Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (12 page)

If only Owen weren't staring at me so hard, I might not have felt quite so skittish.

“Stop crowding her, guys,” said Marlon, shooing them all away. Once they'd backed up, I could breathe normally again. “She was turned less than three days ago. She's got boundary issues. Or maybe you're all so ancient you don't remember that.”

“We're not
that
old, Marlon,” said his father, chuckling.

“You're right,” said Françoise. “Sorry about the hug, Sam. And holding your arm.”

“Her hair's bristling,” said Owen.

I patted the hair on my head self-consciously—it felt fine to me.

“If she had a tail right now, it would be curled between her legs,” Owen went on.

“It
has
been quite a while since we were in your shoes, Sam,” said Pierre.

“I've never been in them.” Owen snickered again.

“Forgive us—
all
of us,” said Pierre, shooting a warning glance at his younger son. “We're just extremely pleased to meet you.”

“Let's go inside for a cup of tea,” suggested Françoise. “Soothes the wild beast.”

“Not as much as scotch,” muttered Pierre, heading for the front door.

The four of them entered before me, then turned around en masse to watch my expression as I stepped inside. I gawked. Their house was like a museum. Every inch of wall space was covered with paintings, from the baroque to the abstract. There were statues, too. Mostly busts. A small soapstone carving of a man transforming into a wolf transfixed me. The living room had floor-to-ceiling shelves arranged neatly with books and crafts from around the world. Some of the stuff looked
really
old. Where had it all come from?

As we walked down a hall, Marlon said, “My
parents travel a lot and always bring home something new.”

“I research local artists' co-operatives,” said Françoise, “and buy directly to support the cultural economy.”

We passed a very, very old bronze helmet. I paused to examine it. “This looks Roman.”

“That one is,” said Marlon, nodding.

Passing through a wide semicircular archway, we entered their dining room, which was dominated by a long, antique wooden table covered in gashes and indents where heavy plates and silverware had worn it down. An entire wall of windows—open to let in cool air—overlooked the woods. Shadowy trees and bushes stooped toward the house like nosy old men.

“The temperature thing,” I said. “Why do I feel better when it's cold?”

“Lycans run a few degrees warmer than humans,” said Françoise. “Dogs are more comfortable when it's chilly, too. Your body is still figuring it out.”

“Summer in the city is a bitch,” said Owen, throwing himself into a chair. It scraped across the floor. He obviously expected someone else to handle making the tea. Marlon disappeared through a door on the other side of the room—presumably the kitchen— while Françoise and Pierre sat down at either end of
the table. That left an open seat beside Owen, and two directly across from him facing the window. I chose one with a view outside.

“They say the first werewolf was created by a woman in Japan,” said Françoise. “Her husband was a cruel man who beat her and bullied everyone in their town into submission. One day she just snapped and cursed him to become the impulsive, violent beast he was in his heart. The next full moon, it happened. That story is one of the reasons lycanthropy is considered the ultimate manifestation of inner rage.”

“But it's just one of the myths,” said Pierre. “It might be true, who knows? There are so many others to pick from. No one knows who our first ancestors really were. Some cultures believe all people have animal spirits. Others say werewolves are a super race created to obliterate normal, weaker mortals—to thin the herd, if you will. Our family has made it our mission to sift through the oldest stories and sort out possible facts from fiction.”

“We do know certain things,” added Françoise, leaning forward on her elbows. “The way people are turned, for instance.”

Pierre glanced at his wife. She nodded.

“Did Marlon tell you how Françoise and I became werewolves?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Didn't have time!” called out Marlon from behind the kitchen door.

Françoise looked at me. “If it's all right, Sam, Pierre and I will share our story.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. What could be worse than what I'd already been through?

Marlon entered the room carrying a tray laden with a silver teapot service, five china teacups, butter cookies, and a bowl of homemade beef jerky. He set it on the table. Before he'd even sat down, his family had pounced on the meat. They were stuffing handfuls into their mouths. I averted my eyes. For once, I wasn't hungry. I was surrounded by an entire
family
of werewolves.

Still chewing, his mother poured tea into the china cups. Her movements were delicate. As I added milk and sugar to mine, I couldn't help thinking,
I have met
the monster, and she is me
.

I took a gulp. Heat burned all the way down my throat, but a lovely floral bouquet bloomed in my mouth.

I cradled my cup to my chest. The warmth was reassuring and made me feel stronger. Across from me, Owen folded his hands behind his head, leaned back on two chair legs, and put his feet up on the table. He was looking forward to his parents telling their story.

TEN

“
I
am the seventh son of a seventh son,” said Pierre. “There's a long-standing belief that such men become werewolves on the first full moon after their twenty-fifth birthdays. Seventh daughters of seventh daughters are fated to become witches at the same age—they come into incredible power.”

Owen muttered something about his father being a windbag and snatched another handful of jerky. Pierre ignored him.

“When I was a child, my parents moved to New York from a small town in France. I was never made aware of the legend … until it was too late. I've since learned that the other people in my parents' town were deathly afraid of me and forced my parents into exile.”

“His first change happened while we were graduate students,” continued Françoise, “working in the Cambodian rice fields outside Phnom Penh. We were doing a work-study placement with an aid organization, helping local people tend their fields and gain self-sufficiency in production and export.”

“We refused to be separated,” said Pierre. “Not even for a month.”

“I wasn't supposed to be on that particular trip,” Françoise admitted. “They needed only Pierre's expertise.”

Pierre went on. “She came along because she was writing her dissertation and could do that anywhere. We had Marlon—he was just a toddler—so they stayed behind at the house we rented while I went out for daily hikes to inspect crops and speak with local experts. One day, it was sunset before I realized how far I'd wandered—how long I would have to walk to get home. That night, the full moon almost filled the sky.”

“He transformed all alone in a remote rice field,” Françoise told me.

Pierre nodded. “I was twenty-five. And didn't have the self-control to stay away from my wife and son. In wolf form, I covered the miles in minutes. Françoise woke up when she heard a scratching sound at the door. The moment she opened it, I lunged for her—”

“He almost ripped my throat out. I barely managed to smash him over the head with a lamp, grab Marlon, and run into the bathroom,” she said. “He almost killed me …
would
have
killed me.” Her hands shook.

“Thank god the door was strong enough to keep me out,” said Pierre. “Seeing her helpless and frantic fuelled my hunger. My human judgment was obliterated—as it often was in those early days.”

“You love giving in to the wolf, Father,” said Owen. “Admit that it feels great.”

Pierre ignored Owen again.

“I turned later that same night,” said Françoise. “And joined him on the hunt.” She shuddered at the memory.

What had they done?

“The desire to feed was unrelenting in those first few months,” said Pierre. “Sam, I don't know how you've kept your control.”

I thought of Zoe. “I … Well, I haven't. Not really.”

“It took every ounce of my willpower to pass as human for any length of time. Françoise and I both slipped. More than once.”

“I almost ate my neighbour's dog!” I blurted out.

“I killed someone, Sam,” said Françoise.

“He attacked you with a pitchfork first,” noted Pierre.

“Because we were slaughtering his cow. Only four cattle stood between his family and starvation. He was defending them from a monster.”

“He would have killed us both,” said Pierre, reaching for her hand.

She nodded slowly, allowing him to twine his fingers into hers.

“When we came back to New York, we sent Marlon over to my mother for a few months,” said Pierre. “Told her we'd both caught malaria. It was the only way we could think of to keep him safe. He was so tiny. Only three years old. I just wish we hadn't been so hasty to bring him home.”

I desperately wanted to hear how Marlon had been turned. And Owen, too. But their parents fell silent.

Owen looked at them and then at me. “You're worried she'll run away if you tell her about me and Marlon? She's a wolf now, too. She survived the change. She'd better learn how to handle it.”

“She's a
werewolf,
” said Marlon. “Not a wolf, asshole. You know there's a difference. And it takes time to adjust.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Owen. “She has to adjust to being nearly indestructible, as powerful as three humans, having super-senses—it's just awful.”

“She could have died,” said Marlon. “Or killed someone.”

Their mother broke in. “Your humanity will always be part of you, Sam.”

“Your human side makes you weak,” said Owen.

“You're wrong,” said his father.

“Owen was born half-wolf,” explained Françoise. “So the wolf side has always been dominant in him.”

“It's not his inner wolf that's been causing trouble lately,” grumbled Marlon.

Owen stood up and slammed his palms on the table. “What's your problem?!”

“You. Lying about following Sam to her apartment. What the hell? I smelled you there.”

“I've never been to her place in my life.”

“Wolves don't lie. People do.”

Owen's lips curled up over his teeth. “You want to poison her against me. She needs to understand we're meant to be together.”

My head jerked back. “Excuse me?”

Marlon growled at his brother. Literally—
growled
. “Stay away from her.”

“She was supposed to be mine,” Owen declared.

“No, she wasn't!” snapped Marlon.

Pierre leapt to his feet, ready to break up a fight. Françoise tensed.

“I'm not a piece of meat!” I yelled. “And I'm not
meant
to be with anyone!”

“Sam,” said Françoise gently, “the way it works with werewolves is you join your maker's pack.”

“Maker?” I echoed.

But I already knew. Owen was the wolf who'd bitten me in Central Park. He'd risked killing me, because he thought we were destined to be together? I remembered him saying, “I came to this concert to meet you.” Why me?

Françoise looked across the table at her sons. She seemed to want them to tell me something, but they wouldn't meet my eyes. Too busy glaring at each other.

Suddenly Owen grinned toothily, giving me a glimpse of his canines. Then he cocked his head as if he were listening to something far away, slid out from behind the table, and plunged into the kitchen. A moment later, the outside door slammed shut.

Owen's parents stared stiffly at his empty chair. Marlon gulped down the last of his tea. Outside the dark window, I thought I saw the leaves rustle and a flash of brown streak past.

“Sam,” murmured Françoise, “we're so sorry.”

They were
sorry
? I didn't respond.

“How about I finish the story for you,” suggested Marlon. “Okay, so my parents made it back to the States
without getting caught. The farmer's death was blamed on a wild animal. All they wanted to do was hunt and eat. They dropped out of grad school, gathered some money, and started researching transmogrification— the change process.”

“Wait. What do you mean by ‘gathered' money?” I asked.

“Took it,” said his mother bluntly. “Looted and robbed in wolf form, so no one could catch us. Believe me, those were horrible days. We're ashamed of how we acted. We had no control over any of our urges. Books and experts on the subject were hard to find. Well, good ones, anyway. There are so many rumours and legends. We didn't know anyone who could walk us through the changes.”

“Dad still has a hard time controlling his urges,” said Marlon. “So does Owen. We think it's because they were born with the wolf inside them, unlike the rest of us.”

“How old were you?” I asked him.

He glanced at his parents. “Happened a week after they brought me home. An accident. They'd put me to bed and gone to sleep. When I woke up with a nightmare and snuck into their room, I guess I smelled like fresh meat to Dad. He snapped his jaws around my stomach and dragged me across the floor—”

“My own son,” said Pierre, his voice cracking. “His tiny ribs snapped in my mouth. I still remember the sound.”

“That night was awful,” Françoise said softly. “I had to fight him off.”

“I'll never forgive myself,” said Pierre.

“Dad, I'm okay,” said Marlon. “It was a long time ago.”