The Night Has Teeth (20 page)

The answer she gives is simple. “Me.”

She blurts it out, no filter, the way she always
does. This time I’m confident that she really didn’t intend to let
that truth slip out. I don’t understand what it means, but the
answer fills me with apprehension. My lips part, trying to
formulate a follow-up question to make sense of it. She’s already
ahead of me, though, up on her feet and running out the door. All
I’m left with is the scent of her, lingering in the kitchen,
haunting all my senses.

14.
Trouble Weighs A Ton

A
fter a few moments of hesitation, I chase after her, trying
to leap down the steps a few at a time without killing myself. It’s
too late, though. She’s gone long before I can get her name out.
Even so I call after her, hopeful as I jog down the sidewalk. The
effort is too much. My body’s been through more than it can
tolerate and starts to shut down. I slump back against a building,
taking a moment to collect myself before turning back.

One foot in front of the other, I inevitably pass
by the closed butcher shop. Within its darkened windows hang coils
of meat above a display case of deli. The smell of death wafts
around me. A massive pig’s head stares out with its lifeless eyes.
As I approach, I’m reminded of a book I read in tenth grade
English:
Lord of the Flies
. The one scene that’s always stood out for me is when the
boys, lost in a frenetic chant, kill Simon like they’re just a
bunch of wild animals. “There were no words, and no movements but
the tearing of teeth and claws.” It’s almost what happened to me ―
not death but that other fate, worse than death ― of becoming more
animal than human. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection on
the glass. Although I feel otherwise, I look healthier than ever.
Maybe it’s exhaustion catching up to me, but by some trick of
light, my image appears to divide into two. An instant later I
realize that the second figure isn’t me. I spin on my heel, too
late.

“You fool!” he snarls.

The words ― those two simple words ― are a giveaway.
It’s Arden. In the dark of night, I sense his presence as a
predator. Not just in the guttural growl but also in the way he
moves stealthily across the curb. It’s in the flash of his teeth
and the not-quite-human hue of those amber eyes. But I’m not
afraid, not the way I should be. He keeps moving forward, but I
don’t back down. I refuse to back down despite ― or maybe because
of ― the adrenaline that courses through my veins. I’ve felt this
way once before. A very long time ago.

“Stop it!” I demand, feeling a ferocity rise
within me. “Just stop calling me that, alright? It’s becoming like
the f-word to me.”

When he fails to pull away, I take both my hands and
push him back, wholly aware that the action is akin to goading a
guard dog. He comes at me with double the aggression. I feel my
muscles tense, sending a sharp pain up my wounded arm. He snarls
savagely, baring sharp long canines as his lips tremble in anger. I
stand tall and at the ready. Here it comes. I brace myself in
anticipation of the world of hurt to come. But it doesn’t. Instead
of fighting, he merely takes a whiff of me and grunts. It has the
effect of confusing the anger out of me. I discreetly try to smell
my shirt to confirm whether it’s me or just his general attitude
toward me.

“I told you to go home,” he says
softly.

His eyes are misty, and I can hear a tremor in his
voice, but it’s not from anger seeded by hate. It’s something else.
And it’s gone in a flash as he rubs a hand over his face and
through his hair.

“How could I just leave you to die?”

With a quick scan of me, he replies, “You have two
feet. Four now, if you tried.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Not even if I
tried.”

His eyes search mine for some kind of an answer.

“Where’s Amara?” I ask, hoping not to have to
repeat what I’m about to explain.

He doesn’t respond. I don’t know if worry is within
the emotional scope of a werewolf, but if Amara were human, that
would be a normal reaction. She bit me. I’m supposed to be a
werewolf now. The kind that has a low survival rate, at that.

“I am here,” she says.

My eyes find her in the shadowed archway that leads
up to the apartment. Even at this distance I can see the strain on
her face. Arden and I are both staring at her. She stands perfectly
still, and only her long black hair ― worn loose around her
shoulders ― billows gently in the cool breeze. When she moves, I
breathe again. She takes a few steps toward me and wraps me in an
embrace. It surprises me enough that I don’t know what to do with
my hands. Arden grasps her arm, but she shoulders him away. When I
glance over at him, he’s scanning the streetscape, concerned. I
don’t know what exactly is going on here, but it can’t be good.

“Amara.” He beckons gently.

Her body tenses and then she pulls away from me. “To
bite a human,” she begins, “is a crime punishable by death.”

Arden lets out a sigh. His face is a portrait of
anguish.

“You didn’t do anything to me.”

“If this is your idea of a joke―”

“It isn’t,” I insist. “Nothing happened. The venom
was stopped before I ― you know, turned over or whatever you call
it.”

Arden steps forward, growling, “Impossible.” He
grabs my hand, cursorily examines the wounds, and drops it like a
dirty sock. “No human heals this quickly.”

After a moment of hesitation, I shake off the
uncertainty he’s cast in my mind. “Look, I don’t understand the
science behind it, but Boguet’s developed an antivenin.”

The stares I get back are completely blank, like
I’ve just riddled off something in a gibberish language neither of
them are fluent in.

“A cure,” I offer. “For whatever’s in your
venom.”

“It is not possible.” Amara paraphrases Arden’s
earlier statement.

“It is,” I affirm. “I didn’t turn into a werewolf.
I’m fine.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but she says, “I am
glad. I never meant to harm you.”

“I know you didn’t,” I tell her in as heartfelt a
way as I can. “But listen. Boguet, he’s got something planned.
Something you should know about. He’s working on a
cure.”

“For what?” Arden asks.

“For―” How do I put it so he won’t be offended?
There’s probably no easy way of saying it, so I just come out with
the words. “For what you are.”

Sure enough, he snarls.

“Once he does,” I persist, “he’ll be going after
all of you.”

He lets out a stream of impressive swears in French.
Afterward, the silence is disconcerting. Whatever is going to
happen next, I’m tied to it now. He runs a hand through his
chestnut hair, staring down the empty street.

“I wish I’d killed him,” he murmurs.

“You humans have a proverb,” Amara says. “If
wishes were horses, beggars would ride. It is useless to wish.
Better results will be achieved through action.”

The look he casts her is nothing short of annoyed. I
have it in my mind to mention that proverbs are just as useless as
wishes, but Arden has caught her point and moves toward his parked
motorcycle. He’s going to do something.

“Where are you going?”

“To tell Roul,” he replies gruffly.

I glance over at Amara, hopeful for clarification.
The contact list in my brain works slowly. “What, the bartender? At
the La Pleine Lune party?”

“Our pack leader,” she explains. “He will have the
final say in what we do.”

Arden revs his motorcycle, ending the discussion. My
eyes follow as he takes off down the long street until he
disappears into the pulse of late-night traffic. Meanwhile, Amara
takes hold of my hand. For a moment we just stand there staring
after him. I should have a million questions running through my
brain, but there’s only a quiet hum within me. There’s nothing I
can say that will change whatever happens next. Nothing I can know
that can’t be unknown if I ask. I’m well aware that I haven’t
picked sides. Not just yet. It’s not that I could see myself going
along with Boguet’s plan to wipe out werewolves, but I’m not
fooling myself. The pack at large could have worse plans in store
for humankind. In that sort of “us versus them” scenario, I’d have
to stick to my own kind, wouldn’t I? It doesn’t seem to matter just
now, because Amara leads me back inside. Once upstairs, I kick off
my shoes and head into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of
water. She turns the deadbolt and I can hear her pause by the door
to take in a deep breath.

“It would be in your best interest if you ceased
seeing your friends.”

Turning, I find Amara staring at me with an
intensity I haven’t felt from her before. For the most part she’s
been pretty lax, even when she’s looking out for me. Now I can
sense without any hesitation that she’s using her authority as my
official guardian to put an end to what she perceives as a
dangerous relationship. Part of me wants to point out that she was
the one who bit me. The other part realizes not only would it be
counter-productive, but in a way she’s also right. I wouldn’t have
been at the La Pleine Lune party had Madison not insisted on
it.

Regardless, I have to try to make a case.
“Look—”

She doesn’t let me get beyond a word into my
defense. “No. This is not a matter to be discussed. It ends,
effective immediately.”

Then she walks off to her bedroom, shutting the door
and all opportunity for discussion with it. While I’m not exactly a
rule-breaker by nature, she must know that there’s no chance
Madison is going to cease and desist all contact with me. I lean
back against the kitchen countertop and see Boadicea’s card. When I
pick it up, instead of reading it, I take a closer look at my hand.
It’s true: the bite mark and scratches have completely scabbed
over. What Arden said about humans not healing so quickly has my
mind whirling. I have to pass it off as a side effect of the
antivenin or maybe residual werewolf venom. Otherwise, I’d be
terrified. Of myself.

15.
MakeDamnSure

“I
don’t want to talk about it,” Madison tells me
firmly.

All day I’ve been trying to find a moment of
alone-time with her. For all that I’ve been through in the past few
days, I can’t seem to catch a break. I’m still exhausted. It didn’t
help that Arden returned to the apartment in the hours before
sunrise. In my restless sleep I heard him raising his voice to
Amara, frustrated and angry, until she snarled at him. And then
there was silence. My dreams were definitely heavily influenced by
my werewolf-infested reality. Somehow I managed to tear apart one
of my pillows in the middle of the night. When I woke up, there
were feathers everywhere, like some bloodless explosion of
geese.

At lunch, I finally get Madison to myself at J’m
Sushi. Josh is late because he’s had to get the extra help of a
tutor in order to improve his French writing skills after flunking
or barely making the grade on a number of his papers. The place is
crowded as usual, only this afternoon I’m offended by what feels
like an attack on all my senses. The clatter of plates and chatter
of conversations goes right through me. There’s a foul mix of
smells that lingers in the back of my throat. Even the fluorescent
lighting is an irritant to my eyes. I have to focus all my energy
to tune it all out. I try to hone in on Madison sitting beside me
and filter out our surroundings. She picks up the disposable wooden
chopsticks laid out before her and pulls them out of a paper
sleeve. Other than her cherry-red hair, there’s nothing about her
that screams warning signs. Certainly nothing that says she needs
help. She doesn’t do damsel in distress. It’s just as well, because
I’m not exactly a shining white knight. So why is her cryptic
comment bothering me this much?

“What you said last night―”

She rolls her eyes. “What part of ‘I don’t want to
talk about it’ do you not understand?”

“Just tell me one thing ― to give me some piece of
mind ― alright?” I lower my voice to ensure only she can hear me.
“When you said you were afraid of you, is it because you’re ... you
know ... thinking about...”

I can’t even say it.
Suicide
. The word has a distinct finality about
it.

“Connor,” she says, staring at me until I
acknowledge her by making eye contact. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about, so just drop it.”

“If you gave me a chance, you’d find that I’m a
pretty good listener.”

While I sip quietly on water, she snaps apart the
chopsticks. I figure it’s a stall tactic or something while she
schemes up a way to redirect the conversation. As I set down the
glass on the black lacquered tabletop, she grabs at a lock of my
hair with the sticks. When she pulls them away we both stare at a
pinioned goose feather ― a reminder of my sleepless night. She
raises an eyebrow at me as I smooth down my hair. In another motion
she releases the feather and grabs at my hand with the splintery
wood.

“Um, what are you doing?” I ask, glancing between
my hand and her.

“Isn’t this the hand that was all scratched
up?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Do you always heal that quickly?”

“What are you talking about? Look, I’m hideously
disfigured.”