The Night Has Teeth (25 page)

The vehicle pulls away, blending seamlessly into
traffic. Nobody out on the streets is the wiser that there’s a wolf
in their presence. To me, though, as I dart in the heavy downpour
back to the safety of my place, the scent of wet dog follows like
it’s seeped into my pores. I wonder how long I’ll have to deal with
the side effects of keeping company with werewolves.

19. I
Don’t Care

A
fter agonizing about it all week, I decide to go to the
party in costume. I just spent the past twenty minutes on a Métro
train getting funny looks or being avoided altogether. I’m dressed
in an old tweed suit I found at a secondhand clothing shop in my
neighborhood. It’s too short in the sleeves and inseam, but that
only adds to the effect of being in a lab accident. When I emerge
from the station, my skin faintly radiates an eerie green from
glow-in-the-dark paint that’s illuminated by the light of the night
sky. The moon is a bright reminder of what could have happened to
me at La Pleine Lune, and my stomach roils at the thought of it. In
fact, all of my insides are starting to ache. Truth is, I haven’t
been feeling quite myself all day. Inside, a nervous energy pulses
like I’m highly caffeinated.

When I arrive at the school, there are some kids
milling around outside the front doors. Drinking, obviously.
Inside, I’m greeted by the sounds of alternative rock music blaring
into the hallway. A crowd of the popular girls emerges from the
auditorium prancing around on ballerina slippers as they make their
way outside. They’re dressed as fairies, all glitter and sparkles.
Either they didn’t understand the concept of mash-up, or there’s
something I’m missing. When one of them flashes me a smile filled
with fangs, I get it. Killer fairies.

Instead of heading past the doors to the dance
floor, I wait in the hallway, leaning back against Madison’s
locker. We agreed to meet here at seven, but she isn’t exactly the
type who works to other people’s schedules. I decide to kill time
by playing Angry Birds on my iPhone. As time goes by, kids flood in
and out of the auditorium. Eventually, I catch a glimpse of her
coming in through the front door. Her hair, done up in ringlets,
bounces with every step. She wears a black-and-red corset with a
ruffled skirt that’s short in front and fans out longer at the
back, thigh-high stockings with garters, ankle boots and a fan of
matching feathers in her hair. Her exposed flesh is covered in faux
stitches. As I pocket my phone, she catches sight of me.

“Nice costume,” I remark, trying to sound casual.
“What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m FranCanCanStein.”

I roll my eyes and groan, following her eager entry
to the dance floor.

“What are you?” she asks.

I pull at my tie to loosen it. “Radioactive Pierre
Curie.”

She laughs as we make our way to the refreshment
table. The auditorium feels intolerably hot, and I already regret
the wool suit. Crowding in with a hundred other students all night
is going to be torture. Already, sweat beads across my forehead. In
fact, my brain starts to feel like it’s on fire. I pour us drinks
from the punch bowl, and after swigging mine back in one big gulp,
my head swims. Maybe someone spiked the mix. Setting down her paper
cup, Madison fusses with a stitch that’s peeling off the back of
her arm.

“Here, let me get that,” I offer.

I press my fingers against the faux wound. It’s
rubbery and gummy with glue. As I lean forward and apply it against
the back of her arm, she lets out a little noise. Long after I’ve
applied the stitch, my fingers linger, absorbing the warmth of her
honey-toned skin. Her head turns back toward me, but otherwise
she’s frozen. I catch that scent of vanilla off her again. A wave
of dizziness overcomes me and I close my eyes for just a second. I
sense her shifting, and when I open my eyes, she swivels around to
face me with her hands on the edge of the table behind her. Despite
the fake wounds and excessive makeup, she looks pretty. The same
sense of fearlessness that I felt when I stood up against Arden and
fought back against Boguet’s thugs washes over me. Only this time
it isn’t driven by anger. It’s another equally powerful instinct. I
bend down to bring our faces closer. It’s her turn to shut her
eyes.

Before I can bridge the gap between our lips, a hand
grabs my shoulder and pulls me away. Then a fist connects with my
face and I stagger back, collapsing onto the dance floor. If I had
any doubts before about where Josh stood on their relationship
status, it’s achingly clear to me now as he stands over my prone
body. He’s dressed as Zombie Napoleon, and I almost laugh at the
sight of him. It’s deadly still around us as the music continues to
blare. Madison stands by the refreshment table, hands held up to
her mouth, eyes wide and horrified. I’ll give Josh credit for
seizing control of his emotions in the aftermath of hitting me.
Although he’s barely got it together, clenching and unclenching his
fist, he seems to understand we both crossed a line. My left cheek
throbs from where the punch made contact, and the sickness I’ve
been pushing down all night comes up all at once.

“I have to get out of here.”

Pushing past him, I can’t seem to get out the front
door fast enough. A rush of nausea hits me as I race down the
corridor in an effort to get outside as quickly as possible. Behind
me I hear the auditorium door opening and closing ― the sound of
the music louder then softer as it happens. High heels click
quickly behind me on the hardwood floor of the hallway. Turning
back or stopping is a bad idea. It’s like the walls are closing in
on me.

“Connor!”

“Leave me alone, Maddy.”

Racing her, I continue past the wide doors of the
front entrance and the crowd of kids. Outside, the cool air feels
crisp against my clammy skin, and I keep running. My feet are
taking me to nearby Monceau Park, where it should be quiet and I
can collect myself. Madison grabs hold of my arm. With a shrug, I
try to shake her off, but she persists.

“Connor, listen.”

“What?” I snap, hearing the rage in my voice and
having no control over it. There’s a savagery swelling in me as I
turn on her. A wildness creeps through my veins, carried by the
quickening thrum of my heart. Her hand slides down my arm. The
frenzied thoughts going through my mind are mixed up with raw
emotion. She looks terrified in a way, but not of me. It’s of
something else, something only she knows.

She almost whispers, “You have no idea, do you?”

At this point I become aware of my panting. I
desperately try to catch my breath as a searing pain accompanies a
curdling sensation in my stomach. “I’m not in the mood to play one
of your games right now.”

“This isn’t a game. You―”

Her next words are lost on me as I keel forward,
roaring in agony, and black out.

20. Animal
I Have Become

I
n my dream, I run through the moonlit streets. My vision is
cast in a monochromatic hue, as though everything is filtered
through a colored lens. I must be dreaming because I’m a wolf ― the
paws were my first clue. I have a sense of being chased. Someone
calls my name, tells me something. Something urgent. But it’s like
the words are in a different language. One I can’t quite
understand. The only word I catch is my name. I’m overwhelmed by
the smells (of cigarette butts, spoiled food, pools of stagnant
water and even urine) and the sounds (of cars swooshing by, music
blaring and the squeal of a rat). The taste of copper fills my
mouth. It’s sensory overload. Panic sets in as I keep running. Who
or what am I running from? No idea. Footsteps close in behind me. I
can’t help but look back. And maybe, because I’m not used to the
extra feet, I trip mid-stride. Something leaps out at me in the
dark. I roll to right myself. As I do, I find myself staring up at
a creature that’s illuminated by the full moon: half-human,
half-wolf.

That’s when it registers. This is not a dream.

21. The
Curse

W
hen my eyes flutter open, I’m half-blinded by the sunlight
streaming through the window. The brutal truth of the matter is
that I feel hung over and in a world of misery. As I squint at the
light, I try to get my bearings. I’m in bed, but not my own. I have
no idea how I got here, wherever here is. My left arm is numb, and
I’m unable to move it. It’s weighed down by something. It takes me
several blinks to adjust my hazy vision. There’s someone lying on
it. I try to pull my arm out from under it, and a black feather
tickles my nose. And then I stop moving altogether, stunned beyond
words. I’m in bed with Madison. Tossing sleepily against my chest,
she lets out a sensuous sigh. Then her eyes open and she lets out a
series of other, less attractive, noises that include a mixture of
swears and half-composed words. I scramble out of bed, realizing
only then that I’m in her bedroom. And that I’m one hundred percent
certifiably naked. What have I done? What have
we
done? Oh, please, don’t tell me it is what I
think. I grab a layer of sheets to cover myself. Meanwhile, she
takes hold of a pillow and wields it like a weapon.

“Listen, Madison, whatever might have happened
here...” I start explaining while trying to avert my eyes from her
scantily clothed body.

“No, Connor, you listen to
me
. This,” she says with a wave of her free hand,
“did not happen.”

I give a quick succession of jittery nods.

“I’m going to take a shower, and when I get back,
you need to have clothes on.”

As she walks toward the door I feel all the
questions in my brain working their way to my mouth. “Wait. What
happened last night?”

“Clothes first, explanation after,” she says,
disappearing beyond the bedroom door, which she closes behind
her.

Unsure of how long it’ll take her to wash up, I
begin looking around her boarding house bedroom. The bed is flush
against the middle of one wall, dressed in a patterned pink and
white duvet to match the lavender canopy. In the corner of the room
is a vanity with a variety of cosmetics containers, creams and
other girly toiletries. Beside it is a trash bin filled with scraps
of paper. In the gilded mirror I see my reflection: most of the
skin paint has been replaced by dirt, but my hair manages to stick
up with remnants of hair product.

At the foot of the bed, neatly folded on top of a
trunk, is a pile of men’s clothes. I recognize the outfit as one of
Josh’s: a T-shirt with a maple leaf in a bulls-eye and a pair of
cargo pants. Even though this is hardly the time to be thinking
about it, I can’t help but consider what circumstances might have
led to his leaving a change of clothes in Madison’s bedroom. Next
to the pile are a few of my personal belongings: wallet, keys,
iPhone. As I step forward, a sick surge rises up my throat. I
barely make it to the trash bin before throwing up the contents of
my stomach. As it spews out, I see chunks that look like undigested
raw meat. And ― what’s that ― a rat tail? It makes me want to hurl
even more, but I close my eyes to regain my composure. I run a hand
over my mouth and feel gritty dirt. My hands are filthy. The full
extent of my new reality hits me. I’m a werewolf. The antivenin
didn’t work. Worse yet, I must have hunted and eaten a disgusting
street rat. I feel an itch under my skin and try to imagine the
transformation. All that comes to me is a series of frightening
images from B-movies. More troublesome is the idea that somehow I
came back here and hooked up with Madison. It’s so completely
outside of what I would do that I find it all hard to believe.

After an excruciating amount of time, feeling sick
enough to throw up again and desperately trying not to, I finally
get to my feet and put on the clothes. I sit down on the edge of
the trunk and wait for Madison to return while trying to move as
little as possible. When she gets back from her shower, her hair is
pulled back into a high ponytail, dark with moisture. Her hazel
eyes watch me like I’m a caged animal. Who can blame her? Her eyes
are actually sort of a green-gold, the latter color brought out
both by the yellow of her terrycloth robe and the light pouring
into the room. She looks like a stripped-down version of the
Madison I’ve come to know these past couple of months.

“How did I get here?” I ask in a gruff voice. “And
what ... the hell.”

She comes out with it, point blank, no sugar
coating. “You’re a werewolf.”

That’s Madison for you.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh as I close my
eyes. “I really didn’t want to hear that.”

“Well, put your big boy briefs on, Connor. This is
for real.”

Opening my eyes again, I see that she still stands
by the door, observing me. I’d like nothing better than to assure
her that I’m not dangerous. Tell that to the rat, though. At the
same time, she doesn’t seem very put off by the situation. I get up
to test my theory and move around, but her expression doesn’t
change.

“How does this not freak you out?”

For a few moments she just watches me pacing back
and forth across the room.

“
Stop moving, you’re making me
dizzy.”

I come to a wall and slide down against it onto the
pale hardwood floor, propping my elbows against my knees.

“Do you not remember
anything
about last night?” she asks.