My dad looks up from his laptop when I walk in. "Hi Piglet, how was school?"

"Dad, maybe it's time to drop the nickname. I'm not nine anymore."

"Fine, fine. How was your day of education, young lady?" he says with a posh British accent.

I giggle. "It was all right."

"All right, eh? Likes?"

"The teachers seem harmless, and I met a couple of nice girls," I reply.

Mom breezes into the room and comments, "Oh Piglet, I'm so glad you're making friends!"

"It's the first day of school, Mom. I've only just met them. And enough with the 'Piglet'. I'm almost seventeen!"

When I was little, my favorite story was The Three Little Pigs. My Dad would tell me the usual version, but when my Mom told the story, the wolf was somehow the hero. My favorite part was always the "wee wee wee" of the little pigs scurrying home. And then I discovered Winnie the Pooh. Winnie was all right. I found him a little... slow. But for some reason I identified with Piglet. He was cautious. Loyal. The overlooked underdog. Always looking out for his friend, Winnie. Sure he was scared a lot, but he always tried to do the right thing despite the fear.

My parents bought me Piglet slippers, Piglet backpacks, and Piglet pajamas. To this day a set of Piglet sheets sometimes appears on my bed. So of course when they started calling me Piglet, I didn't mind. At the time.

"Dislikes?" Dad asks, bringing the conversation back around.

I hesitate, and he notices.

"What happened?" he prompts.

I sigh and adjust my hat. "There's a jerk in two of my classes. Apparently his specialty is picking on the new kid."

"Oh Piglet, I'm sorry," Mom says and folds me into a hug. It feels nice, so I let the nickname slide.

Dad is frowning. "What's this kid's name?"

"Trevor."

He scribbles on a piece of paper. "And his last name?"

"I don't know. Douchebag, I guess. Dad, don't worry about it. I can handle him."

He regards me for an intense moment, then relents. "All right. I guess you have to start fighting your own battles. Speaking of which, when would you like to start up practice again?"

"Do I have to?" I whine.

"Maddie, Stalkers start training as soon as they can walk and they never stop."

"Dad, I'm only half Stalker. And I'm not joining that stupid Order." I throw my backpack down for emphasis, then mutter, "Not that they'd ever let some half-breed like me in anyway. Your brother would see to that."

He presses his lips together. I regret touching that nerve, but his Wolfstalkers-always-do-this speeches really irk me. All it does is remind me of what I'm not.

"It's for your own protection," he says tightly. "In case I'm not around, I need you to be safe. And I want you to be able to protect your mother."

Mom's face pinches with annoyance. "I'm not exactly helpless, Nate."

"I know." He drags a hand through his dark hair. "I know. But Maddie can sense Stalkers. You can't."

It's true. Stalkers can detect Shifters, but not the other way around. It's what makes them so deadly. It's hard to see them coming when they look just like everyone else. Stalkers can also sense other Stalkers. It's how they recruit those with the ability.

The Order of the Wolfstalker is controlled by family members—Stalkers who married other Stalkers. The original bloodlines. Families that started the Order. These people consider themselves elite, like royalty. Dad used to be one of these elite. Until he fell in love with Mom.

That didn't go over well.

So where do I fit in all this? I'm half Shifter, only I can't actually shift. But I do have the wolf senses, to a lesser degree. I'm able to sniff out other Shifters, and apparently I smell like one to them.

I'm also half Stalker, which means I can sense other Stalkers. I have a natural talent for violence. I pick up fighting skills easily. However I don't have my dad's crafty ability to sneak around silently. Makes it hard to sneak out of the house with my mom's sharp ears always on alert. I don't have his enhanced strength either. He's not The Hulk or anything, but he'll beat anyone at an arm wrestling match. Or any wrestling match, actually.

Due to my... unique blend of halves, Stalkers don't sense my wolfy side, even though other wolves can. But they do sense my Stalker side, which Shifters can't. In other words, unless I tell them otherwise, Shifters think I'm one of them, and Stalkers think I'm one of them.

You see how complicated my life is without high school being added to it? On the surface, it seems like I have it all. Hallelujah, I can be both! But the awful truth is, I'm neither. I don't belong anywhere. Neither side can accept a person who is genetically linked to the enemy, even if it's only half. That's how my parents explained it to me anyway. If I were to join a group from one side, and they found out about my parents, I would be in big trouble. That's why we need to keep a low profile.

This is why my mom, who is able to find a pack to run with wherever we go thanks to the miracles of the Internet, insists I find human friends. Because I can't join hers. And this is why my dad insists on training me three days a week, because most other Stalkers would like nothing more than to kill my mom and her friends.

Stalkers sound like awful people, and for a long time, I thought they were. The Order was originally formed in the Dark Ages, when Shifters first began to surface. The Shifters were bloodthirsty and vicious, often forming bands of thugs and mercenaries. It's where the legends of werewolves sprouted from. A group of do-gooding aristocrats decided to do something about it. They discovered and recruited individuals who were able to detect Shifters, and began to fight back, slaughtering any wolf they encountered. Their people rejoiced. They no longer had to cower in terror all the time. The Wolfstalkers were heroes.

Fast forward several hundred years. Shifters have evolved, able to control their animal instincts better. A lot of them are civilized now, mixing freely with society. They no longer terrorize people, and the thirst for blood is minimal. But there are still bad eggs roaming around, including street gangs composed entirely of Shifters. These are the ones ruining it for everyone else. They cling to "the old ways" the same way the Order clings to their zero-tolerance policy. Unless a Shifter is under the protection of a Stalker—usually as a pet or informant—all wolves must die.

Naturally my mom is under Dad's protection. I, however, just fly under the radar. I don't think either side knows about me, and that's how my parents want to keep it. So I exist, not belonging to anything. Not quite Shifter. Not quite Stalker. Not quite human.

"Okay, Dad," I say with resignation. He always gets me with the "protect mom" argument. "Let's pick up the training again."

In the home gym my dad has built, he kicks my butt all over the practice mat. He rarely goes easy on me because "they won't be going easy on you either." It's mostly mixed martial arts, with a lot of throws and grapples—self-defense stuff geared toward my talents, which is mostly agility. I won't be able to overpower a Stalker, but I might be able to disable one.

When we emerge, dinner is ready. I rub the areas where I know fresh bruises will appear. We've agreed to keep these to a minimum so it doesn't look like I'm a victim of domestic violence, even though—technically—I am getting beaten up at home.

"How was practice?" Mom asks as we dig into our steaks. She loves steak. Most wolves do.

"It was good," I say around a mouthful of meat.

"Yes, she was only a little bit rusty," says Dad.

"I was not!"

He chuckles and spears a green bean into his mouth.

"There's a group running tomorrow night. I think I'm going to join them and see how it is," Mom says. Her light brown eyes seem to sparkle at the prospect.

"You're sure you can trust them?" Dad and his usual paranoia.

"Nate, of course. It's not like I found some weird listing on Craigslist. It's from the secret Shifter forum. And we don't meet at some abandoned warehouse either. We just head to a designated place—in this case, a Starbucks—and we're not really meeting there either. We just start there and follow the scent. Only wolves will be able to find the actual meeting spot in the woods."

Dad nods, even though he already knows the routine.

"What scent do you follow?" I ask.

"It varies. Sometimes it's a sprig of lavender. Sometimes it's a bologna sandwich with honey mustard. One time we even had to follow the scent of an old sweat sock."

"Gross."

She chuckles. "It's announced in the posting along with the initial location. And afterwards, when we're done running, we just scatter like the wind."

"It sounds cool." I try fighting off that annoying wistful feeling again. It sounds like so much fun. To be part of something. "Hey Mom, Dad... what do you think if I tried out for basketball?"

Dad, as expected, draws his brows together. "I don't know. Wouldn't it look suspicious if you showed up, not knowing anything about the game, and was suddenly dribbling circles around them? You know you're a natural athlete."

"Well, maybe she could... tone it down a little," Mom suggests. "You know, not give it her all. At least not right away." Mom, being a social creature, understands the need to belong to something. "You could do that, right Piglet?"

"I think so," I reply. It would suck that I couldn't be myself, but it'd be a start.

Dad looks from me to Mom. "Is this what you want, Maddie?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "I've never tried out for a team before. One of the girls from class suggested it after I—" I stop and look down at my plate. Maybe I shouldn't tell them.

"After you what?" Dad prompts.

I stir the mashed potatoes with my fork. "That jerk I told you about was throwing spitballs. I caught one of them and threw it into his eye."

Mom snorts with laughter but stifles it by stuffing a green bean into her mouth.

Dad looks amused, but asks, "Is the boy all right?"

"He's fine, Dad. It was a stupid spitball."

"I'm afraid it's just going to escalate from there." He puts his fork down. "Boys like that are trouble."

"I know." My voice rises with irritation. "But what am I supposed to do, just sit there and let him keep hassling me?"

Dad sighs. "It's a tough call. I'm happy you stood up for yourself, but you know you can't stand out. You can't bring attention to your abilities."

"I know," I groan and continue poking at the mashed potatoes. I feel like such a freak. Why can't I just be normal? Live a normal life?

"Nate, she's unhappy," Mom says softly. "Maybe we should let her try it."

He looks at me then, eyes softened by sympathy. I look away, not wanting to be pitied.

"I guess you could give it a shot," he finally agrees.

I imagine the pitying look lingering on his face even though I'm not looking at him. "Thanks, Dad," I mumble.

It feels like a hollow victory.