Promises

I hate cooking. I hate having to measure things out, having to follow directions, having to time everything to perfection. And when you cook, it has to be that way. Otherwise, what you wind up with is a batch of over-salted, under-spiced, usually blackened pile of rock-hard mystery meat which isn‟t fit to feed to starving stray dogs.

Peter, however, loves to cook. And he not only enjoys the fine art of culinary design, he‟s really good at it. Not quite as talented as he is with metaphysical science, mind you. But it doesn‟t stop him from being able to bake a batch of brownies that can make you cream your shorts.

And trust me, Peter‟s brownies will make you cream your shorts.

But we weren‟t cooking little chocolate goodies tonight. No, those kinds of things had been removed from the cupboard. Not because either of us was on a diet. Well, okay, I wasn‟t on a diet. Peter was sort of on one, but not the Jenny Craig-get-slim-quick kind of food plan.

Every inch of him was already perfect. His hair, his hips, his ass, his dick...

Nope, nothing wrong with Peter.

The reason for the change in the menu was because, just five days ago, Peter revealed to me a secret I‟m sure he‟d hoped he‟d never have to tell. One I‟m sure he‟d equally wanted to never face. One I know for a fact he wished had been a mistake. See, he wasn‟t going to be Human anymore. Somewhere in his background, Kin genes had gotten mixed up with the family‟s Human ones, and now his body was preparing to go through a series of metaphysical transformations.

The Shift.

It was a bit of news sprung on him about a month ago by our old biochemistry teacher, Professor “I Used to Have Clown Hair” Whitcomb. Who surprisingly, isn‟t Human either.

Then, of course, the cherry on top of that disaster-covered sundae was that Clown Hair decided Peter would be better off--or in his words “safer”--being tucked away and hidden until he was done losing all his Humanness.

Yeah. Right. Fuck. That.

Like I didn‟t know what Clown Hair