The Night Has Teeth (30 page)

There’s an EpiPen of antivenin in my backpack that
says otherwise. Or maybe it’s just evidence of Madison’s disregard
for other people’s rules. I’m not ready to rat her out, either way.
Although they may tolerate the indiscretions of their members, this
secret society seems bent on upholding their way of life. Even if
it comes at the expense of others.

“What gives them the right to be judge, jury and
executioner over all of us?”

Roul shrugs. “God, or something like that.”

“If you knew all this from the start, why did you
let them into your den?”

“There’s no denying the Hounds,” he explains. “For
centuries we refused them entry into our society. They were the
damned. The unclean. What we failed to estimate was their human
instincts, ones that led them to eke out an existence against all
odds, and then to thrive. You have to understand, werewolf packs
are small. The greatest strength of these Hounds of God is in their
numbers. They’re more organized than we are, so they govern us with
their laws.”

Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he
turns away from me and lopes slowly toward the gate. I wonder if
he’s going to leave. And if so, what will he do? Hunt down Boguet?
It isn’t just about one man any more. He’s got scientists working
for him, doing so-called field tests.

“When you saw him last,” he says, his voice
ragged, “do you suppose he — Arden — was dead?”

I answer as honestly as I can. “I don’t know. Not
for sure. I know he’s part of your pack and all, but wouldn’t that
make things easier for you?”

He stops in his tracks. Maybe I said the wrong
thing. But then Roul just shakes his head. “He challenged me, yes,”
he answers. “Arden has always been a wolf to the core. There’s
nothing more important to him than for us to hold on to what we
are, who we once were. I could never live up to that high standard,
not in his eyes. Not when what I want is to make peace between our
worlds.”

“Even now, when Boguet is about to wage
biochemical warfare on you?”

He glances over his shoulder at me so that all I see
is his tattooed profile. “Not everything is so black and
white.”

“I don’t know how you can keep your cool when so
much is on the line.”

“It’s what werewolves do best,” he says
prosaically. “We survive.”

I let out a sigh of frustration. “That’s easy for
you to say. You’ve been a werewolf all your life.”

“So have you, Connor,” he points out. “You just
didn’t know it.”

It’s true. There’s no denying it. I now have a whole
new perspective on that first day of kindergarten and all the years
that followed afterward of never fitting in. I’ve always been a
werewolf. It took someone to bite me back before I could realize
it, though.

“How long did you know?”

He’s quiet for too long. I’m tired of waiting for
answers.

“Did you know all along?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Genetics is a wonderful science, and Boguet’s
work is not entirely unique. There are other research endeavors
taking place around the world. In fact, your father submitted a
sample of his DNA to a genographic project in America. It came up
as a direct match.”

I’m almost too afraid to ask, “A direct match with
whom?”

He turns to face me with his divided face: the man
on one side and the wolf on the other. “Me.”

The simple answer that leaves his lips has complex
consequences. I stare at him, speechless, willing him to say not a
word more.

But then he drives the final nail in the coffin,
sealing me in for good. “You’re the last descendant of my
bloodline.”

To keep myself from falling apart, I cross my arms
and grip at my torso. What he just said is too surreal to be true.
At the same time, it all makes perfect sense. Doesn’t it? It’s why
he brought me here in the first place. As I run my fingers through
my still-damp hair, my iPhone chimes. Instinctively, I reach into
my pocket but catch myself, since I’m wearing Arden’s clothes. I
search among the tombstones until I find the borrowed cargo pants
and pull out my phone. It’s a text from Madison.

“What is it?”

Amara stands by the statue of a weeping angel, and
I don’t know where to begin in answer to her question. All I can do
is stare at the GPS coordinates and the incomprehensible
words:
Arden’s here
.
He’s alive. But I have a hunch that it might not be for much
longer.

26.
Werewolf

W
e make our way out of the cemetery, and I try to reach
Madison by text again, asking for more specific details, but
there’s no response. My head spins from a combination of sleep
deprivation and the blow it took earlier tonight. I have no idea
what we’re about to get ourselves into, but Roul and Amara move
with purpose and efficiency. Before we’re let out of the front
gates, he hands me my backpack. There’s something about this one
simple gesture that brings to mind a father sending his son off to
school. Taking hold of the strap and slinging the backpack over my
shoulder, I sense that what happens next will be a hard lesson
learned about werewolf society.

“Why do the Hounds have Arden?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Our dealings with them are only ever
related to their laws.”

“What could he be guilty of?”

When he glances over at Amara, my mind churns around
our previous conversations, trying to piece together some kind of
answer. I don’t know enough about their system of governance to
even guess what Arden might have done. All I know for sure is that
he was severely injured in the fight and doesn’t stand a chance of
defending himself.

Amara walks ahead of us, her voice trailing after
her softly. “You were bitten. Humans are not to be bitten. It is
their one law punishable by death.”

“Yeah, but you were the one who bit me,” I note.
“I didn’t tell them that. And Arden would never betray you. Not on
his life.”

Those last four words stop me in my tracks. Arden is
a lot of things — many of them a source of annoyance to me — but if
he has one good quality, it’s his devotion to his soul mate. There
is no doubt in my mind that he would take the blame for her. If the
Hounds are judge, jury and executioner over the werewolf world, we
might well be walking into a makeshift trial to determine his
fate.

By now it’s just past midnight, and we part ways
with Roul in order to drive to the coordinates given by Madison:
Vincennes Park. The large zoo contained within the premises has
wolves, and I bet that’s where we’re headed. He takes the lead in
his Bugatti while I follow behind in my newly acquired
Mercedes-Benz. Getting into the driver’s seat of Boadicea’s car is
all kinds of wrong. I’m pretty sure this constitutes grand theft
auto, but I resign myself to the fact that none of this really
matters in the grand scheme of things. Walking into a situation of
unknown and likely dangerous variables under the cover of night and
with such generic directions isn’t exactly a task I’m prepared for.
But I’m compelled by a sense of loyalty to Amara. Our differences
aside, it’s not like Arden deserves to have his life cut short. I
glance over at her in the passenger seat. She wears the chain that
once belonged to him, absently playing with the ring as she gazes
out the windshield.

“Why did he always wear that?”

Her eyes blink rapidly as though she’s coming out of
a reverie, and after a pause she holds up the ring. “It is a
sundial. He was forever running late, so I had this ring made for
him. I never thought...” She stifles her voice. “I never thought we
could run out of time.”

All I can think to say is that I’m sorry, but I
swallow the words. Sorry doesn’t quite cut it. For the rest of the
drive we’re silent. We eventually take a turn and leave the bright
lights of the city behind us. In the quiet I feel a wide range of
ailments from nausea to dizziness, and it takes every bit of
concentration for me to focus on the task at hand. It’s possible
that I have a concussion from the blow to my head, but I figure a
hospital visit is out of the question now that I have the
physiology of a werewolf. I roll down the window to let cool autumn
air whip through the car and re-energize me. Finally, we reach our
destination and I follow as Roul pulls his car off to the side of
the road by a wooded area.

I dread the work ahead of us, fighting for Arden’s
life. But there’s no alternative that I can envision. We cut
through the forest, crunching fallen leaves beneath our feet. We’re
a motley group, the three of us, dressed in clothes that aren’t
meant for traipsing through the woods. As we step over the thick
and tangled underbrush, I take stock of all the things that led to
this point ― all the things that went wrong over the course of the
past two months. This ending isn’t right. There’s no justice in the
world if it is.

The moon is shrouded by clouds. As a shiver of wind
blows through the boughs of the trees, Amara’s silky hair ripples
like a black flag of mourning. Ahead I can make out the fenced
perimeter around the zoo, where it’s eerily quiet. As we approach
the property, our presence disturbs the sleeping animals. The air
is filled with the raucous sound of bleating goats and impalas
scampering over rocks. They must sense the predators among them.
Roul sprints ahead, calling for us to do the same. I race to his
side, filled with a mixture of anticipation and remorse. With
another gust of wind, clouds part in the sky to unveil the
almost-f moon. As we stand side by side, the whole forest seems
to spread out before us in the pale light.

We stare at two fresh graves. My heart sinks. Arden
is buried. As in dead. Père Lachaise Cemetery must have been too
public a place to hide his and Boadicea’s bodies. All the same,
Madison’s text gave us all a fleeting hope that he was still alive.
Now it’s clear that Boguet succeeded in his revenge by killing the
werewolf who had bitten him those four hundred years ago. Edging
closer, I see that one of the plots has been disturbed. There are
imprints of bare human hands and feet in the upturned soil. Amara
and Roul put their predatory tracking skills to use, scanning the
vicinity near the mounds. Even though the moon isn’t at its
fullest, I can feel its pull, drawing out the wolf in me. I have to
resist, because I need my human mind to work through what’s going
on. As I approach the empty grave, something glimmers in the
moonlight. I bend to pick up a copper coin half-buried in the dirt,
then another. Roul lets out a low growl, making the hairs bristle
on the back of my neck. Scanning the dark, I see him then: Arden,
in human form. By my estimation he’s about forty paces away, curled
up in the fetal position, his naked body covered in dirt. He
trembles, alive.

I expect the others to act quickly, but they stand
back, guarded and unsure. “What are you waiting for? He needs our
help.”

A hand stops me. It belongs to Roul. He says, “He’s
dead.”

“No, he’s not,” I insist, looking at the form in
the distance.

Arden’s bare ribcage rises and falls. I turn back to
say as much but find myself taking possession of Roul’s wool coat.
I watch wordlessly as he proceeds to unbutton his shirt and remove
the rest of his clothes, handing each article over to me piecemeal.
As I suspected, his tattoo extends down the side of his body to
form a complete wolf. This entire situation makes little to no
sense to me. I stare at him incredulously, noting some razor-thin
scar lines across his body. Old war wounds, maybe. It doesn’t
matter, though. Not now.

“What are you doing?”

“Mourning,” he says, curling down to take his
canine form. “Do what you must. They say that mercy has a human
heart. I trust I can leave this mercy to you. I haven’t the heart
to do it myself.”

“Amara, tell him―”

Looking to her as a voice of reason, I’m
disheartened to find that she also shifted. Now there are two black
wolves staring at me: one with eyes like gunmetal, the other like
the darkest moonless night. I march over to Arden, intent on
proving that I’m right. His entire body is shaking from the cold as
he clutches at leaves and dirt.

“Arden?”

He’s unresponsive. As I bend down to put the coat
over his filthy form, I realize his convulsions aren’t just from
the cold. It’s from sobbing, too. The latter alone freaks me out.
I’ve never seen him like this. He must be in shock from his
injuries or from being buried alive, I’m not sure which. Frankly, I
try to push it all out of my mind. Although he may be on the edge
of death, he’s not there yet. Surely they must see that. But the
two wolves lope away into the night. Amara is the last to disappear
from sight. She takes one last look at us over her shoulder before
scampering away into darkness. What’s going on?

His voice is barely a whisper. “Please...”

“What do you need, Arden?”

More importantly, why isn’t he in wolf form? At
least then he’d have some protection from the elements. His amber
eyes peer up at me, pleading.

“Kill me.”

I straighten up, dropping the rest of the clothes
onto the forest floor. As I gaze down at this broken figure of a
man, it dawns on me why he isn’t a wolf. Amara and Roul could smell
it on him as I do now. Boguet’s so-called cure was in his
venom.

“We have to get you to a hospital,” I say, filled
with the urgency of the moment.

He resists my attempt to pick him up, but I’m
stronger than he is now. Besides, his muscles tremble so much from
the cold that he has little control over movement. I dress him,
careful about the compound fracture and the bone that juts from the
tattoo on his arm. It’s a pointless exercise, I know, since his
clothes will be stripped in the emergency room when we get to the
nearest hospital. But it’s the least I can do, making his first
experience as a human one of dignity. As I carry him back to the
car, the wind picks up. It carries a long, lonely howl across the
night. I know ― we both know ― it’s Amara bidding him adieu. From
beyond the walls of the zoo, the wolves join in a chorus, a requiem
for a werewolf.