The Night Has Teeth (11 page)

Sitting up quietly, I edge near enough to peer down
at her as she sleeps soundly. Her silky black coat glistens,
reflecting light in exactly the same way as her hair does in human
form, like a moonlit river. I try not to smile as her paws begin to
twitch and her mouth trembles. She must be dreaming. What do
werewolves dream about? It’s probably nothing I want to consider
too closely. A low growl comes from her and I tense, nervous about
moving too suddenly. I try to move away without disrupting her
sleep, but she suddenly lets out a snarl and I jump back. Her eyes
are open and she’s now alert. I sit, frozen, as her ears drop back.
As she looks into my face with glossy black eyes, she appears to
comprehend that whatever troubled her in her sleep isn’t here.

Because I don’t know what else to do, I tentatively
reach down to stroke her behind the ear like I would a dog. I know,
right? But this whole werewolf thing still feels too surreal.
Besides, I think we humans are pretty good at deluding ourselves. I
tell myself she’s just a big dog, and it makes the situation a lot
easier to digest. She stretches out with a yawn.

“You go ahead and sleep in if you want,” I
suggest. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I assume she understands, since she curls into
herself. Grabbing some fresh clothes, I head to the tiny bathroom
to wash up. A thick cloud of steam fills the room by the time I
finish, and I wipe a streak across the mirror to shave. My
reflection looks tired and older than it did yesterday. The smell
of a frying breakfast hits me, even though, by all rights, it
should be suppertime. My nose tells me the menu: eggs and bacon and
toast. It brings a smile that can only be described as cartoonish.
I begin to imagine myself floating down the hall, lured by a smoky
tendril of fragrance.

Hastily, I finish up and find Amara in the kitchen
preparing the meal. Everything seems so normal, and I feel happy
enough that I want to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around
her. Memories of waking up as a child on Sunday mornings to these
same smells fill my mind. I’d come down the big wooden stairs in my
pajamas to find my dad frying the eggs while my mom made toast and
boiled water for the coffee. It was the one day in the week when my
parents put aside all their commitments to just hang out at home.
Family day. And I’d revel in the warmth of their company, in the
scent of real butter frying, in the stickiness of the maple syrup
on my fingers even hours later. A pang of homesickness hits me in
the gut like a physical punch.

“What is wrong, Connor?”

“Huh?”

“I studied a video online on how to make a full
English breakfast,” she explains as she carefully inspects the
contents of my plate. “Is it not right?”

“No,” I say. “It’s ... perfect.”

I appreciatively sit down and savor every morsel.
Between mouthfuls, I’m anxious to ask more questions, find out more
about her life, make sure I understand the world I’ve found myself
living in. How many other werewolves are there? And how long have
they been integrating into human society? But the most pressing
question on my mind right now is, “Where’s Arden?”

The hours of the butcher shop below are pretty
standard for Paris. The whole 24/7 lifestyle hasn’t reached this
side of the Atlantic. Even in a city as big as this, people just
live slower lives. Most businesses take two-hour lunch breaks and
aren’t open late or even on Sundays, except in the tourist areas. I
can’t imagine Arden’s a church-going kind of guy, but he’s nowhere
to be seen around the flat, and it is the Sabbath for most of
France.

“He went out for a run,” she replies.

The first image that comes to mind is a brown wolf
terrorizing the suburbs. Of course, that’s not the case. Even he
has more sense than that. At least, I hope he does. Although, now
that I think about it, he’s kind of the epitome of arrogance.

“He will return shortly,” Amara assures me,
mistaking my expression.

If Arden kept running, never turned back, I wouldn’t
be torn up in the least. When I consider her, though, a tinge of
guilt colors that vision. As a couple they have that whole yin/yang
thing going on and bring sort of a natural balance to each other.
Taking a Taoist approach to their relationship is the only way that
it makes sense to me. If we were the same species, I could probably
put a lot of weight on a theory that it’s all hormones dictating
our behavior toward each other: her pheromones attract and his
testosterone aggravates. But their differences are striking in more
obvious ways.

“Not to sound like another lame pick-up line or
anything, but I’ve never met anyone like you before,” I note. “I
mean that both literally and figuratively.”

Her eyes search mine. “I should think not.”

“Aren’t there any werewolves in New
York?”

“There are packs all over the world.”

“Then why haven’t I met any before?”

“Packs are rather small,” she explains. “Most
often, they consist of a dozen members or so and are rarely more
than double that in size. We tend to keep to our own. The pack is
the basic unit of our social lives. It provides everything we need.
Besides, there are rules in place to ensure the safety of
humans.”

“What do these rules say about home-stays with
foreign students?” I ask, flippant and not really expecting an
answer.

“There are no specific rules regarding that
subject.”

I should just save all my sarcasm for Madison. At
least she gets me. “If there are all these rules, then what’s the
deal with this sketchy character who’s tracking me down?”

“Every story has a villain, does it
not?”

Her words are ominous, intentionally or not.
Somehow, I’d like to think that her confiding in me was a sign that
I’ve been allowed into her trust, but maybe it was only a lapse of
judgment on her part. After a long silence, we clean the dishes
together ― me washing, her drying and stacking away. When we’re
done, she puts on her jacket and shoes, making to leave the
flat.

“Where are you going?”

“I am meeting with a client.” She explains that
it’s a full-body tattoo she’s been inking for weeks. I can’t even
begin to imagine how expensive ― and painful ― the process must be.
As she slings her messenger bag over her shoulder, she assures me
that Arden will be back shortly.

“Are all your clients werewolves?”

“There are not enough of us in this city for me to
make a living.”

“But your sample book,” I press, “those are all
for werewolves, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do they mean anything? The one on your back, the
one on Arden’s arm―”

“Connor, I really must go.”

“You
did
offload a whole lot of information. I think it’s only fair
that I have some follow-up questions.”

“Arden will be back soon,” she reminds me. “You
can ask him.”

She slips out, closing the door behind her. Without
a moment of hesitation, I turn the lock. The small comfort this
security gives me doesn’t outweigh my imagination. Werewolves are
dangerous. Everyone knows that. In comparison, a deadbolt on a
wooden door is a sad joke. It will take a serious distraction for
me not to think about how a dead tree and a few bits of metal are
supposed to keep me safe.

Since knowledge is power and nobody’s around to
answer my questions, I run a search on my laptop. A Wikipedia entry
on werewolves has certain parts that I think are relevant to my
particular scenario. Folklore about animal shape-shifters exists in
pretty much every culture around the world. The ways of identifying
a werewolf appear to vary, but it seems they’re mostly ugly, hairy
people with monobrows and bristles under their tongues. Doesn’t
sound anything like Arden and Amara. Unlike every pop culture
reference I’ve ever come across, most cultures believe the
transformation comes from a curse, or even just being born that
way. Nothing about being bitten. And, in either case, the werewolf
in all mythologies represents pure evil.

There’s one exception. In 1692, a man named Thiess
testified at a witch-trial that he and other werewolves were
actually “Hounds of God.” He claimed they were warriors who
traveled to hell to battle witches and demons. For a second I
entertain the possibility of their actually existing and consider
getting in touch with them. What would I say if they were real?
Hey, one of your kind is about to run me out of the city or worse,
do you mind stepping in? Yeah, right. I’m getting drawn too far
into the myth. Scrolling back through the pages, I redirect my web
search. After I’ve read through a number of links, including one
group called the Wolves of Paris that actually terrorized the city
back in 1450, an IM pops up on the screen.

Madison: WTF! Stalk much?

Connor: Wuzn’t stalking.

Madison: Says the boy who broke into my bedroom.

I sit back in the chair, glancing around at my own
bedroom. My fingers hover over the keyboard as my mind tries to
process what to write next.

Madison: Hello?

Connor: Got into it with Arden. Didn’t know where 2
go.

Madison: Hope UR little B&E wuz worth it. Mme
Lefèvre is totes pissed. x-(

Connor: U grounded?

Madison: What am I? 12?! What’s UR sitch now?

Connor: No idea.

I haven’t seen Arden since dawn. Fact is, I’d like
to keep it that way. No such luck, though. The front door opens. I
hear him enter the flat and toss his keys into the ceramic dish at
the entryway table.

Madison: Need a place to crash?

Connor: I’m alright. GTG.

Madison: OK ... CU 2MOR.

No point in greeting him. Instead, I shut my bedroom
door and log in to my favorite online RPG to spend the rest of the
night not thinking. For a while I hear him skulking around the
apartment — not as a wolf, or I’d hear the click of his claws on
the hardwood floor. At least there’s that. Still, a tense few
minutes pass as I listen for him and a moment where I’m sure he’s
outside my bedroom door. Every bit of my energy goes into willing
him away. I’d rather repeat the awkward “birds and bees” talk with
my dad than have a heart-to-heart with Arden about werewolves.
Maybe he can sense my negative thoughts, because he creeps
away.

After a few hours, I nod off and wake to the sound
of a snarling animal. Scrambling out of the chair, I feel my eyes
bulging with terror as I scan the room for the source of the sound,
but there’s nothing. The noise is coming from my computer. The
character in my game is ominously dead on the screen, taken down by
a wild animal. Embarrassed, I stare at the monitor. It’s close to
midnight, and tomorrow’s the start of another school week. Shutting
down the computer, I get into my pajamas and head down the hall to
brush my teeth before going to bed. When I glance at my reflection
in the medicine cabinet mirror, Arden’s amber eyes glare back at me
expectantly as he stands at the open doorway. If looks could kill,
I’d be served up on a gold platter. Connor Lewis: breakfast of
werewolves. As I rinse out my mouth, spit and towel-dry, I try to
keep my attention on the grout between the small tiles of the pale
backsplash.

A million thoughts run through my mind, all of which
center around his intentions. With a sigh that’s more for my
benefit than anything else, I turn to look at him. When I do, he’s
right there in my face, eye to eye. He’s distressingly close, like
get-off-my-lawn-of-personal-space close. The outdoorsy scent of his
skin hits me: earth and grass and musk. The hairs on the back of my
neck rise of their own accord.

“Get out of my grill, Arden.”

Instead, he edges forward.

The backs of my legs brush up against the cold
porcelain sink. “What’s your problem?”

He lets out a snarl of annoyance. “Why was Amara in
bed with you?”

Oh, we’re having
this
conversation. I guess I should have seen it coming. After
all, no guy wants to be cheated on. From my perspective, no guy
wants to be pulverized by a werewolf who thinks he did it with his
girlfriend. “It’s not what you think.”

He growls. “Don’t pretend you know what I
think.”

I try my level best to stand my ground. But,
honestly, it’s almost impossible given the crazy look in the
werewolf’s eyes. “Look, she told me about this Boguet guy coming
back from the dead. I freaked. So she stayed by me. Nothing
happened. All we did was sleep.”

His eyes scan mine as he processes what I’ve just
said. I’m prepared for this to come to blows, so my mind goes to
wilderness survival tips. Fight back a black bear, play dead for
grizzly bears, but what about wolves, let alone werewolves?

“Of course, nothing happened,” he says calmly.
“Werewolves mate for life.”

A smug look animates his face as he takes a few
steps back. I stand my ground as he heads down the hallway,
stripping out of his black T-shirt and tossing it aside. The
bandages from earlier this morning are gone, the wounds not just
merely scabbed over but almost fully healed.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep.”

Helpless to do anything about it, I watch as he
enters my bedroom and leaves the door slightly ajar behind him.
Before you think I’m a complete wuss, let me explain the rationale
behind not doing anything about it. The thing about a fight,
physical or verbal, is that you have to know when you’re beat and
just take the last punches. This is most definitely one of those
cases. Sure, I might feel vindicated in standing up for myself. But
my moral conviction in this case would probably come at the price
of a whole lot of physical pain. And for nothing. Because the
reality is I’m fairly damn sure Arden could knock me out in one
blow. You know, him being the supernatural creature in this
particular situation. That would leave me in a world of ache, and
all for what? I slump down onto the sofa in the living room.
Another sleepless night isn’t going to kill me. My other option
might.