Nobody expects a werewolf to have a green thumb. But Maris wasn't like most werewolves.
In the silvery light of the full moon, which most of her kind spent howling and hunting, Maris knelt in her garden, carefully transplanting moonflowers. Her enormous paws, built for tearing and rending, delicately cradled the fragile roots as she nestled them into nutrient-rich soil.
"There you go, little ones," she growled, her voice a rumbling bass that belied her gentle touch. "Drink deep of the moonlight."
The plants seemed to respond, unfurling their petals toward her as if recognizing a kindred spirit – another being transformed by the moon's magic.
Maris had discovered her passion for botany quite by accident. After her first transformation three years ago, she'd fled into the forest, terrified of what she might do in town. When dawn broke, she found herself in a meadow of wildflowers, their beauty somehow soothing the savage beast within. Each month after that, she ventured further from civilization during the full moon, collecting specimens, studying growth patterns, and eventually creating her secret nocturnal garden.
It was her sanctuary. Her redemption.
"Talking to the plants again, neighbor?"
Maris's ears swiveled before she turned her massive, wolf-like head. Standing at the edge of her garden was Mrs. Yarrow, a tiny elderly woman with hair as white as the moonflowers Maris tended.
"They respond better to conversation," Maris replied, her words somewhat slurred through lupine jaws. "The vibrations stimulate growth."
Mrs. Yarrow nodded sagely. "That why you play them Mozart too?"
"Vivaldi, actually. The 'Four Seasons' works wonders for the cyclic bloomers."
The old woman chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by conversing with an eight-foot werewolf wearing gardening gloves specially modified for claws.
When Maris had first moved to Thornwood Vale – chosen specifically for its remote location and poor lunar visibility forecasts (which had proven wildly inaccurate) – she'd been horrified when Mrs. Yarrow caught her mid-transformation in the garden. But instead of screaming or running for silver bullets, the old herbalist had simply asked if Maris might help her reach the higher branches of her apple tree while she was "all wolfy."
Since then, Mrs. Yarrow had become Maris's confidante and gardening mentor.
"Got something for you," Mrs. Yarrow said, approaching without fear. She held out a small cloth pouch. "Seeds from my trip to the eastern mountains. Night-blooming celadines. Supposed to have properties that ease transformations."
Maris's amber eyes widened. "You're sure?"
"Worth a try, isn't it?" Mrs. Yarrow pressed the pouch into Maris's massive paw. "Goodness knows you've helped me enough with my arthritis salves."
A howl from the distant forest made both women turn. Unlike Maris's controlled transformation, there were genuine werewolves in the area – the uncontrollable, dangerous kind that gave her kind a bad name.
"Getting closer," Mrs. Yarrow noted.
Maris nodded. "The Keller pack. They've been encroaching for months now."
"They wouldn't dare come here," Mrs. Yarrow said with surprising confidence.
"They might," Maris replied, gently covering her newly transplanted moonflowers with mulch. "They don't appreciate a werewolf who refuses to run with a pack. Especially one who..." she gestured at her prized hybrid roses, "...gardens."
Mrs. Yarrow made a dismissive sound. "Let them come. My raspberry brambles could use some fertilizer."
Despite herself, Maris laughed – a strange, rumbling sound. Then her ears twitched again. The howls were definitely closer.
"You should go inside, Mrs. Yarrow."
"Posh. I've lived in these woods for seventy years. No oversized puppies are going to chase me off my property." But she did move toward her cottage. "Just remember what I taught you, dear."
"The plants are stronger than they appear," Maris recited.
"As are the gardeners who tend them," Mrs. Yarrow finished with a wink before disappearing inside.
Alone again, Maris sighed and surveyed her garden. Three years of work spread before her – rare night-blooming specimens from across the world, each with its own requirements and temperament. Her doctorate in botany had been put to good use here, even if she could no longer publish in academic journals. Her new life had limitations but also unexpected joys.
The howls were much closer now.
With a resigned growl, Maris removed her gardening gloves and placed them carefully on her stone bench. Then she began systematically activating the irrigation system she'd spent months installing. Not the regular watering cycle – the special one.
The Keller pack arrived just as Maris finished her preparations. Four massive werewolves, far less humanoid than herself, burst through the tree line, saliva dripping from their jaws, eyes fixed on her with predatory intensity.
The largest one, presumably Keller himself, stepped forward, sniffing suspiciously at her raised garden beds.
"You're a disgrace," he snarled, voice barely intelligible through his more feral transformation. "Playing with plants while denying your true nature."
Maris straightened to her full height. "My true nature is exactly this. I choose what I become under the moon's influence."
The pack circled her garden, clearly preparing to attack. Maris remained still, only her eyes moving as she tracked their positions.
"Last chance," she warned quietly. "Leave now."
Keller laughed – a horrifying sound – and lunged forward.
Maris didn't move. Instead, she whispered, "Now."
The garden awakened.
Moonflowers suddenly unfurled completely, releasing a pollen that made the approaching werewolves sneeze uncontrollably. Thorny vines that had seemed decorative moments before whipped out with startling speed, wrapping around lupine limbs. From hidden spots among her prize-winning night orchids, specially cultivated fungi burst upward, releasing spores that caused disorientation and confusion in any werewolf—except Maris, who had spent years building immunity through careful exposure.
"What is this?" Keller howled, struggling against a particularly enthusiastic creeping ivy that seemed determined to drag him toward the compost heap.
"Botanical werewolf defense," Maris replied calmly, watching as her garden—her plants—protected their caretaker. "Mrs. Yarrow's specialty, with my own modifications."
One of the pack broke free and charged directly at Maris, only to step on what appeared to be innocent decorative mushrooms. The fungi burst under pressure, releasing a compound that immediately triggered temporary reversal of werewolf transformation. The attacking beast found himself suddenly human-formed, naked and vulnerable, tangled in roses.
"My garden doesn't like uninvited guests," Maris explained. "Particularly those threatening its gardener."
Within minutes, the entire pack was subdued—one fully human, the others variously constrained by remarkably strong plants, all looking thoroughly confused about how vegetation had defeated apex predators.
Keller, partially entangled in what looked like harmless clematis, glared at Maris. "This isn't natural."
"Neither are we," she replied, kneeling to stroke a trembling moonflower that had clearly exerted itself. "But we can choose how we use our nature."
From the cottage doorway, Mrs. Yarrow appeared with a steaming kettle. "Tea's ready," she called cheerfully. "Chamomile with a touch of wolfsbane. Just enough to keep our guests docile until morning."
As the night progressed, Maris explained to the subdued pack about control, about choice, and about finding unexpected purpose. Some seemed genuinely interested, particularly when she demonstrated how certain plants responded differently to werewolf tending than to human care.
By dawn, as they all transformed back to human form (those not already forced there by defensive fungi), an uneasy truce had formed. Maris wasn't naive enough to believe one night would change generations of werewolf behavior, but seeds had been planted—quite literally, as she'd convinced Keller to try transplanting a particularly stubborn moonbloom that responded well to his more aggressive energy.
"You could visit again," she offered as the now-human pack prepared to leave. "Next full moon. I'm experimenting with lunar-sensitive hybrid vegetables. Could use different perspectives."
Keller, looking strangely vulnerable in borrowed clothes too small for his frame, grunted noncommittally. But the youngest pack member nodded enthusiastically.
As they departed, Mrs. Yarrow appeared at Maris's side. "Well done," the old woman said. "Plants and werewolves—who'd have thought?"
Maris smiled, examining a bent stem that needed care. "Both misunderstood, both with hidden strengths and secret beauties." She looked up at the fading moon. "Both transformed by the right conditions."
"And the right gardener," Mrs. Yarrow added softly.
Together they surveyed the garden, already recovering from its unusual night of activity. New buds were forming where defense mechanisms had been triggered—the plants evolving, adapting, growing stronger.
Much like their werewolf gardener.
Maris carefully replaced her specially-made gardening gloves on her now-human hands. "Same time next month?"
Mrs. Yarrow chuckled. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. I've got a new fertilizer formula I think your snapdragons will love."
"Literal snapdragons now?"
"Well," the old woman winked, "a garden defending a werewolf deserves some teeth of its own, doesn't it?"
As the sun rose fully, illuminating the extraordinary garden with ordinary morning light, Maris felt at peace. Between full moons, she was Dr. Maris Chen, reclusive botanical researcher. Under the full moon, she was something unique—neither fully werewolf nor fully human, but perfectly herself.
A werewolf with a green thumb. Who would have thought?20Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwRspzLuNG2
