Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (15 page)

The next time I opened my eyes, there was a horrible tightness in my chest. My arms wouldn't— no, couldn't—move. Something heavy was pinning me down.
Someone.
Sitting on my chest. He growled. I recognized his smell. Owen!

I tried to scream, but there was no oxygen in my lungs. Owen growled again, leaned down, and shoved his hairy snout into my face. His pointed teeth pressed against my cheek. Warm saliva leaked onto my chin. I struggled, knowing it was useless. He was much too strong.

“Samantha,” he whispered, his voice still strangely human.

“Uhhnn,” I wheezed pitifully, when what I wanted was to scream “Get the hell off me!”

His weight lifted for an instant. I sucked in a lungful of air and let out a shriek. He pressed his hairy face against my mouth to shut me up. I chomped down as hard as I could, then twisted and tried to roll, freeing my shoulders but causing his claws to sink into my chest and upper arms, piercing fabric and skin.

Pain and adrenalin gave me another rush, and suddenly I was transforming. My skin prickled and bubbled, my body mass shifted. The change made it
impossible for him to keep me pinned. I rolled and scrambled out from beneath him, trembling and snarling. He swung around to face me. I gnashed at his neck and actually hit my target. My teeth sliced through the tangle of fur and sank into flesh. He whimpered and tried to shake me off, but not hard enough to force me to tear out his jugular. His back legs lost their grip and he fell off the bed. I released my hold, unwilling to go in for the kill.

Owen stood. Although he was bleeding pretty badly, he didn't seem scared. I braced myself for another attack. His head cocked to one side. He'd heard something. Then I heard it, too: a series of hollow slaps. Feet hitting wooden floorboards.

“Sam?” yelled Françoise, banging on the door.

Owen spun toward the picture windows. He jumped. The blinds crumpled as he smashed into them and kept going right through the glass, which exploded into fragments. Sunlight burned my eyes. I squeezed them shut and held up my arms. Shards of glass embedded in my skin. I ran to the empty window frame, ignoring the glass, and shaded my eyes as I watched Owen race away into the woods.

Before I could catch my breath, someone slammed open the door. Claws drawn, I hurled toward the new threat—Marlon—and bowled him over. We tumbled
onto the carpet. He remained in human form, groggy and shocked. But I couldn't stop. My teeth pressed against his throat.

His mother entered the room and screamed, “Stop, Sam!”

I growled.

“What are you doing?” asked Marlon from underneath me.

Wanting to hurt them both—make them feel what I felt—I dug my claws into Marlon's shoulder. In a blur he transformed, his pyjama bottoms tearing away. He allowed me to keep him pinned, but his vibrating growl told me that I wouldn't get off the hook so easily if I hurt him a second time.

Marlon hadn't attacked me, I reminded myself, taking a shaky breath that ended in a hiccupy bark. But he
had
told me to feel safe in this room. I jumped off him, padded into the bathroom, and made myself human again. It took a long time, because I was so upset and couldn't focus. When the change was finally complete, I pulled out a few stinging glass shards from my arms and washed the scrapes, wrapped the big robe around myself, and went back out to the bedroom. Pierre had joined them.

“Locked door, huh?” I said. “Was this all part of your plan? Trapping me in your house!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Françoise. She seemed so vulnerable, standing there in her cotton nightgown. A nervous tick flicked in her right eye.

Marlon, back in human form, had grabbed the comforter off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. His spiky hair flopped to one side and he looked confused, like a little boy woken up too early.

“Calm down, Sam,” he said. “We don't know what's going on.”

“Don't you dare tell me to calm d-down!” I yelled— damn hiccups. “Y-you convinced me that your family was all right, and f-fed me sandwiches. This is all a g-game to you, isn't it?”

“I was sound asleep when you smashed that window!”

“I d-didn't!”

Pierre looked increasingly alarmed. “What the hell is going on?”

I held my breath for a moment to calm down. It got rid of the hiccups. “As if you don't know. Owen attacked me!”

“But he's upstairs in bed,” said Françoise.

“No, he's not! Unless werewolves have the power to be in two places at once. Or to climb walls.” As soon as I said the second part, I pictured the cracked paint on my fourth-floor window.
Shit.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Pierre asked. “I don't remember exactly what it was like for me in those early days, but—”

“I woke up with Owen on top of me. If I hadn't gotten loose, I'd probably be dead. Go check his room!”

Françoise rushed out. Pierre and Marlon stayed behind, obviously racking their brains for something to say. I snatched up my clothes and ran back to the bathroom—the last thing I wanted to hear was stupid excuses or rationalizations.

Tears filled my eyes. I couldn't believe I was crying. The Lebruns didn't deserve it. But I'd started to like them—well, Marlon and his parents. Locking the little latch, which was too flimsy to do any good, I put on my clothes, then sank down onto the floor with my back against the door. The only window in the room was too high to climb out. Or in. I was grateful to feel the weight of my cellphone and keys in my hoodie pocket.

There was a gentle tap-tap-tapping on the door.

“Sam?” said Françoise as she rattled the knob.

“Back off!”

“Please come out and talk to us.”

“No way. Owen bit me in the park, and I nearly bled to death. Now he's hoping to finish me off.”

The rattling stopped.

“Sam,” said Marlon, “it's more complicated than—”

“Just shut up!” I snarled. “Stop making excuses.”

“We're not,” said Françoise. “I promise. You were right. Owen isn't in his room.”

I exhaled sharply. “I can't believe the whole world thinks you guys are awesome. What a joke.”

“My son is … troubled,” she said. “I've known this for a while, but now I have to face it.”

“Please, just leave me alone. I want to go home.”

“We're all so sorry,” she said.

I pulled out my cell, dialed my mom's number, and listened to it ring. Damn it, no answer. She was off to Toronto. What was I going to say anyway? I hung up and pretended to leave a message, speaking loudly enough for them to hear. “Hey, it's Sam. I'm in Pierre and Françoise Lebrun's home—you know, the famous professors from NYU—and I'm in serious trouble—”

Someone was pounding on the door.

“—I'm scared. They're a pack of werewolves. Seriously, werewolves! I'm one, too—the good kind, not the kind that eats people. It's hard to believe, I know. Their son attacked me. Now I'm locked in the bathroom.” I began to laugh hysterically, muffling the sound in a bath towel. If this voicemail were real, it would be the strangest ever.

“Sam, get off the phone!” yelled Pierre.

“If I don't make it home by the time you get this message, call the police and send them to Long Island. I don't have the exact address, but I doubt there are many Lebruns out here, and it's a huge property. I love you. Bye!”

“Who did you just call?” demanded Marlon.

“My mother. Now she knows where I am. She'll call the cops if you don't let me go.”

“We can't get the police involved,” said Françoise.

“I hope they haul you all off to the pound,” I said, putting the phone in my pocket.

“Think about what you're doing,” she pleaded. “If the police find out about us, they also find out about you. They'll do a lot more than lock us up.”

“Just leave Marlon's keys on the bed and let me walk out of the house with them.”

I heard a groan from Marlon. “Not my car again. This is crazy. We would never attack you.”

“One of you already did. Twice. If you let me go
right now,
I'll erase that message before my mother hears it. If not, then cops will be swarming around here in an hour …”

“If you don't erase it,” said Françoise, “it would be very bad—for our pack.”

My pack
. I was now a member of the werewolf
demographic. Permanently. Overnight, I'd gone from
being a girl whose worst secret was cheating on her veggie diet to having something I needed to keep buried—because my life depended on it. Images of a top-secret government unit that operated outside the law sprang to mind. I could end up being poked and prodded, living out the rest of my life in a cage like one of those poor test monkeys. And if the cops investigated, so would the media. I didn't know which was worse. I shook my head to clear the picture of my hairy face on the cover of
Us Weekly
.

“We're trying to help you,” said Marlon.

“Leave me your keys! The sooner you do, the sooner I can—”

“Okay.”

I listened to Marlon run out of the room, come back, and shake the keys. “They're on the bed,” he said. “We're going outside.”

Once I heard the bedroom door shut, I came out and cautiously peeked around. No one was there. Aside from the wind whooshing through the broken window, I heard nothing.

I grabbed the keys and walked down the hall. The kitchen door was slightly ajar. Owen had indeed gone back for the deer: its skinned carcass, minus a haunch, hung from a hook in the ceiling. Ugh. So that explained all the steel. But the smell tempted rather
than repulsed me. I hurried out the front door toward the El Camino.

I didn't see the Lebruns anywhere. I slid into the driver's seat and took off down the road. Then I noticed a glint in my rear-view mirror. Someone was behind me, on a motorcycle. Marlon? He followed me onto the highway—but he wasn't trying to catch up. The fact that I was driving his car home from Long Island for the second time
was
a little ridiculous.

The snarl of New York traffic gave me a chance to think. Maybe Owen really had acted alone. The rest of his family seemed so shocked. But what about the fact that he'd bitten me in the first place? I was glad I'd gotten out of there. I'd survived. I was a survivor. A weregirl, but one who could still use her human wits.

Parking near my building, I tossed the keys onto the front seat and left the car unlocked, knowing Marlon was probably waiting just around the corner. I triple-checked the security system on my way in, not that doors seemed to stop these wolf boys. Upstairs, the first thing I did was change my clothes, then I headed into the kitchen to drink a gallon of water. The window above the stove was wide open again. Huh? I glanced at the table and nearly had another breakdown. Deep claw marks scarred its surface, spelling out a message:
I
SAID STAY AWAY FROM OWEN.

Without waiting to learn if the message writer was still around, I backed out of the kitchen, grabbed Janis, and left the apartment. My body ached. I needed somewhere to rest and heal. It felt like time was slipping away from me. Our band meeting was only a few hours off, and we had our show tonight at the Cake Shop—I had to get myself under control fast.

In the stairwell, I called Malika. She answered on the third ring. “Mmph'lo?”

“Mali. It's me, Sam. Sorry to wake you, but I—”

“Huh?” There was a rustle of sheets.

“I need somewhere to crash until the meeting.”

“Whazzat?”

“I'm coming over now. Can I hang out on your couch?”

More noise in the background. When she spoke again, her voice sounded clearer. “Sure. What's wrong with your place?”

“I … uh … I've got a stalker. Maybe more than one.” And so began the endless lies to cover up my hairy truth.

“Nobody can get into your building with that new system you installed.”

“Yeah, well, they've already done that. More than once.”

“Who?”

“Marlon. And his brother. I don't want to see them ever again.”

“What is it? Drugs? Do you owe them money? I thought you were all straight-edge … but you've been really off lately. If you tell me what's going on, I can help.”

“It's not drugs, Mali. I swear. I just need a place to chill for a couple hours.”

“You should call the cops—they've helped us in the past with stalker fans.”

“I have,” I said, burying myself further in lies. “These guys are slippery. Look, I barely slept last night. I need to pass out.”

She paused a second. “Of course. You can take my bed. I'm wide awake now.”

“Thanks. I'm on my way.”

Now I just needed to make sure nobody followed me. I called a car service and stepped out of my building warily, scanning every angle. It seemed like a regular day on the street. A guy was smoking in front of the cigar shop—he noticed me staring and blew smoke in my direction.

Turning away, I found myself face to face with Ponytail Girl. She wore a baggy sweatshirt with the hood pulled down low to cover up the fur.

“Damn it, where'd you come from?”

She didn't answer, just seized my shoulders with hands covered in mismatched mittens and shook me hard. I was so worn out that I didn't even fight back.

“Where is she? Tell me!” she yelled.

“Who? Let me go!”

“Hey!” shouted the guy across the street.

“My friend Sue. Where is she?”

“How should I know?”

The guy was suddenly pulling her off me. “Break it up!”

I really didn't need a Good Samaritan right now. Had the guy called the police? He didn't seem like the type who'd do that. And there hadn't been enough time. The girl turned away abruptly, hiding her face in the hood.