Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (22 page)

“What happened?” I asked gently.

“Sue's dead, I just know it.” She dissolved into tears again. “I couldn't find Rosa. I can't do anything because I look like a monster! My hood came off and I scared an old lady!”

I patted her furry head for a few minutes, then extracted myself and went to get her a cup of tea. “It will help you rest,” I said when I got back.

She sat up, took the cup, and sipped. “Sorry I interrupted your make-out session.”

“I think that's a good thing.”

While I waited for her to calm down, I wondered what it was about werewolf bites that actually caused the change. Maybe the saliva entering the bloodstream? One of my new books must have the answer. I snatched the one on top of the pile, Mariela's
Guide to Shifters,
cracked it open, and quickly became absorbed in a short section on the myth of the seventh son. Daniel's grandmother didn't seem to think it
was
a myth. She listed it along with other ways to become a lycan, including infection by saliva, being cursed by a powerful witch as she burned a large quantity of a herb called wolf 's bane, and being born with two wereparents.

There was a chapter about the rapid healing process (it was a bit like having a nuclear-powered immune system) and the limited number of ways we could be severely injured or killed (wounds caused by silver blades or bullets, and being torn into pieces—yikes— so that the healing couldn't kick in). Because of our super healing abilities, we tended to be much healthier than regular humans, and lived longer—the average were's lifespan was a hundred and fifty years. Another chapter dealt with how rare female shape-shifters were and the dangers associated with transition. I glanced at a section on the impact of the full moon and discovered that the inner wolf was strongest at that time of each month.

Going online to the site she recommended just made me feel more overwhelmed. There was so much to learn. But the rest of the web was filled with dead and outdated links. As soon as I thought I was on to something helpful, it turned out to be some
comic-obsessed teen's blog, a fetish site, or a portal for bad werewolf artwork.

Queenie had closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep beside me on the couch. I pulled a throw blanket over her legs and picked up Courtney. I still had to go back and pay the piper.

My cell rang. In a rush not to wake up Queenie, I answered without checking the screen. “Yep?”

“Sam,” said Marlon.

I almost dropped the phone.

“Got your message,” I whispered.

“You weren't going to call me back?”

“Hadn't decided,” I admitted.

“It's okay, I understand. My brother is out of control. My parents are world-famous liars. I'm a stalker, et cetera. If only I could get it through my thick skull to leave you alone, everything would be good. Right? Except you're a werewolf.”

I couldn't argue with his list. “So you're okay?”

“You left me for dead in an alley.”

I choked. “Hang on a sec.” I tucked my essentials into a small bag, grabbed Courtney, and carried everything outside the apartment. “I'm … sorry. For making you wait. I've got a friend passed out on my couch. And for last night. Very, very sorry.”

“Don't worry. My head's fine. I have a thick skull, remember? Still have a headache, but that'll fade.”

“You told Malika the truth. Why?”

“To help you. No one in my family knows how it feels to be you, all alone in this. And we didn't realize how desperate Owen had become—how far he would go.”

“He's your brother. How could you not see it?”

“I've been trying to figure that out.” His voice was heavy. “All I can say is we gave him the benefit of the doubt for too long. My parents are mortified and furious and worried all at the same time. They had no idea. I mean, we knew he was lonely, but we didn't know he was—”

“He
should
be in jail. He's hurt a lot of girls!”

“Do you have any idea how many?” he asked hesitantly.

“Maybe a dozen? I'm not exactly sure. Some are missing and some are probably dead.”

“We really need to find him.” Marlon paused. “It's been harder than I thought.”

“Yeah, I know. I've been to Words of Wonder. Daniel Rojas and his grandmother told me about the ranch in Argentina. Sounds like one of those swanky celebrity rehabs.”

“More like military camp. It's hard labour during
the day, and intense rehabilitation sessions at night. Armando's convinced he can reprogram the worst offenders. He's notoriously tough—seen it all, worked with the worst cases.”

That sounded reassuring, but I didn't want to know about the worst cases.

“So you met his nephew?” Marlon asked. “Daniel's kind of special. He inherited his grandmother's
bruja
powers and the wolf from his father.”

“You mean he's a witch and a wolf?”

“Yeah. And very powerful. Knows herbal magic and can cast spells. The Rojas are an extremely influential pack—both here and in South America. They consider themselves the supernatural police, and we put up with them because they do more good than harm. But I've never trusted that guy.”

“Ha. That's basically what he said about your whole family.”

Marlon growled. “Yeah, well, he's shifty.”

“Shape-shifty?” I said.

I could picture his grin.

“He keeps smelling me every time I get within range.”

“Don't blame him. You
do
smell amazing. How did you even find their store? There are cloaking wards on it. You have to know it exists to see it.”

“Like the train platform in
Harry Potter
?” My head reeled. “I found a receipt in your glove box.”

“Ahh. Well, Daniel's family thinks we can dominate our inner wolves and control them. That we should tell the world what we really are, and that people will accept it. I just don't think that's possible—and now, after everything Owen has done … We'd have another witch hunt on our hands. My parents wouldn't turn to the Rojas ranch if we had any other choice. But we know he's out of control, the way he attacked you in the house … and when we saw those girls on the news, we wondered—”

“You were right,” I said.

I didn't know who to believe anymore. I needed time and space to sort through everything. Sadly, both of those things seemed to be in short supply these days.

“Sam, I'm so sorry about everything that's happened. Maybe one day you'll be able to appreciate your new life.”

Something inside my chest squeezed. Hope? “Do you say that to all the weregirls?”

“Only you. I want you to know that once Owen's on that plane, he's not coming back for a
very
long time. Maybe never.”

I could hear the sadness in his voice. This was his
brother we were talking about. I had no idea what it was like to have a sibling. I'd always been alone.

“Talk to Malika. Let us help you. I still remember my father taking me hunting for the first time and my mother teaching me how to meditate.”

We waited for a few seconds, not saying anything. His breath became a calm, rhythmic beat. My own slowed to match. It was primal. Damn it. How could this guy influence my body rhythms
over the
phone
?

“I stole a vintage bass,” I confessed.

“Yeah?” He didn't sound very shocked. “Well, you smashed up your old one pretty good.”

I stroked Courtney's slightly scratched surface. “It's beautiful, expensive, and I feel like shit about the whole thing. The owner doesn't need the money. He's a greedy bastard. But I can't connect with the instrument. It's bad karma. I'm trying to figure out how to pay for it without getting arrested.”

“Don't risk it.”

“This sucks.”

“Sam, worry about it later. After Owen is on that plane. My parents are tracking him down.”

“I'll be careful. I'm not letting Owen scare me into hiding.”

He huffed in frustration. “I can't stop you, but be
very
careful. And come by here after, okay?”

He told me his address. I hung up and rode my bike straight to the music store with Courtney strapped to my back. The owner was helping another customer pick out a wah-wah pedal, but when he saw the instrument I was carrying he nearly shoved the woman out of the way. He came over and snatched Courtney from my hands while I was still struggling to unhook her strap. He held her up to the light. “My baby … She was stolen! Sam, how did you get this?”

“Some guy sold it to me for fifty bucks.”

He looked shocked. “Only fifty?”

“Yeah. On the Bowery, near Broome. He was high,” I added.

“I'll bet. This little lady is very special! Muah, muah.” He kissed her. Gross. “She's all scratched! Oh, my poor baby.” He started to walk away, stroking Courtney like a fur coat, and turned back. “She was Joan Jett's, you know.”

“I didn't know Joan had a bass. I thought she only played a black-and-white Gibson Melody Maker?”

He scowled. “She didn't play it—she
owned
it. I have papers guaranteeing it. How'd you know this was mine?”

I didn't care that he was probably talking out his ass. In my head I rechristened the guitar Joan. I would totally channel “Bad Reputation” and “I Love Rock 'n'
Roll” when I was playing. They don't make rock stars like Joan Jett anymore. The owner cleared his throat, still waiting for an answer.

“Uh, there was a half peeled-off sticker on the back. And I came to pay for her, fair and square.”

Dollar signs boinged in his eyeballs. The slime-ball tried to charge me more than the original price on the tag, but I talked him down. Then I picked out a case that fit Joan perfectly. After the deal was over, he demanded I let him take a photo of me holding Joan. “You're a local hero. This is going on my wall of fame.”

I gave in, impatient to be out of there. I felt guilty about leaving Queenie in my apartment. I put away the guitar, slung the case over my shoulder, and hurried out into the evening.

EIGHTEEN

A
s I cycled north on the Bowery, I had the feeling someone was following me. But when I turned, no one was there. Well, except for the regular clusters of downtown hipsters. In Washington Square, outside Marlon's place, I perched on a bench next to a guy feeding pigeons and gave him a call.

“How'd it go?” Marlon asked.

“Easier than writing a three-chord punk-rock song.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Joan's all mine.”

“Joan?”

“Uh, my new bass. I'm across the street from you.”

“What, outside? Sam, that's not safe!” There was
noise in the background. He was walking around. “There you are. I can see you from my window.”

I lifted the fuchsia leopard-print case. “How awesome?”

“Awesome! Now come up here, please.”

I hung up and nervously walked over to Marlon's building. The doorman called up and then pointed me toward the elevators. I headed for the staircase instead. It was only four flights. And maybe I was stalling. This decision—going to his place willingly—would change the dynamic between us. Our friendship would be mutual. Running up the stairs, it felt like I was trying to move faster than my fears. I found Marlon peering out a doorway. I couldn't stop a foolish grin from spreading across my face.

“Welcome, Sam,” he said, stepping aside with a flourish.

I walked in, breathing deeply as I passed him. Yep, he smelled amazing, too. The wolf pheromones made me dizzy. I swayed a bit, and our elbows brushed together. A tingle of warmth spread up my arm. My brain didn't trust this guy, but my body sure did.

The hallway was lined with tidy shelves of DVDs and art books and a good amount of nonfiction: military history and biographies. The hall opened into a small living room decorated with original punk-band
posters and paintings. Whereas his parents went global with their art, he seemed to like local work. I even recognized one of Harris's original ink pinups of the
Dream Rage
characters, and one by Jordan Watanabe of Wonder Woman in the library, wearing glasses and reading a comic about herself. A comfortable-looking red Art Deco couch dominated the wall beneath the window overlooking the square. The place smelled safe and familiar. I could spend hours poking around in here.

“You've sure got a lot of old
X-Men,
” I noted, pointing at a shelf.

He smiled. “Went through a serious Wolverine phase in my early teens.”

“I can imagine.” I glanced at the movie titles—
Stardust, The Princess Bride, Delicatessen, Teen Wolf
… “Hmm. Interesting selection.”

“Thanks. Want a beer or some juice?”

“Juice, please.”

His kitchen was cramped. But nicer than most in the city, because it shared the view of the park. Own or rent, this place must've cost a fortune. The kitchen had a high, rounded ceiling, and he'd made great use of the space by turning a vintage linoleum table into a counter attached to the wall. Utensils and pots hung near the stove, and mugs decorated with kitschy horror
movie monsters were displayed in a wall unit. I hadn't expected him to be a collector.

As I took a seat at the counter, he pulled cold cuts and cheese out of the fridge, grabbed a bottle of ginger beer for himself, and poured a glass of strawberry-banana-orange juice for me.

“Harris told me you're studying at NYU,” I said. It suddenly felt awkward between us, like we were on a first date and in the getting-to-know-each-other stage.

“Yeah. At the moment, I'm struggling with an essay for our art history class on imagery of the wilderness and animals during the Renaissance.”