The Night Has Teeth (19 page)

“This plan of Boguet’s,” I start but don’t quite
know how to finish. “I mean, what he said about the eliminating the
werewolf genome. It sounds...”

“Slightly mad?” she finishes the sentence for
me.

“Yeah,” I reply instantly. “I mean, doesn’t
it?”

“There are those who would say genetic engineering
of werewolves is mad, too,” she points out, playfully adding, “I
beg to differ.”

“His plan, though, it’s not exactly like he’s
removing venom from a snake.”

“No,” she admits. “It’s a disease. We’d be curing
werewolves so they can live normal human lives.”

“Okay, but whose definition of normal are we
talking about here? I mean,
you’re
not exactly normal.”

She purses her lips.

“That came out wrong,” I acknowledge.

“I understand what you meant, Connor.”

By the sharp tone of her voice, I don’t think she
really does.

“You’re treating werewolves like they’re the next
pandemic,” I press on, “like SARS or H1N1, but they’re more than
that.”

“Of course,” she agrees, softening. “I’m not
arguing that point. But why should they have the power to destroy
human lives with a single bite? All we’re doing is stopping the
spread.”

“It’s more than that, though. You don’t see
anything wrong with this plan?”

“You don’t seem to take issue with benefiting from
the antivenin.”

I don’t have an answer for that, so my only comeback
is, “Why are you defending him?”

“For the same reason you should be. He saved both
of us.”

“Look, I get that, loud and clear,” I retort. “But
there’s a difference between loyalty and blind faith.”

There’s no response as she continues to drive at a
sensible speed. I actually wish she had more of a lead foot so we
could get to our destination sooner. That way I could leave this
whole unpleasant situation behind. In order to avoid further
conversation, I reach into my coat pocket to pull out my phone. The
last thing I want to do is incur the wrath of another werewolf by
getting into a full-fledged argument over the matter. There are
multiple messages ― both voice mail and text ― from the only people
I know in Paris. No doubt they’ve all been worried since I randomly
disappeared from that sketchy party scene. Madison’s messages are ―
no surprise ― the ones that stand out. In them her tone is
increasingly anxious, and at turns irate. I have no idea what I’m
going to tell everyone. Lies are not my strong suit. The only thing
I can think to do is send a quick text to Madison to let her know
I’m alright and on my way home. After Boadicea parks the car at the
end of my block, she turns off the ignition and we continue to sit
in silence for a while longer.

“What was your name?” I ask out of the
blue.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Before you became Boadicea Faelen.”

I sense her hesitation in the tensing of her body,
even when she puts on a smile. “I can’t reveal all my secrets,
lamb.”

“I don’t know who you are, not really.”

“This is who I am,” she insists. “That sick girl I
was before, she died two years ago. She’s merely a ghost
now.”

How can I trust what I don’t believe in? I don’t
want to contest the existence of poltergeist with her just now, in
case they’re also real. My world has been altered enough without
the introduction of more supernatural elements. That said, I can’t
put my faith in a girl whose life belongs to someone else. It makes
a lot of sense to me why Boguet would claim the lives of the
terminally ill. To them he’s the slightly less frightening
alternative to the grim reaper.

Boadicea watches me expectantly. “Are you going to
invite me upstairs?”

Her question gives me pause to wonder for a moment:
Are werewolves like vampires? Do they have to be invited inside
your home before they can enter?

“It’s a simple yes or no question,” she presses,
her rosy lips curling at the edges.

I look her over. “Is it?”

She gives me a funny smile as she asks, “Isn’t
it?”

“No, not exactly,” I answer truthfully, thinking
about the CCTV camera pointed at the flat that’s streaming a feed
into her office right now. “In fact, I don’t think it’s such a
great idea.”

Her body angles toward me as I attempt to leave.
“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I wasn’t dating werewolves back then,” I joke
feebly.

She arches an eyebrow.

“Honestly? Arden threw away your card. Besides,
what does it matter? You’re not really into me, are
you.”

I say it as a fact, not a question. Her interest in
me is surely connected to Boguet’s business and whatever he has
planned for me. It’s the first time that thought has crossed my
mind, but somehow I’m sure of it now ― that he has something in
store for me. Why else would he have gone through all this trouble
of finding me and setting up this ruse with Boadicea? My hand goes
to open the door.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as I step out into
the cool evening.

Slamming the door behind me, I cross the street and
walk back toward the apartment. When I round the corner, I see
Madison sitting by the ground floor entrance. Arden and Amara must
not be in. When she catches sight of me, it doesn’t take a
clairvoyant to see that I’m about to get the third degree for
skipping out on her and Josh. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming.
Still, I hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“Where the hell have you been, Connor?” she
berates. “I’ve been losing my mind!”

As her angry little fists punch at the air around
her, I determine that my lie will have to stick as close to the
truth as possible if it’s to succeed, so I inform her, “I was
hospitalized.”

“You were wh―” Her words stop abruptly as she
locks sights on someone behind me.

“Connor?” a familiar Irish lilt says.

“Who are you?” Madison inquires flatly.

As I turn so that I can talk to both girls, Boadicea
introduces herself. Madison looks at me for an explanation, but
none is forthcoming. I stammer, trying to think of an extension of
my alibi without talking about werewolves and recombinant DNA. It
should come easy, but everything I think of seems wildly
exaggerated.

“Connor suffered from blood poisoning the other
night,” Boadicea interjects. “As he said, he was
hospitalized.”

“What, like, blood-alcohol poisoning?”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

“And who are you exactly?” Madison asks, focusing
her attention back to the girl on the other side of me.

“A friend,” we answer almost simultaneously. It
gives the impression of us being more than just friends, and it
doesn’t help when we exchange furtive glances.

“How do you know each other?”

I mutter something about the Techno Parade,
misguidedly hopeful that she’ll just let it go.

“Speak into the mic, Connor,” she presses in an
annoyed tone.

“We met at Club Cin-Cin,” Boadicea replies
neutrally.

“Oh.” Madison eyes her, not kindly. “You’re
that
girl.”

There’s clearly no headway to be made here, but
Boadicea takes it all in stride. She removes a card from her purse
and slips it into my hand. “Well, I must be off. It was charming to
meet you…?”

Instead of filling in the blank with her name,
Madison says, “Yeah. You too.”

I give a half-hearted wave goodbye and turn to face
the music. Madison folds her arms across her chest. For now she
gives me the silent treatment, but I figure this is just the quiet
before the storm. Ascending the steps of the narrow staircase, I
feel her at my heels. The palms of my hands are unexpectedly moist
with sweat as I attempt to put the key in the lock. I glance at her
while twisting the key and laying my fingers on the handle. Upon
opening the door, I lean in and switch on the light. I’m acutely
aware of how close she is standing, and it’s only accentuated by
the scent of vanilla. She inches closer so we’re practically
sharing the same air. Maybe we are, because I’m light-headed.

With a wave of my arm toward the apartment, I say,
“Ladies first.”

Madison storms past me and I follow her trail,
closing the door behind us. The place looks much the same as when I
left it: my school bag is on the floor by the door and a few
unwashed dishes are piled in the sink. Her eyes scan the place.
When she turns to face me, I’m still standing by the door, too
unsure of everything to know what else to do.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Hanging up my jacket, I glance toward the kitchen,
trying to visualize what I have to offer. I leave my shoes on to
cross the room to the kitchen, where I set down Boadicea’s business
card.

“How does cranberry juice sound?” I ask after
opening the fridge door and peering in.

As I pull the bottle off a shelf, the juice
container slips from my hand. I fumble with it in vain to prevent
it from smashing onto the floor but fail miserably. A mess of
shattered glass and red liquid is splattered at my feet. Squatting
down over the disaster, I begin to push up my sleeves in
preparation for dealing with the broken glass and spilled juice.
Madison, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, lets out a
gasp.

“What happened to you?”

“I already told you―”

“Yeah, I got the part about you getting wasted,”
she interrupts. “I’m talking about your hand.”

She comes down on her haunches by my side,
hesitantly reaching out but not touching my wounds. It’s as though
physical contact might break one of us. When I peer over at her,
there’s a glossy veneer of dampness forming over her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

In response, she merely shakes her head, averting
her gaze.

“Madison?”

Her voice is small when she speaks. “Nothing.”

In the next moment she shifts her weight to get up
and walk away, crunching glass under the soles of her shoes. In
doing so, she loses her balance and teeters, so I grab hold of her
wrist to steady her. Madison looks down at my wounded hand, the one
that’s got a grip on her, with an expression I can’t read. Her eyes
travel slowly up my arm until she’s staring into my face. Despite
her trying to blink them away, a tear escapes from her right eye.
Slowly, I raise my other hand and place it against the downy skin
of her face, catching the warm tear with my thumb. I don’t know
what’s wrong with her, so I don’t know how to fix this situation. I
let my instincts take over for a second and gently tug her toward
me. She leans forward and rests her head against my shoulder. As I
wrap her in my arms, a warm flow of tears trickles down my neck.
Instead of returning the embrace, she hugs herself.

“What is it, Madison?”

“I just ― what happened in the
spring...”

It doesn’t take a sleuth to piece it together. The
shattered glass, the red liquid, the wounds on my arms: it’s all
reminding her of the accident. My hand goes to stroke her back
gently in an effort to soothe her somehow, but I’m shaken by her
sudden vulnerability and closeness.

“Connor―”

“I’ll clean up the mess, okay?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Whatever you went through with the accident,” I
say softly, into her hair, “I can’t even begin to imagine
it.”

“Wait.” In an unexpected move, she pulls back and
holds a palm out to me. “I’m not flaking out, Connor.”

I don’t know what to say that will make any of this
easier. Her eyes are shut as she struggles to pull herself
together. I feel like it’s my first glimpse of the real Madison.
The one she keeps hidden away. I wish she would come out more
often, if only to soften the rough edges.

“Just give me a second,” she whispers.

She sits back on the floor with knees curled up and
her face in her hands. While she’s dealing with whatever is going
on in her head, I mop up the juice with paper towels, sweep the
glass into a dustpan, and clean up the residual stickiness with a
soapy tea towel. When I’m done, she’s still in the same position on
the floor. I pull my sleeves back down and take one last look to
ensure there’s no evidence left of the debris.

“Madison?”

Slowly, she lifts her face to rest her chin against
her knees. Although her eyes are still moist, she appears to have
recovered. Her arms wrap around her calves as she stares ahead at
the newly washed floor.

“Truth, Connor, what’s your worst fear?” she asks,
drawing from the other night’s game.

I don’t know where this is going, but it seems to be
distracting her from her momentary meltdown, so I play along. “Up
until recently, it was public speaking.”

“And now?”

“I’d have to say, I’m deeply afraid of the
unknown.”

“Better the devil you know...” Her voice trails
off.

“Come on,” I say, reaching down to help her to her
feet.

Her hands go up defensively, in a panic.
“Don’t.”

I pull back. The message is loud and clear: her
guard is back up. Rather than give her more reason to thwart my
attempts at helping, I crouch down so I’m at her level.

“What about you, Madison? What are you afraid
of?”