The Night Has Teeth (23 page)

“Maddy, come on...”

She shakes her head.

He lets out a sigh of pure, unadulterated
frustration. “I’ve got to study for an economics test tomorrow, so
I can’t be out all night.”

“Well, good night, then.”

“You can’t just―”

I don’t know what he was about to say, but he
doesn’t finish. He just lets out another long breath that’s
punctuated by an awkward silence. The monk casts an
over-the-shoulder glance at us before heading back inside, the
fiery torchlight casting him in an ominous glow.

“I’m a big girl, Josh.”

“I know that.”

With a measured movement, she takes a step back. “So
... good night.”

He edges forward. For someone who’s supposedly just
friends, Josh is being oddly protective. Possessive even. But he’s
up against a girl who doesn’t understand the word codependent.
Madison wiggles her fingers in a wave goodbye, and I give him a
half-hearted salute before trailing after her. Now that the sun has
sunk below the horizon, the air has become damp and sends a chill
through me. Madison, who wears just a nylon vest over her cotton
hoodie, shudders noticeably. We find ourselves wandering toward a
café and the promise of beverages to warm us. At the takeout
counter she orders a blend of hot chocolate and coffee, much to the
chagrin of the barista, while I ask for a regular coffee ― two
sugars, no cream. As we wait for our drinks, a brisk wind picks up.
Madison inches closer, and I’m not certain if she’s even aware of
it.

“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you
and Josh?”

“I never said there wasn’t,” she admits, “just not
in the way you’re thinking.”

“You’re positive about that, though?”

“Believe me, I’m over him.”

“And Josh?”

“He’s the one who broke up with me,
remember?”

“People make mistakes,” I inform her.

“People make lots of mistakes,” she replies. Her
voice becomes wistful when she says, “Some are much bigger and far
headier than others.”

We’re both quiet, because it’s come back to the
topic she doesn’t want to talk about, but one that we keep
returning to. Like an infinite loop that we can’t seem to
escape.

“It’s not exactly a stand-up move,” I note as we
take our beverages.

Madison holds her drink with both hands wrapped
around the cup and her sleeves pulled down across her knuckles. Our
path back takes us around the cemetery. Even if we wanted to, we
couldn’t retrace Josh’s shortcut, since the gates must have closed
shortly after we left. I doubt she would have gone back inside
after dark in any case. Everyone has limitations. Death and dying:
those are the things she can’t cope with, I’m assuming not since
the accident, anyway.

“He didn’t break up with me right away, so I’ll
give him that much,” Madison finally responds. “But that month
while I was recovering ... I totally saw it coming. It didn’t
exactly make it any easier. It’s not even that I wasn’t the same
after the accident ― people evolve, we grow up. It was more like he
couldn’t look at me without being reminded of how he’d let me down.
But you know what? Things happen for a reason. Sometimes, even if
we don’t realize it, we’re just waiting for a catalyst. Really, it
was going to happen either way. One day it would have been me
fumbling over terse words and lame euphemisms for breaking up. Even
if there’d been no accident. It doesn’t really matter how it
happened, because we’re in exactly the same place where we would
have wound up anyway.”

“That’s fate,” I suggest.

She scoffs as we stop by the entrance of a Métro
station.

“Fate’s what you make it,” I insist.

“No, life’s what you make it,” she retorts.
“Fate’s just an excuse for not living.”

I don’t know why exactly, but her words make me
think about her note, the one she left behind at the cemetery. What
am I supposed to make of a moment like this with Madison?

“You coming?” she asks, thrusting her thumb in the
direction of the station.

I shake my head. “I’m going to walk.”

“How noble of you to see me safely to my
stop.”

Her voice is sarcastic; her eyes are mischievous. As
she moves in closer, her hand slips around my waist. I feel her
fingers dipping into the back pocket of my jeans for the Post-it
note.

“Don’t.” I say it without stopping her
physically.

My eyes search hers. I know in a way the paper
doesn’t belong to me, but in another way it does. She pauses, her
lips barely upturned. There’s a splash of gold in her eyes from the
glow of the streetlights.

“Connor Lewis,” she says in a husky voice, “you
stole my letter.”

“Nuh-uh,” I deny, keeping my voice light. “I
intercepted it.”

And that barest of smiles fades just like that.

“Some things aren’t meant to happen.”

She pulls away with the note on the tips of her
fingers. Before she can run off, I snatch it, holding it, pulling
at it, willing it to stay in my possession. The tension between us
is in the quiver of paper within our grasps. Madison’s grip tears
it apart just barely. She’s left with a tiny fingerprint-sized
speck of fluorescent pink that she flicks off into the breeze
coming up from the trains below. Her cherry-red hair whips around
her face. With it comes her smell. I want to wrap myself in it, in
that scent that reminds me of marshmallows and campfires. Of the
things that are safe and right in the world. But with those things
comes the darkness of the woods and things that go bump in the
night. There’s something about being with Madison that means both.
All I want in this moment is to throw caution to the swirling wind
and do something we both can’t anticipate. But she’s already
heading down the steps, unwilling to tempt fate. So instead, I’m
left clinging fiercely to the words scrawled on a flower-shaped
piece of paper:
Stars are always aligned; it just depends on where you’re
standing
.

18. When
They Come For Me

“S
o, there’s another party at La Pleine Lune next weekend,”
Madison informs me.

It’s a rare but inevitable situation for Amara and
Arden to both be at work while I’m not at school, so I take a
chance and sneak out. Madison and I are downstairs in the rec room
of her boarding house. Madame Lefèvre has allowed me back after our
last unpleasant encounter, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m
in her good graces. She checks in on us at random intervals, making
not-so-subtle
tsking
noises.
I’m not sure if her disdain is for me or our movie choice. We just
spent the afternoon on the couch sitting close ― but not too close
― watching
Akira
, a classic
post-apocalyptic anime movie.

At the sound of the name, La Pleine Lune, my guard
goes up. That haven for werewolves is — without a shred of doubt —
the very last place on Earth I want to be. Although my wounds have
healed over completely, the memory of being bitten is still pretty
fresh in my mind. Surprisingly clear, actually, considering so many
weeks have passed. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to let
Madison talk me into another party there.

“Not interested.”

“I didn’t think so,” she admits, adding, “that’s
why I took the liberty of checking out another alt
scene.”

As she rummages through her rucksack, I feel
apprehension creeping into my body. I don’t like where this is
going. The last time she discovered an underground party, it didn’t
exactly turn out to be the best thing for me. Memorable, yes, but
I’d rather avoid a repeat performance. Madison finally pulls out a
colorful 8 x 11 glossy poster and hands it over to me. It’s for the
upcoming school dance.

I chuckle. “Seriously?”

With a casual shrug, she says, “I figure it’s more
your speed.”

Even though there’s been no avoiding the topic of
the dance in classes and school hallways, it’s kind of the last
place I expected Madison would want to be. The poster very clearly
shows that it’s a mash-up costume dance. Halloween is one of those
lost-in-translation ideas here. There’s not so much as a TP tree or
smashed pumpkin on the horizon. The international students on the
social committee must have decided that would be all kinds of
wrong.

I balk. “I don’t know ... it’s been a long time
since I put on a costume.”

The last time was, in fact, in sixth grade, when I
went to a school dance dressed as Samurai Jack. Nobody got it.
Worse, some people thought I was a homely looking Harajuku Girl or
geisha. Not exactly a resounding success.

“Live a little, Connor,” she goads.

“I’m living plenty,” I fire back.

There’s no doubt in my mind that, now that she has
her heart set on it, Madison will try everything to convince me
that this school dance will be the best thing since Splat hair
color. But that doesn’t matter, because it dawns on me suddenly
that a girl just asked me out. And not just any girl: Madison
Dallaire.

“Did you just ask me out?” I blurt, just to be
sure.

Her eyes scan mine. “I don’t think I’m dating right
now. It’s complicated.”

“You either are or you aren’t,” I inform her.
“It’s actually not that hard to figure out.”

She gets up off the couch to remove the DVD from the
player. It’s a ploy to end the conversation, and it winds up
working as Madame Lefèvre pops in again. To the woman’s credit, she
hasn’t just been spying on us. Somehow that’s too undignified for
someone in her position. Rather, she’s come in with various
excuses: bringing up board games for some of the younger girls,
laundering blankets that are stored in one of the shelving units,
and this time asking if I’ll be staying for dinner.

“No, thank you, Madame,” I respond, trying to
exude courtesy and respectability.

“Where are you going?” Madison asks testily as I
make a move toward the exit.

“Home,” I tell her. “I’m exhausted.”

“It’s, like, five o’clock.”

The only excuse I can come up with is, “I think I’m
coming down with something.”

It’s not too much of a stretch of the truth,
considering how I’ve been feeling lately.

“You don’t have to wear a costume if you really
don’t want to, spoilsport.”

Honestly, I don’t know what would make me fit in
less: wearing a lame costume or not wearing one at all among a sea
of others. It dawns on me that she’s somehow already mentally roped
me into this dance. As we head upstairs, I slip into my fall coat.
Outside the overcast sky darkens.

“Don’t go bailing on me,” she barks as I dash out
the door.

When I get outside and onto the street, closing the
front gate behind me, a wave of unease hits me. Maybe I really am
coming down with something. But I also have an overwhelming sense
of danger. Rain splatters from the darkened clouds. The moisture in
the air pulls the scent of earth from the patches of green in the
quiet urban neighborhood. Someone whistles, and I glance around the
street. The pair lopes across the road ― Trajan and Attila ― and I
recognize the smell of wet dog. The sight of the werewolves stops
me in my tracks as I consider various ways this situation might
play out. Ordinarily, I’m the kind of guy who runs away to fight
another day, but somehow I don’t think it’s an option in this
scenario.

“Hey, freak show,” Trajan greets.

“Don’t tell me,” I say, trying to keep my tone
light, “you’re here to talk.”

They exchange a look, smirking.

“What’s so funny?”

“Talking’s not exactly our strong suit,” he
replies.

The intent in his eyes is nothing short of gross
bodily harm. He has his arms folded across his chest, and even
under his jacket I can see his muscles flexing. With Attila
mimicking his stance, I’m pretty sure I’m about to be
pulverized.

“Look―”

“No, you look, freak show,” Trajan cuts me off
savagely.

“Stop calling me that.”

I feel a flush rising to my face, and it spurs them
on. As Boguet’s henchmen advance, my feet propel me backward until
the heels of my sneakers touch the stone wall surrounding Madison’s
boarding house.

“You just made this job a lot more fun for us,
freak—”

I don’t hear the rest. A kick of adrenaline sends an
ache throughout my body. Whatever fires throughout my synapses, I
have no control over it. Everything in me, right down to the
molecular level, screams out to take them down. My instincts fly in
the face of logic. The odds of coming out of such a fight unscathed
are stacked considerably in their favor. I don’t know which one of
them pushes me, but I slip over the edge of reason and into pure
angry emotion. I can only catch fragments of what unfolds next,
because it’s like everything is flashing under a strobe light. When
I lunge ahead, the thugs separate to give themselves space. One of
them grabs my jacket, and it’s accompanied by the sound of a seam
tearing. I feel the full blow of Trajan’s fist across my jaw. At
that moment of impact, he lets go and I collapse head first against
the sidewalk. I lie there deciding whether or not to scramble to my
feet or protect myself from his impending kick to my torso.
Everything blinks in a flash of light and dark. Some Good Samaritan
decides to come to my aid. He steps between me and my assailants.
From behind, he looks like an immaculately well-dressed businessman
in a gray woolen coat and suit. His black hair is combed neatly to
the side and his face is clean-shaven. It’s only when I see his
right profile casting me an over-the-shoulder glance that the
tattoo of a wolf’s head comes into view, and I remember exactly who
he is: the pack leader of who knows how many werewolves in Paris.
I’m not the only one who has a memory of him. Trajan and Attila
have lost their confident edge.