Free Under My Skin by Judith Graves

black cases. The cotton material was almost completely ripped off. The hard plastic case had a new dent in the side and grease stains on it. The thing had been on an adventure, that was clear.
    But it was mine .
    I snapped the latches and flipped back the lid.
    My own stuff. I ran a hand over my favorite I was born this way. What’s your excuse? T-shirt. No more borrowing from Paige and being subjected to public humiliation when she told everyone I was wearing her castoffs. No more suffering through Sammi’s impromptu visits to the mall. Shopping always made me cranky. Especially clothes shopping, a time honored mother-daughter thing. With Sammi and Paige, I turned into the orphaned third wheel.
    I dug through the bag looking for the good stuff—my treasures—the few books and photos I had brought from home that I couldn’t live without. Eager to imprint myself on Sammi’s lime-green guest room, I propped a picture of my parents on the nightstand. I’d taken the photo of them after we’d made the long hike up Rundle Mountain.
    Dad, impressive despite a layer of grime from the hike, looked too brawny to be the owner of a major pharmaceutical company—kind of a giveaway, really. Mom stood with an arm around his waist, and they faced the camera with adrenaline-charged grins.
    In wolven form, Mom was strong and graceful, but in human guise, she was achingly beautiful. At least I had some of her looks: the dark hair and the hazel eyes accented with flecks of gold. I was thin and more than passably pretty, a watered-down version of Mom. Her tanned skin, dark hair, and delicate build gave her a timeless beauty. The dust-jacket photos her fellow treehugging readers fawned over, moody black and whites, couldn’t quite capture it—although they sold a ton of her save-the-animal-world-it’s-not-too-late books.
    I gripped the glass frame and stared down at my parents’ faces, glowing with joy, exuding life. A part of me, the raw, gaping, hole-in-my-heart part, refused to believe they were dead. They were alive here in my hands. Jubilant, with no idea what the future had in store. No clue it would all go so wrong.
    Mom had always hated having her picture taken. Believed bits of your soul would be captured on film, lost forever to those brief flashes of light and shadow. Now plastic-framed pieces of my parents’ souls were all that kept me sane.
    They’d wanted what they thought would be the best life for me. I understood their motives, but I questioned their methods. I shouldn’t have been a lab rat. I should have only been Eryn. Their child. No matter how noble their intentions, my parents had made a huge mistake in messing around with my wolven abilities, denying me my birthright.
    But I still loved them.
    They were my parents.
    I blinked back tears and placed the photo on the bedside table. Better to unpack than unravel. Since nothing I owned needed a hanger, I loaded up the dresser. I shoved my disemboweled suitcase under the bed and sat cross-legged in the middle of the spongy mattress.
    The pungent smell of frying onions drifted up the stairs to my room.
    Onions always made me cry.
    I lay down and buried my face in a pillow.
    My tears drowned the daisies.
    *****
    I stood alone in a mountain clearing, dressed for a hike in my boots, cargo pants, and long-sleeved shirt, a backpack heavy on my shoulders. I walked through long-stemmed wild flowers in brilliant shades—fuchsia, purplish blue, and mustard yellow, their sweet scents blending—nature’s perfume. The drone of honeybees and other insects harmonized with the gentle swoosh of the breeze bending the tall grass.
    I was safe.
    And then I wasn’t.
    Clouds, brooding and dark, gathered over the mountains. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A fat drop of rain struck my face and ran down my cheek like a single, devastated tear. I ducked into the dense shrubs edging the clearing, scanning the grass.
    They would come.
    They always did.
    They were here.
    Charging from the