The thing about publishing a book is that it's supposed to be the end of the story. You write the thing, you edit the thing, you send it out into the world, and then you sit back and wait for the accolades to roll in. The interviews, the reviews, the slow dawning realization that you have contributed something permanent to human culture, something that will outlast you, something that matters.
What they don't tell you, what no one tells you, is that publishing a book is actually just the beginning of a different kind of chaos. The chaos of promotion, of public appearances, of standing in front of strangers and trying to explain why you wrote what you wrote without revealing the parts you had to redact. The chaos of becoming, however briefly, a public figure.
"The Domestic Wolf" was published on a Tuesday in March, approximately eight months after my first transformation. The cover was tasteful, silhouette of a man and a wolf, overlapping, merging. The title was in a serif font that suggested literary fiction rather than horror. The author's name, Gary Henderson, because Deborah had convinced me that a pseudonym would be "cowardly" and "if you're going to do this, do it for real", was printed clearly beneath.
I held the first copy in my hands at the kitchen table, while Deborah made coffee and pretended not to watch me. The book was real. It existed. It was in my hands, with pages and a spine and an ISBN number and everything.
"Well," Deborah said, setting a mug in front of me, "you did it. You're an author."
"I'm an author," I repeated, testing the words. They felt strange. Heavy. Important in a way I hadn't expected.
"How does it feel?"
I thought about it. I thought about the journey, the scratch, the transformations, the arguments and compromises and love that had gone into every page. I thought about Deborah's edits, her redactions, her careful protection of our privacy while still allowing the truth to shine through.
"It feels," I said slowly, "like I've told the truth without telling everything. Like I've shared without exposing. Like I've found a way to be honest about being a liar."
"That's very profound for 8 AM."
"I'm a profound guy. I'm also a werewolf. Multitasking."
She smiled. She sat down across from me. She opened her own copy of the book, the one I had inscribed to her, the one that said "For Deborah, who is nothing like Rebecca, and everything like herself", and she started to read.
The reviews started coming in the next week. They were... mixed, which is publishing speak for "some people liked it and some people didn't and we're all pretending this is fine."
The Midwest Literary Review called it "a charming if uneven debut, best when focusing on the domestic rather than the supernatural." The Suburban Reader said it was "relatable in its depiction of marriage, less so in its protagonist's insistence that he is literally a wolf." Horror Monthly was disappointed: "Expected more transformation scenes, less discussion of lawn care."
But The Daily Observer\, the big one, the city paper, loved it. "A surprisingly moving meditation on marriage, identity, and what it means to change while staying the same. Henderson's protagonist is frustrating, funny, and ultimately sympathetic, a man trying to find his place in a world that has no category for him."
They wanted an interview. Then a local TV station wanted an interview. Then the bookstore, the independent one downtown, the one that had survived the chains and the internet and the pandemic\, wanted me to do a reading.
"A reading," I said to Deborah, my voice cracking slightly. "Me. Standing in front of people. Reading my words aloud."
"That's how it works," she said. "You wrote a book. Now you have to sell it."
"But what if they ask questions? What if they want to know if it's true? If I'm really..."
"Then you tell them it's fiction," she said firmly. "You tell them it's a novel. You tell them that Gary Henderson is an insurance salesman who likes to write, and that's all there is to it."
"But it is true. It's all true."
"Gary," she said, taking my hands, "the best fiction is true. The best stories are real. But they're also... safe. Protected. Deniable. You can tell the truth without telling the facts. You've been doing it for eight months. You can do it for one night."
I agreed. I scheduled the reading. I prepared my remarks. I practiced in front of the mirror, reading passages about "Rebecca" and her patience, about the "protagonist's" struggles with his condition, about the comedy and tragedy of trying to be a wolf in a human world.
And then, the night of the reading, everything went wrong.
The bookstore was packed. That was the first surprise. I had expected a modest crowd, maybe a dozen people, mostly friends and family, politely applauding while secretly checking their phones. But the place was standing room only. Every chair filled, people leaning against shelves, sitting on the floor, peering through the doorway from the café next door.
"Word spread," the owner explained, helping me set up the microphone. "People love the premise. Man thinks he's a werewolf, marriage comedy, local author. It's... relatable?"
"Relatable," I repeated, not sure if I should be offended or flattered.
Deborah was in the front row, wearing the dress she saved for important occasions, the one that made her look like she could run a Fortune 500 company or a small country. She smiled at me, that Deborah smile that said "you can do this" and "don't embarrass me" in equal measure.
I started reading. I chose a passage from the middle of the book, the scene where the protagonist tries to explain to his wife why he needs a "den" in the garage. It was funny, I thought. Safe. Universal in its depiction of marital negotiation and male ridiculousness.
People laughed. They nodded. They leaned forward, engaged, interested. I started to relax. I started to think that maybe this would be okay, maybe I could do this, maybe I could be an author and a werewolf and a husband and not explode from the contradictions.
Then I smelled it.
The lie.
It was coming from the back of the room. Sharp, acrid, unmistakable. Someone was lying. Someone was sitting in my audience, listening to me read, and they were lying about something. Something big.
I tried to ignore it. I kept reading. But the smell grew stronger, more insistent. And then I heard the whispering, not words, exactly, but the tone, the cadence, the sound of someone explaining something they didn't believe.
I looked up. I scanned the crowd. And I saw him.
A man in the back, near the mystery section. Young, nervous, wearing a coat that was too heavy for the weather. He was talking to the person next to him, whispering urgently, and he smelled like deception. Like fear. Like guilt.
And underneath it all, underneath the lies and the fear, he smelled like me.
Like wolf.
I stopped reading. Mid-sentence. The audience waited, confused.
"Gary?" Deborah said quietly.
"There's someone," I said, my voice carrying in the sudden silence. "In the back. The man in the coat. He needs to... he needs to leave."
The man froze. Everyone turned to look at him.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, but he smelled like lightning now, like panic, like a trapped animal.
"You know," I said. "You know exactly what I mean. You came here because of the book. Because you thought... you thought you were the only one. But you're not. And you need to leave. Now. Before..."
"Gary!" Deborah snapped, standing up. "Stop. This is not... this is not the time."
But it was too late. The man was moving, pushing through the crowd, his face pale, his eyes wide. He knocked over a display of bookmarks. He stumbled against a shelf. And as he passed under the overhead lights, I saw it, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the tremor in his hands, the faint hint of stubble that was growing too fast, too thick, too dark.
He was transforming. Right here, right now, in a bookstore full of people. The stress, the panic, the proximity to another of his kind, it was triggering him. The moon wasn't full, but the wolf doesn't always need the moon. Sometimes it just needs fear.
"Stop him," I said, but no one moved. They were frozen, confused, watching this strange drama unfold.
The man reached the door. He looked back at me, just once, and I saw the yellow starting to bloom in his eyes.
"Help me," he mouthed.
Then he was gone, out into the night, running, changing, becoming.
The room was silent. Absolutely silent. Then someone laughed, nervously. Someone else coughed. The owner of the bookstore looked at me with concern and confusion.
"Mr. Henderson?" she said. "Is everything... is everything okay?"
I looked at Deborah. She looked at me. I looked at the crowd, the confused, concerned, slightly frightened crowd, and I realized I had a choice.
I could lie. I could make something up, some excuse, some explanation. I could protect the secret, protect the man, protect myself. I could be safe.
Or I could tell the truth.
"That man," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart, "is like me. He is... we are... the same. The book, it's not... it's not entirely fiction. It's true. I'm a werewolf. He's a werewolf. We exist. We're here. We're your neighbors and your friends and your insurance salesmen and your... your everything."
The silence was absolute. Then someone laughed, a loud, barking sound. "Good one!" they called out. "Method acting! Really selling the premise!"
Others joined in. They thought I was joking. Performing. Staying in character.
I looked at Deborah. She shook her head, slightly. Not yet, the shake said. Not here. Not now.
"Right," I said, forcing a laugh. "Method acting. The character just... takes over sometimes. Sorry. Where was I?"
I finished the reading. I answered questions, about my "process," my "inspiration," my "research into wolf behavior." I signed books. I smiled for photos. I played the part of the quirky local author with an active imagination.
And all the while, I thought about the man in the coat. About the fear in his eyes. About the fact that I wasn't alone, had never been alone, that there were others out there struggling just like me, scared and confused and looking for answers.
I had to find him. I had to help him. I had to...
"Gary," Deborah said, as we drove home, the signed books in the trunk, the night air cool through the windows. "I know what you're thinking."
"You do?"
"You're thinking about that man. About finding him. About starting your real union, your real pack. You're thinking that this is your purpose, your mission, your reason for being a werewolf."
I didn't answer. She was right, of course. She was always right.
"And you're wrong," she continued.
I turned to look at her. "Wrong?"
"Your purpose isn't to save every werewolf in the world, Gary. Your purpose is to live your life. To be my husband. To write your books. To be the Wolf of Willowbrook, yes, but also to be Gary, the man who takes out the trash and puts his clothes in the hamper and occasionally eats a decorative pillow."
"But he's out there. He's scared. He needs..."
"He needs what you needed," she said. "Time. Space. A wife who will threaten to hit him with a frying pan if he doesn't get his act together. He'll find his way. Or he won't. But it's not your responsibility to save him."
"Then what is my responsibility?"
She pulled into our driveway. She turned off the car. She turned to face me, and in the dim light from the porch, she looked beautiful. Tired, but beautiful. Always beautiful.
"Your responsibility," she said, "is to me. To us. To the life we've built, despite everything. The wolf and the man, the hair and the howling, the books and the raccoons and the constant, glorious chaos of being married to a creature of the night."
She took my hand. "You wanted a pack, Gary. You wanted a union. You wanted people who understood you. And you have that. You have me. I'm your pack. I'm your union. I'm your everything."
"But what about him? What about the others?"
She smiled. "You wrote a book, Gary. A book that tells the truth without telling the facts. A book that says 'you are not alone' without saying 'I am literally a werewolf and so is that guy in the back of the bookstore.' If he needs you, he'll find you. If he needs help, he'll ask. Until then... let him run. Let him figure it out. Just like you did."
I thought about that. I thought about my journey, the fear, the confusion, the desperate need for community, for understanding, for pack. And I thought about how I had found all of those things, not in a union of strangers, but in my marriage. Not in a group of fellow werewolves, but in one woman who loved me enough to edit my memoir and threaten me with cookware.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. You're right. As always."
"I know," she said, leaning over to kiss me. "Now come inside. It's cold. And the moon is almost full. We need to prepare the basement."
We went inside. We prepared the basement, the tarps, the water, the raw meat. We did it together, like we did everything now. A team. A partnership. A pack of two.
And as I stood in the basement, waiting for the transformation to begin, I realized that I had finally accepted it. Not just tolerated it, not just managed it, but truly accepted it. I was a werewolf. I was also a husband, an author, a neighbor, a friend. I was all of these things, and none of them contradicted the others.
I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So I learned to live. To really live, not just endure. To find joy in the chaos, love in the struggle, meaning in the mess. I learned that being different doesn't mean being alone. That being a monster doesn't mean being bad. That being married means being known, completely, and loved anyway.
The transformation came. It was easier now, almost comfortable. The hair, the claws, the shift from man to wolf. I welcomed it. I embraced it.
And when I woke up the next morning, human again, Deborah was there with coffee and bacon and a smile.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Good," I said. "Quiet. Peaceful."
"Good," she said. "Now get up. We have a busy day. The book is selling well—they want you to do another reading next month. And Mrs. Gonzalez says there's a possum in her attic that needs your attention."
"The Wolf of Willowbrook strikes again," I said, stretching, feeling the pleasant ache of well-used muscles.
"The Wolf of Willowbrook had better strike the shower first," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You smell like a wet dog."
"I am a wet dog. I'm your wet dog."
"That you are," she said, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "That you are."
I showered. I dressed. I ate my bacon and drank my coffee and read the new reviews that had come in overnight, more positive than negative, more kind than cruel. I was an author now. A real one. And I was a werewolf. A real one.
And I was a husband. The best thing of all.
I was scratched by a werewolf, so...
So I became myself. The wolf, the man, the writer, the fool, the lover, the nuisance, the protector, the husband. All of it. All of me.
And as I sat at my desk, starting work on the next book (a sequel, Deborah suggested, about "Rebecca" getting her own supernatural condition, which I thought was hilarious and she thought was "negotiable"), I knew that whatever came next—full moons and book tours and possums in attics and whatever else life threw at us—we would face it together.
Me and Deborah. The wolf and his wife. The pack of two, unbreakable, unstoppable, slightly ridiculous, completely in love.
Forever.