back, reluctant to start a fight they weren't sure they could win. Smart, remarked the detached, analytical voice that was both a part of me and not. It had frequented my head for as long as I could remember. They ought to conserve their strength for the Placing Tournament.

"Quite a few this year," Damian remarked from behind us, echoing my train of thought. "I had to sign almost two hundred enrolment forms over the holidays."

Sail whistled, shielding his vividly blue eyes against the pale glare of the overcast day. "I don't envy you, mate."

Of all the members of the High Pack, Sail was the closest thing I had to a real friend; we were the only two who stayed behind on exeats and Christmas holidays, the loneliest times of the year. Sometimes when I looked at him, I saw the shadow of the scrawny farm boy who'd offered me a stick of gum in class, long before he realised I'd be joining his pack. He looked more like a man now, with more muscle than he knew what to do with at eighteen, but that boyish charm remained.

"Year 7 students?" I asked, sparing Damian a glance. As always, the top half of his face was obscured by a low-riding baseball cap, brown curls squeezing out the sides like whipped cream. He was unusually beautiful for a werewolf, with ashen brown skin that made the honeyed tones of his eyes pop in the rare moments he parted with his cap.

"Mostly," Damian admitted, hefting his bolt-cutters up to one of the combination locks left behind by last year's graduates. I felt a pang of guilt. Lawrence, Sail and I had come here to help him clear out the lockers for the new seniors, but as always, the boys had gotten distracted, I'd gotten caught up in their antics, and Damian had somehow wound up with the brunt of the work.

"What about the rest of them?" I asked. Year 7s were easy to manage and eager to please, but the transfers typically felt like they had something to prove. Thus they posed a more significant threat to the hierarchy that ensured order within our school.

"There's thirteen international students, ranging from Years 7 to 10," Damian elaborated, voice dropping a notch for the next part. "But there were also two senior transfers from Swan Hill Academy. I tried to run the customary background check, but the files were blocked and the staff refused to say why they left, only that it was good riddance."

I frowned, less than pleased at the news. It was highly unusual for anyone to risk transferring schools in their senior year, and even more unusual for the office staff at Swan Hill to forgo the opportunity to gossip about their previous students. The transfers either had friends in high places or had been booted off campus in a less-than-legal process that the school was trying to cover up.

"I'll look into it," I promised. Damian took the honest path in life, but I was better suited to the brambles of the path less taken.

He grunted, cutting through the next lock. It gave way with a satisfying crunch, and I made myself useful by wrenching open the door. Like so many of the lockers before it, this one was empty. Damian tossed the broken pieces of the lock into our designated bucket and moved on.

Not for the first time, I questioned the decision to put lockers in a boarding school for werewolves. Most of the kids kept their stuff in their dormitories, or lugged books around in their backpacks. What was the weight of a few books, after all, to a cohort of kids with superhuman strength and regenerative abilities? Even if we busted our backs carrying our books, they'd be set straight in no-time.

Not to mention that any of us could punch clean through the flimsy aluminium doors. The combination locks with silver-steel cores were pointless baubles, little better than fake security cameras designed to scare people into acting like civilised human beings.

Unless that's the point, I realised abruptly, eyes narrowing on the rows of blue doors. We weren't human beings; we were wolves wearing sheep skins, flying under the radar so that we could strike from the heart of the herd. These lockers weren't an illusion of privacy, so much as an illusion of civility. That they hadn't been destroyed only testified to the High Pack's uncompromising vision, achieved by our High Alpha of five consecutive years.

I hadn't been present for it, but I'd heard rumours of the time before Colden Forrester had claimed the mantle. Cut-throat brutes had been in constant competition for power, with nothing to structure their violence, nothing to separate it from their daily agendas. It had bled into classrooms, dormitories, even the cafeteria. Countless innocents had been hurt or killed in the cross-fire. Sail went quiet whenever the topic came up, and everyone looked the other way when they realised what they'd done, suddenly interested in anything else.

Crunch. Another lock gave way, and like clockwork, I wrenched open the door. Lollies and chocolates poured out, revealing an old vegemite jar full of loose change. One of last year's students must have been running a black-market milk-bar from this locker.

Ah, I realised, shaking my head ruefully. That was why we had lockers. For the discrete distribution of contraband goods.

Lawrence rushed in like a seagull, scooping up all the lollies. "I call dibs on the Zappos!"

"I call dibs on the girl with the map," said Sail. There was a breathiness to his voice that caught me off guard, and I frowned when I realised he was still staring at the new kids. "She is fine."

I turned around again for a closer look. The girl did look fine, in the sense that she had a thick head of hair, unblemished skin, straight teeth, and bore no evidence of infirmity or disease. Other than that, she looked distinctly odd to me. She was tall and thin, with hair so blonde it was almost white, and skin so pale it was on the verge of being translucent. She carried herself with a measure of fear, but not so much that I believed it would hinder her in a fight. If anything, the way her eyes periodically flicked up to assess those around her betrayed a healthy amount of caution. I got the feeling that she didn't appreciate the proximity of those peering at the map over her shoulder.

Behind her was a more traditional threat, a bearded man with the bulk of a rhinoceros. He looked more like an undercover cop than a student, but he glowered menacingly at anyone who tried to start a conversation, quickly ruling out that theory. It wasn't until the wind changed that I relaxed; I could smell the tang of alcohol in his sweat, which meant he'd handicapped himself for the upcoming Tournament.

They must be the transfers from Swan Hill, I thought, stepping forward. I fully intended to interrogate them — under the guise of welcoming them to them to the school, of course — but the chime of bells from a nearby speaker stopped me in my tracks. The office lady with the nasally voice instructed all students to make their way to the Performing Arts Center for the first assembly of the year.

"Alright," Damian said, setting down the bolt cutters. "Let's go find our revered leader."

Lawrence, Sail, and I fell into step with the High Beta, whose authority could only be superseded by the High Alpha himself. The new students edged back as we passed through the courtyard, and I tried to imagine seeing the campus through their eyes, new and sparkling as a blanket of fresh snow. Ridgeview Academy was practically an alpine village unto itself, nestled atop the highest summit around for miles. Rather than low, squat buildings of brick and concrete, students boarded in timber share-houses and gathering halls, most of which were several stories high. The tall buildings provided sanctuary against the howling winds, and their sharp-angled roofs discouraged snow from settling too thickly in the winter months.

The new students followed us at a distance, keeping to the edges of the road, passing under the eaves of nearby buildings. It betrayed their inexperience with the area; while it was summer now, ice and sleet could come crashing down at any moment in winter months.

Yellow light shone through nearby windows, attesting to the handful of students who were still settling back into their apartments after an extended holiday with their respective families. It was strange to see life returned to the buildings after nearly two months of living in this ghost town. I almost missed the eerie quiet; there was less to monitor, less to be wary of in those months. It was the closest I ever came to relaxing.

With every step into the new school year, my trademark tension returned. The tendons in my neck were ready to snap by the time we reached the PAC, the last vestige of our little village to give way to the misty woods. It was a beast of wood and stone, easily as large as two basketball courts. Students flocked to the blinding lights like moths, swarming through the multiple entrances.

The remaining members of the High Pack met us at the reception desk. Dean and Louise cut imposing figures in their shifting leathers today, but they couldn't hold a candle to our High Alpha. Students fell to either side of him as smoothly as a river parting around a rock; their deference to him was simply natural, as if they recognised the dominance he exuded on a subliminal level.

Nodding his acknowledgement of our arrival, Colden headed for the backstage area. Damian and Sail flanked him, as was the right of their ranks, and I fell into place behind them. As the Delta of the High Pack, it fell to me to watch Colden's back.

"Hey Piper," Sail said, looking over his shoulder. I didn't like the glint in his eyes one bit. "Reckon we'll be graced with a High Luna this year?"

"Reckon you'll develop some manners?" I snapped, watching Colden like a hawk for any sign of a reaction. His stride didn't falter, but his shoulders tensed ever-so-slightly, causing his leather jacket to shift.

Colden had never once been in a relationship. Not due to lack of opportunity, of course; he was the most sought after male in the entire school. Tall and muscular, with a narrow waist and broad chest that filled his shirt in an indescribably transfixing way, Colden possessed a masculine beauty that far surpassed the supernatural norm. His skin was the shade of polished ivory, and his eyes were an electric blue that popped even brighter in contrast with the ebony of his hair. His uncanny resemblance to Arthur Nightshade, the heir-in-waiting to the Melbourne City Pack, wasn't lost on the fan girls at Ridgeview Academy.

They took Colden's abstinence as the ultimate challenge, going so far as to literally throw themselves at him. Last year, a student jumped off the canteen balcony while Colden was walking underneath it, hoping that he would catch her. She misjudged the leap and hit the cobblestone path, resulting in several shattered bones and a month-long stay in the infirmary.

It occurred to me, from time to time, that perhaps Colden was more down to earth with relationships than the others our age were. Rather than seeking a thrill for each moment, it appeared he was looking for something more permanent. Someone he could rely on in a school brimming with idiots. Now I deeply regretted confiding in Sail that I sometimes thought I was qualified.

Colden's shoulder blades shifted again as he pushed open the door to the backstage area of the PAC. I realised I'd been daydreaming about my friend's romantic predicament for a good five minutes and shook my head, disappointed by my lack of vigilance. A familiar voice drifted through my mind, soft as a feather in the breeze. Do better.

My senses sharpened. Not one detail of our environment escaped me as we climbed up the creaky wooden stairs to the stage. The chatter of lower-ranked students filled my ears, and I heard each step as they filed into the auditorium and sat in their designated rows.

The High Pack filed into a straight line behind the empty podium. We handled the administrative side of things (well, Damian did); organised campus security; sat in on the interview panels for new teachers; and in every other important sense, we were the decision makers in this community. And so we stood up on a pedestal before the masses, as a reminder and a warning of our influence.

The roar of chatter diffused into soft whispers as a man with lank, dark hair stalked onto the stage, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans. Principal Cane was a known recluse with little patience for people, which explained why he'd chosen to become a figurehead of power at this school instead of a District Alpha or Beta. While he could have landed either of those positions (rumour had it he was the son of a City Pack member), they would have required him to regularly engage with other members of his community. Being the principal of a werewolf finishing school, however... Cane had access to free meals in the cafeteria, a guaranteed parking space and an office with a padded swivel chair — all for the low, low price of showing up at assembly once or twice a year.

It was a no-brainer, really.

"Hello," Principal Cane said gruffly, grasping the wooden lectern with both hands. He leaned into it as if our mere proximity physically drained him. "It's a new year, a fresh start, your time to shine — that's what you like to tell yourselves in the middle of the night, yes, when you can't sleep because you're recalling your worst mistakes and reliving your most shameful moments? Nevertheless, 2015 does come with a set of new opportunities and responsibilities. I advise you not to disregard them."

He took a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. I found myself morbidly amused by the contrast of his bleak demeanour and the vivid crimson on his plaid flannel shirt.

"My name is Brandon Cane, and I am the school principal," he said, with the rehearsed quality of a recycled speech. "My office door is always open..." He trailed off briefly, squeezing his eyes shut as if the thought of entertaining visitors made him feel nauseous. "That being said, I strongly recommend consulting the High Pack first if you need anything. They practically run this place and should be able to sort you out quick-smart.

"My parting words for you are these," Cane said, summoning the last vestige of his energy to say something with slight passion. I could have sworn I saw the colour drain from his hair. "Ridgeview Academy is a microcosm of the shadow society that you will enter upon graduation. It is a punishing place, but also a place of opportunity, and I strongly advise you to think carefully before acting. After all," he said, slumping forward with a hint of a smirk, "the decisions you make here can affect you for the rest of your life."