Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (6 page)

“Obviously you stole my chart from the hospital or paid those idiotic doctors to give it to you. Then followed me for hours. I could have you
arrested
.”

“I didn't read your chart.”

He didn't bother denying that he'd followed me, but he was lying about this? I crossed my arms and stared at him. “Right.”

“I know it's hard trusting people when you're famous. I promise my interest in you has nothing to do with that.”

Small talk clearly wasn't Marlon's strong suit. I rallied all my energy and did the robot over to my bike, stifling a groan when I stooped to pick it up. Every muscle in the lower half of my body was screaming. It took me a minute to attempt to swing my leg over the seat. And I yelped in pain when I did it.

“Wait it out,” said Marlon. “Your muscles will be fine in an hour if you eat and drink.”

“Don't follow me or I'll call the cops.” I took out my cell and waved it in the air. Of course, I hadn't plugged it in last night, so it was stone dead. My mom and Vinnie had forced me to get one, but I hated the thought of being within everyone's reach 24/7, so I regularly “forgot” to charge it. My big plan was to ride just far enough away to be out of sight, then find somewhere to recover in peace. I shoved off with one aching foot.

“See you soon, Sam,” Marlon said, waving.

FIVE

A
s I pedalled, my fears of Jerky Boy were quickly squashed by the sheer misery of forcing my legs to propel me forward. Up ahead a wooden construction fence was blocking out a new subdivision. I could hide behind that.

Then I heard the thrum of Marlon's antique motor. The engine got louder as he got closer. Once we were neck and neck, he slowed down and kept pace. I didn't glance over and he didn't say anything, so we just travelled down the road together in silence.

It became painfully clear how much I was suffering. He pulled closer and leaned over to wag the water bottle out the passenger-side window. I swerved away, causing my front wheel to bob from side to side. Yanking the
handlebars back into alignment almost made me do a face-plant. I wondered if I could pull some kind of kamikaze move and run him off the road.

When I glanced in his direction with a grin, he gunned the engine and pulled up out of range. He might be a psychopath, but he was smart. I'd read somewhere that real psychos don't act psycho—that's a myth. Their M.O. is to pass for normal so they can hunt prey more effectively. Marlon definitely wasn't going out of his way to act normal.

My legs couldn't take the abuse anymore. They stopped spinning the pedals. I squeezed the brakes and tumbled onto a freshly cut lawn. My limbs were glued to the ground.

I lay there, staring up at the darkening sky as the engine died and Marlon's footsteps crunched across gravel. His keys jingled as he twirled them around a finger. He dropped the snacks next to me and took a seat on the grass.

I peered at the bottle of water. Its seal
appeared
to be intact, though he could figure out how to fake that. Poisoned water would be an awful way to die. I groaned miserably. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Look, Sam, I have plans tonight, but if you want to throw your bike in the back, I'll drive you to the city. We can even get you a burger on the way. There's
a place that uses free-range beef just outside Garden City.”

“Go away.
Please.
”

“I'm actually having dinner with my parents, who live close by,” he went on, as if I hadn't spoken at all. “You could come there with me. But just say the word, and I'll take you back to Brooklyn.”

“So you're admitting you know where I live?” I asked pitifully.

He scooped up a handful of pebbles and began lobbing them onto the road.

“Give me one good reason it would be safe to get into your car.”

“You don't really have any other choice. I saw your phone isn't working. I didn't bring mine, or else I'd let you use it.”

“I'd rather die here than
help
you take me somewhere so you can cut me up into tiny pieces.”

He snickered. “You're not ready to trust me right now. So why don't I take you to my parents' place? They can explain what's going on better than me. They've been through all of this too.”

“No way.”
All of what?
I wondered.

“What could be safer than coming home to meet my parents?” he asked.

“Hmm. Pretty much anything? I have no clue who you are or what you want!”

He laughed. “You still think I'm a stalker? Come on. My folks are perfectly normal professors. You'd like them. Maybe you've even heard of them—Françoise and Pierre Lebrun.”

Of course I had. They were in the New York news all the time: NYU activists who coordinated relief missions for the United Nations. They'd written a bestselling book about how business interests impacted the way we helped New Orleans after Katrina. My mom was obsessed with them. If this guy was related to
those
Lebruns, I'd eat my pink Chuck Taylors.

“You can't get more harmless than academics,” he said.

“I bet you've never even met the real Lebruns.”

“They've got a guest room.”

“What, we'd show up and you'd be all like ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, I want you to meet Sam Lee. She'll just nap for a bit before I drive her out to a secluded forest and kill her.'”

The flash of annoyance that crossed his face left me feeling anything but safe. I'd finally gotten under his skin. But all he did was lean back on the grass, close his eyes, and mutter, “Okay, your call, Sam.”

The sky was bright blue where it met the horizon and pitch-black above us. After a few minutes I caught myself dozing off. A terrible idea, but that's how exhausted and drained I was. I tried to wake myself up by moving a bit.

“How do you know so much about me?” I asked.

He opened one eye. “I have a talent for fading into the background.”

I snorted. “Helps with your stalking hobby?”

“I find your scent fascinating.”

“Eww. You've been close enough to smell me?”

“I can smell you from here.”

I was about to say something rude when I inhaled deeply and realized I could smell him, too. His scent mingled with the trees and grass around us. Beneath the soapy top notes were citrus and a low, enticing musk. I exhaled, covered my nose with my sleeve, and stared at him. His eyes were closed again, so he didn't notice. He was relaxed, his chest rising and falling evenly.

That's when my gaze lit on his car keys, abandoned in the grass. My fingers inched toward the ring. I shot my hand out and nabbed the keys, then jumped to my feet.
Sucker.

He bolted to a sitting position. I shoved him as hard as I could and careened toward the driver's door. As I grabbed the handle, Marlon started barrelling
toward me. I slid into the seat, slammed the door shut, and locked it

Marlon flung himself at the windshield, pounding furiously. “I'm trying to help you!”

I stretched over to slam my fist down on the passenger-side lock—no electronic systems in this old girl. He roared, kicked a tire, and then punched the hood so hard the car rocked. He was stronger than he looked—he'd put a big dent in the metal. I bet he was going to regret that later.

Shoving his key into the ignition, I jammed the car into first gear and stomped on the accelerator. The tires squealed. I left Marlon and my bike at the side of the road, engulfed in a cloud of dust.

It took two hours to get into the city. The traffic was oppressive. As if every tourist in the world had decided to visit at once. While I was stuck in the Battery Tunnel, I poked around in the glove box and found receipts from cafés and a bookstore called Words of Wonder that specialized in “The Unexplained, Occult, and Otherworldly.” He'd bought a book called
Guide to
Shifters
by Mariela Rojas.

The registration papers were there, too, and they listed a home on Long Island. Maybe he hadn't been lying about where his parents lived. But the El Camino was in his name, so there was no proof that
Pierre and Françoise were his parents. I jotted down the address on a scrap of paper and shoved it into my pocket.

I drove to the Village and parked in a lot close to NYU. It seemed like a good place to leave his car. Then I bought myself a mammoth smoked meat sandwich— with extra meat—caught a cab back to Brooklyn, and limped up to my loft. The red light on my home phone was flashing, but I ignored it as I ate my meat and drank a jug of water.

Temporarily sated, I opened my laptop and looked up the phone number that went with the address in Marlon's car. The listed name was P. Lebrun. I grabbed the phone before I could convince myself it was a bad idea.

A woman answered. “Hello?”

“Um, hi, Ms. Lebrun?”

“Françoise.”

“From NYU?”

“Yes, of course. May I help you?”

So Marlon hadn't been lying about that, either. I didn't know what to say.

“If you're a telemarketer, dear, please don't waste any more of your time.”

“No, no … I'm not a … I know your son. Marlon. Kind of.”

“That's good, because telemarketers are paid peanuts. Horrible job. I always try to convince them to unionize. It's the only way to get respect in the workforce, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I took a deep breath. “Uh, Françoise, I wanted to let Marlon know I left his El Camino in the lot—”

“Marlon? He's just coming in the door. Hang on, I'll get him for you.”

“No! Please don't do that. Can I give you a message? I have to run.”

“Oh, certainly. What is it, dear?”

I told her where the car was. “It's paid up until tomorrow night. The keys are with the guard.”

“Marlon loaned you his car?” asked Françoise.

“Uh, yeah.”

“He never lets anyone drive it.”

“Well, he let me,” I said, then hung up. At least now he couldn't charge me with grand theft auto. I plodded into the kitchen. My numbers were blocked
and
unlisted, so he wouldn't be calling back.

I took out Janis, climbed into bed, and played through the rough patches in a new song called “Cry Little Soldiers” until my eyes shut.

My dreams melded together into one long, vivid horror-movie reel. I ran through dark streets. Terrified people screamed at me in pig Latin. Cars honked and sped up when they saw me coming. Drivers tossed garbage out their windows at me. Strong smells—half-eaten, rotting food, exhaust fumes, cheap perfume—were dizzying. Several times I felt compelled to stop and root out the source of a particular scent. The city was a cesspool. Stink compressed my lungs.

While I was sniffing a refreshing tree in a park, I almost got lynched by four toy poodles, who barked and lunged for my throat. All I wanted was to be left alone—unless someone had food. Almost no one did, not the kind I wanted. The scent of fear seeping from people's pores confused me. My nose and perspective were closer to the ground than they should've been, making the streets and sidewalks and buildings a series of close-ups and bizarre angles. Then the sky cracked and rain pounded down, surrounding me in a cool, wet cocoon. The streets cleared of people. I raced home.

As I passed the third floor of my building, something made me stop. A terrier waited on the other side of the door. I could hear her snuffling at the crack underneath. Hoping to scare her, I lunged at the door and went nuts, scraping at the wood. She whimpered
and backed away. I howled in victory and ran up to my place, slipped inside, and nudged the door shut. I ignored the agitated pounding of humans on the other side and crawled into bed.

Sometime after my absurdly realistic dream ended, a low rumbling noise woke me. Still half asleep, I assumed it was the downstairs neighbours, getting back at me with some new and unusual torture. Or maybe it was the wolf from Central Park, hunting down its prey …

My eyes shot open. I peered into the darkness at the foot of my platform bed, but couldn't see much. The ladder had fallen off and the bedding beneath me felt oddly lumpy. It looked like I'd been sleeping
on top
of the pillows and comforter, in a kind of nest. I was also naked. Huh? I didn't remember putting on pyjamas last night, but I generally wore them.

I pulled a sheet around me like a dress, jumped out of bed, and walked around the apartment, turning on all the lights. The place was empty. I was losing my mind. Maybe I had post-traumatic stress … or I
was
delusional. I wanted to call the police or the park rangers or
someone,
but that wouldn't go down any better than my visit to the hospital. And my mother would just start with a bunch of hippie psychology stuff. There really was no way to explain any of this
without sounding completely insane. Plus, I was starving again.

Wallowing was
not
an option. I lifted the bed's ladder back into position. A ball of cottony fabric lay on the floor beneath it: my nightgown, torn to shreds. I shuddered, picked it up, and shook out what looked like mud and fur. I tossed the ruined nightgown into a garbage bag, then wiped up the dirty footprints all over the floor. Wait, were those dog prints?

Was there an actual dog in here? Now my dream world was bleeding into my waking life. Cleaning rag in hand, I followed the prints to the door. The rough wood floor on the other side didn't show any prints. I cleaned out there anyway. Focusing on a concrete task helped me stay calm. What I wanted to do was run screaming through the streets.
It was only a dream …
unless the downstairs tenants and their dog were somehow
inside my place?

After I finished cleaning, I perched on the side of my tub and examined the scar on my arm with a magnifying glass. There wasn't much to see by now. I imagined an army of white blood cells rushing to the rescue at breakneck speed, the skin tissue knitting together to heal itself. Maybe I wasn't losing my mind at all. Maybe Dr. Alam was right—I was turning into a superhero.