Free Skin Deep by T. G. Ayer Page B

day to mull over the possible existence of mythical creatures forgotten by time.
    None of the Humans I knew could imagine a whole other world out there, that every time they spoke to me, they spoke to a living, breathing creature from the Old World.
    They had forgotten the Old People. What had trickled down through the ages to the modern world were hazy pieces of the puzzle, like snatches of a conversation overheard by an erstwhile eavesdropper. Only parts of the real truth. Somehow, the legends of the Werewolves had remained in the annals of history while those of the Cat Walkers disappeared. We weren't complaining, though. Non-existence had its merits.
    And those Humans fortunate enough to be aware of our existence had no concept of the intensity of hatred Walkers harbored for their pitiful kind.
    When I looked back at the naïve innocent I'd been, I realized I'd been no different to the Humans, cloistered in their little worlds living their tiny little lives, thinking they were the beginning and end of their existence, where nothing mattered besides them. And there I'd been on the flip side, believing I was the only Walker in the city. How stupid . Just because I hadn't encountered Walkers when I arrived in Chicago, hadn't met any in Crawdon, didn't mean they weren't there. And I remained in my wonderland. Until the day Anjelo arrived on my doorstep.
     
    ***
     

Chapter 12
    Downtown Chicago - 1 year ago
     
    The usual hushed tenor of the Center's reception room was transformed into a country fish market when the main doors were flung open. An unconscious boy was half dragged, half carried into the room. Two boys supporting their burden yelled for help.
    "He's been shot."
    Even as those words were uttered, a ruby stain bled through his tattered gray shirt. There was a rush to get to him and I found myself the first to reach the boy, not more than fourteen, at the center of this mayhem. One of my first group sessions with my new supervisor Clancy McBride, had ended minutes before.
    The city had been my home only a few weeks when Grandma Ivy had demanded two things - school and a job. Knowing her generosity would not survive any disobedience on my part; I enrolled at the local high school, Crawdon, even though it would only be for half a year, and looked around for a job.
    Lucky for me the Drug Rehab Center had been looking for what they called Teen Service Liaisons. Sailing through the preliminary tests and promising to complete a raft of courses, I became the youngest ever recruit of the Rehab Center. Now, six months later, I often went home satisfied with the successes I achieved. Even more satisfying were my courses at the University of Chicago. Cognitive and developmental psychology, behavior, social interaction; it all fell into place when I walked into the Rehab Centre and talked to the people who attended the sessions.
    Today I'd been looking forward to going home to relax after a particularly difficult session. Not much chance of that now.
    By this time his friends had laid him on the floor, his color had begun to fade. He was young, but not too young for the streets. I yelled for a camp bed used in the overnight stay rooms and guided him securely onto it. I scanned the room for an adult face, eager to transfer this huge responsibility to someone older, more capable. All I saw were patients and one teen volunteer at reception staring at the boy, shocked.
    Even so, something tickled my senses. A slight odor of familiarity. I thought it was just my imagination. Since being in the city I'd had a few instances of passing people in the street and picking up on a tell-tale odor that could just be another Walker. And it had always just been my imagination.
    With a sigh, I pointed them to a door off the entrance room. The room served as a group session room and was light and airy - as good a place as any to keep him until the ambulance arrived. His blood loss was severe and I was pretty scared he wouldn't survive without