by Peter Moore
I open one eye, then the other. Gunther is looming over me like a giant. I’m blinking against the light, which causes swirls of dizziness. I want to keep my eyes closed, I want total darkness, I want sleep.
“What are you, stalking me?” I mumble.
“I have people keeping an eye on you. I heard you were staggering through the halls like a drunk. Or maybe a rabid dog. Now, get up on your hind legs so I can talk to you.”
I close my eyes and wave at him with the back of my hand, like, Just go away, leave me alone.
“You don’t dismiss me,” he says. “Get up. Or I’ll kick your head clean off your neck.”
The thought of anything touching my head is unbearable.
I grit my teeth as I push back against the lockers and work my way up to my feet. My head swims, and I have to lean back against the lockers.
“I’m on to you,” he says. “Genetic treatments? I doubt it. I think you’re a scumbag moonrunner. And I’m going to prove it and make sure that you—”
“Man, what is your problem with me? Why don’t you just live your own life and leave me alone to live mine?” Even talking hurts my head.
“I’ll tell you why. Because I believe that your kind are what’s wrong with this world. Something I learned from a very honorable man. I have a little history lesson for you,” he says. “Are you listening? Open your eyes and look at me when I talk to you.” Gunther just about shouts into my ear. His words seem to bounce off the inside of my skull.
I open one eye.
“Good. That’s better. Now. This is about my great-grandfather.”
Is he kidding? Can he possibly believe that I care at all about his great-grandfather? I guess so, because he keeps talking. “He came from Europe. He was there during the war, during the purges, you know? And he told me all about the moonrunners—or in German, die Mond-laüfers—and how a lot of them tried to pass as human and escape with fake passports. My great-grandfather taught me that wulves can be very sneaky. That they’ll lie, cheat, and steal to get ahead. And if they feel threatened, they’ll sell their own mothers down the river to escape.”
I’m light-headed. His voice gets stronger and his blue eyes bore into me.
“Wulves hide, and pretend to be something they’re not. Luckily there are people like my great-grandfather who look out for the public good. He was on a squad that flushed out wulves who were lying and hiding, flushed them out like rats, then exterminated them. I learned a lot from him, a lot about the ways of wulves, and I believe in what he did. He was a hero.”
“Yay,” I say, my voice weak. “A hero.”
“Sarcasm is going to get you hit. And you’d better not use that tone when referring to my great-grandfather.”
I feel like death. “Look. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I couldn’t care less if your Nazi great-grandfather got caught in the sun at high noon and ended up a smoking piece of charcoal. All I want is for you—”
Of course I don’t see it coming. The flat of his hand catches me on the temple.
I once saw a documentary on TV about these monks who forge huge bells that ring so loud the sound can be heard for miles and miles throughout the valley.
That’s the inside of my head.
My eyes are shut from the pain, and then everything goes white and I feel a pressure in the center of my head, building…building…building…
Then a huge spurt of blood bursts from my nose and hits the floor.
This time my eyes are open when he moves to hit me a second time. The looping arc of his punch looks like it’s in slow motion, so I just step to the side.
His fist hits the metal vents of the locker, splitting the skin on his knuckles. He steps back and shakes his hand out, splattering droplets of blood on the floor.
He avoids looking at my blood and glances at his own instead. He shouts and charges at me. He’s taller than me, heavier than me, and meaner than me. But it doesn’t matter.
Because I deliver what must be the most perfect—in aim, timing, and power—kick in the balls in the history of the world.
He drops to his knees, grabs his junk, and hunches over.
For some reason there’s an air raid siren. Or maybe it’s an ambulance wailing. Good, maybe they’ll take me away and put me out of my misery.
No, it’s the end-of-period bell.
And now, all is chaos. The hall fills with vamps who immediately see and smell all the blood. Some try to get a look at it, others are shoving through the crowd to get themselves away from it before the aroma drives them mad.
The hallway is filled with screaming and shouting.
Then there’s another voice, deep and bellowing.
“Hold it right there. Don’t you move. I saw that!” It’s a teacher. He grabs my left arm and pulls Gunther to his feet by his right arm. “Both of you, come with me.”
Away from all this noise? I’ll go anywhere you want.
“It’s cool, bro. So what if the dulls call me a moondog-howler-surfing freak? Dude, I am a moondog-howler-surfing freak! Ar-oooooo! Ha, ha, ha…”
—Shawn Fenn as wulf-surfer Jimbo Pirelli in
Crazy Days at Elwood High, © 2005, Universal Pictures
If the wulves are going to be rioting and making a big fuss over this, I say they should be relocated. A few centuries ago, England shipped off its criminals and undesirables to Australia. Maybe it’s high time we deported all our wulves. This is America, the greatest nation on Earth, and if they don’t think they’re being treated fairly, we can happily assist them in getting the hell out of our country.
—Senator Latham Winthrop III,
NeoRepublicrat, Kansas
You can’t kill our hopes—Power to the lycanthropes!
—Wulf rally slogan,
popularized by activist Huey Seele
No doubt about it, my nose is broken. So I won’t have to worry about that happening during the Change. It didn’t bleed after that first spurt. My headache was still pounding, though. I didn’t get a good look at Gunther, so I don’t know how badly he got hurt, but I’m willing to bet he won’t be spending quality time with Alana Gibson anytime soon.
We both got one-week suspensions.
When the principal called home, Dad was there, testing some things in the chamber, so he came along with Mom to get me.
“Thank you for not yelling at me,” I say from the backseat. “My head would explode.” I try to keep my eyes closed and hope we’re on a road with no bumps.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like it was your fault,” Mom says.
“And the timing is perfect,” Dad adds. “If you’re going to get suspended, the day before the full moon is the time to do it.”
I open my eyes and see Mom glare at him.
“What?” he says. “This gives us a perfect excuse for his being out of school.” He puts on a straight face. “I am not saying you should fight. But if you do, always do it right before the full moon.” He’s trying to irritate her and lighten things up at the same time.
Mom ignores him. “He won’t need to. This is the ideal opportunity to make the transfer to Talbot Prep.”
I can’t get into it right now, so I just nod, which makes my head swim. The streetlamps light up the inside of the car like a strobe every time we pass one. It makes me dizzy, so I close my eyes, but that’s worse. I need a distraction.
“Could you put the radio on, please? But really, really soft?”
Dad turns it on, switches from an oldies station, tries to find something. He stops for a second on the news when he hears the words “…witnesses report hearing four gunshots. Police cornered the suspect three blocks south of the incident, but he shot himself before he could be apprehended. Again, wulf activist Huey Seele has been assassinated by a lone human gunman at a construction-workers’-union rally. Seele suffered two shots in the head and one in the chest. Efforts to revive him were unsuccessful, and he was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Dad turns off the radio.
I can’t believe it. Huey Seele has been out raising hell about the plight of wulves since before I was born. Even when we ignored the stories, his presence on the scene was a part of life. Whether he was being thrown in jail or beaten up, Huey Seele wouldn’t back down. And now he’s gone? “I just saw him at an uptown demonstration,” I say.
“When were you uptown?” Mom asks, reminding me I wasn’t supposed to have been there.
“I mean, on TV.”
“This is terrible,” Dad says.
“It was bound to happen,” Mom says.
“The guy may have been a little over the top at times,” Dad says, “but he did a lot of good. Now that he’s a martyr, there are going to be nuts coming out of the woodwork to avenge him. There’ll be demonstrations. Riots, maybe.”
We hit a bump and my head throbs. I can’t help moaning.
“Head is bad, huh?” Dad asks.
There isn’t a word to describe how bad it is. “Uhh…” is all I can manage.
“Did you try the Lupinox?” he asks.
“Doesn’t…work,” I say through gritted teeth.
“We can fix that,” he says. The best thing anybody ever said to me.
Dr. Mellin unnecessarily uses an alcohol pad on my arm where he gives me the shot. Must be habit, since most of his patients don’t have vampyre immunity to infection. “That’s a painkiller and a sedative. You should start feeling better very soon.”
He’s right about feeling better. It doesn’t take more than five minutes. I feel lighter, almost like I’m suspended in midair. I don’t know what’s in that shot he gave me, but whatever it is, sign me up for more.
Dad brings us home. He says there are some things he needs to discuss with the whole family before he leaves for the compound tomorrow. It’s so weird to be in the chamber with them. Dad, Mom, Troy, Paige, Jessica, and me. Dad has just finished explaining about the cages over the light, how the camera and intercom work, the feeding slot, and all the safety features. I’m trying to pay attention, but I’m feeling a little loopy from Dr. Mellin’s medicine. Anyway, the information isn’t important for me to know; I’ll be the tenant here, not the landlord.
“Well, that’s it for the chamber. Let’s look at the door.” We follow Dad out of the room into the main part of the basement.
“So this is the door. Obviously.” He’s trying to keep this all business, I think, so he doesn’t get upset. Mom is the same way. They’re trying to hold it together. If anyone cries, we’re all going to lose it and we’ll drown in tears down here.
He closes the door. “It’s heavy. Solid. It’ll hold. There’s no knob on the inside.” He pulls a six-foot-long metal bolt along the slides. “You really need to yank it the last foot or so, to engage the catch….” He pulls hard and it slams home with a deep, metal clang.
It makes me jump.
“If you have any trouble, Kevin will take care of it. He’ll be staying here. He’s a strong guy and an ex-cop.” He says in a mock-announcer’s voice, “And Kevin Baker will be providing security for our event.” It doesn’t lighten the mood like he’d wanted. But not much could lighten it. He looks at his watch. “Okay, sunrise is in a couple of hours. Six o’clock, I think. Sundown is at six thirty-seven. Kevin will get here by six to help get everything set.”
“Will that be enough time?” I ask.
“You’re not going to Change as soon as the sun sets. It usually happens around nine o’clock, when the moon gets higher. You should have plenty of time if you go in by seven thirty or so.”
I nod. That’s in less than sixteen hours. This is really going to happen.
“You arranged for the doctor to stay, too?” he asks Mom.
She nods. “He’s coming at five to set up some equipment, in case something…just as a precaution.”
Dad claps his hands, then rubs them together. “Okay, then. That’s it. I need to get going. I have a bus to catch in the morning.”
He shakes hands with Troy. He hugs the girls. He even hugs Mom.
“Walk out with me,” he says, tapping my shoulder.
I follow him out through the garage and we stand next to his truck.
“So,” he says. “I think you’re all set.”
I nod. I can’t speak. I just can’t.
“Did that shot the doc gave you help at all?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He laughs, just a little. “All right, then. You take care. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“Dad…”
“It’s okay. I know.” His lips go tight over his teeth. He holds his arms out. I go to his chest and we hug. I forgot the smell of him up close, his aftershave, his flannel shirts, his skin, his hair.
He lets go and turns his face away as he gets in the truck. He starts the engine and rolls down the window. “If there was any way I could stay here to be with you,” he says, “you know I would.”
“I know.” Damn, I’m scared. I want to be a little kid again so I can sit on his lap, lean back into his strong arms, and feel totally safe. But those days are long, long gone. He can’t make this go away.
He lets out a long breath. “You’d better get inside. It’s going to be light soon.”
“I’ll see you in a few days, Dad.”
He nods twice, forces a tight smile, puts the car in gear, and backs out of the driveway. He gives me a wave and heads off down the street.
I’m alone now.
After Dad leaves I go right to my bed. It’s 4:30 a.m., and I’m so tired. I want to sleep, but there’s one thing I really have to do before I can go to bed. I pick up my cell phone and dial.
“Where have you been?” Juliet says. “I left about ten messages for you.”
“Long story.”
“Did you really get suspended? For fighting with Gunther Hoering?”
“I guess it’s not that long a story. That’s pretty much it.”
“Are you okay?”
“More or less, yeah.”
“How could you let him bait you? He told you he wanted you to hit him so you’d get expelled.”
“I’m not expelled. I’m suspended.”
“Well, you could’ve been expelled. And then we wouldn’t be together at school anymore.”
I can hear her breathing into the phone. And then it comes to me.
It’s perfect. “Juliet, there’s something else. Something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“My parents are sending me to another school. In the city.”
“Why?”
“They’ve been talking about it for a while, and they’re convinced that it’s a good move. And they decided that, with this suspension from Carpathia, the time to do it is now.”
“If they’ve been talking about this with you for a while, how come you never mentioned it?”
Good question. “I didn’t know if it was really going to happen, and I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Well, I’m upset now,” she says.
So am I. Looking at the monitor over my Sol-Blok shade, I see a car pull into our driveway. People always use our driveway to turn around and go back up the street. Why our driveway? I’m getting distracted. The drug Dr. Mellin gave me for the pain is making me zone out a little. And I need to do this. “The thing is, with me going to school in the city, it’s going to be pretty much impossible for us to see each other. I’m thinking it’s going to be too hard to…”
“To what?” she asks. There’s a quaver in her voice.
The doorbell rings. I hear my mother’s heels on the hardwood floor, then the door opening and a deep male voice. I could probably hear what they’re saying if Juliet wasn’t talking.
“Hello? What are you saying? Too hard to what?” Juliet asks.
“I think it’s going to be hard to keep, you know, seeing each other.”
“Are you kidding me? You want to break up?”
“It’s not that I want to.” I put my hand over my eyes. “It’s probably just going to be too ha
rd.”
“And you don’t think we can work through it?”
My door opens and Paige comes in, looking very worried.
“Hang on,” I say into the phone. “What’s wrong?” I ask Paige.
“There are two scary-looking men downstairs,” she whispers, “and I think they have guns!”
“What?”
“I’m really scared,” she says.
“I’ll find out what’s going on. Just go back to your room and close the door. Everything’s going to be fine.”
She leaves. Juliet is talking. “Are you there? Hello?”
“Listen, I have to go. There’s something happening here.”
“We’re in the middle of a pretty important conversation, don’t you think?”
“I know, but there’s kind of an emergency here that I have to look into. I’ll call you back.”
She lets me go. I head down the stairs and hear a higher male voice say, “I hope we’re not interrupting your dinner.”
“No. It’s not even seven,” Mom says. “We don’t usually eat supper before it’s light out. What’s this all about?”
As I walk down the stairs, I see there are two serious-looking humans in suits. One is tall, the other short. Guns are holstered to their belts. Mom and the men turn toward me as I walk down the last few steps.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The short man has a deep voice, no emotion, no friendliness at all. “I’m Agent Boothe, and this is Agent Swerski. We’re from the Lycanthrope Protection and Control Bureau. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Did my heart just stop? Doesn’t matter, because now it’s about to burst out of my chest.
Mom, to her credit, keeps amazingly cool. “Again, what’s this all about?” she asks, without a trace of fear in her voice.
“The local Bureau office received an anonymous phone call a short while ago, with an allegation that there’s an unregistered adolescent lycanthrope living at this address,” the tall, higher-voiced agent says. “Is that true?”
“Well, my former husband was a wulf, so my daughter and son are half-wulf by birth, but they had Lychromosomal Repression Therapy as infants, so they’re not subject to registration requirements.”
