Red Rider's Hood

by Нил Шустерман

  Red Rider's Hood

  Нил Шустерман

  Red rides around his tough urban neighborhood in his blood-red Mustang. It satisfies his urge to wander, and it usually keeps him safe from the gangs in town, the Wolves and the Crypts. But when Red's grandmother is mugged by Wolves, Red decides to join the wolves as a pledge so he can learn how to defeat them. Soon he uncovers their terrible secret: They are werewolves with a thirst for human blood. Instead of feeling horrified, Red envies the Wolves' freedom and power. Even as he trains to kill them―under an unlikely but cunning werewolf hunter―he has come to see them as pack mates. Until he is faced with a choice at the next full moon: Take up the Wolves' murderous ways, or take them down.

  Neal Shusterman

  Red Rider's Hood

  Dark Fusion book 2

  Werewolf legends and werewolf facts, according to grandma

  On the power of the moon: "For three days, the moon is full enough to boil the blood and make a man turn wolf. The sec­ond day the curse is at its strongest, and the higher the moon is in the sky, the more deadly the wolf."

  On werewolf appetites: "In human form, they can eat any­thing humans eat, although they're partial to meat. In wolf form, they're driven to eat their weight in meat each night, and it must be the meat of a fresh kill."

  On the mind of the werewolf: "The mind of a human infected with the werewolf curse doesn't always start off being evil, but the way I see it, a person turns evil real quick."

  On werewolf redemption: "Ain't no such thing. No antidote, no remedy, no turning back. Only way to save a werewolf's soul is to end its misery, and hope the good Lord truly does have infinite mercy."

  On the chances of surviving a werewolf: "We all have to die someday. Let's hope we die as humans."

  For Steve Layne

  1

  Red as fresh blood

  It's a jungle out there. Buildings grow all around you out of the cracking pavement, blocking out the daylight, making you forget the sun's there at all. Those buildings can't block out the moonlight, though. Nothing can block that out. Trust me, I know.

  I can't tell you my name, because then you'd be in danger, too. I got enemies, see, and the only reason I'm alive right now is because my Mustang convertible―red as fresh blood, and as powerful as they come―is faster than anyone, or any thing, can run. You can call me Red. Red Rider. It's what they called me back when I had my old Radio Flyer wagon as a kid, and it's what they call me now.

  As for the Mustang, I found it in a junkyard when I was thir­teen, and spent three years nursing it back to health. Call it a hobby. By the time I turned sixteen―which was on the last day of the school year―it was ready for me to drive. Little did I know what I'd be driving myself into that hot and horrible summer.

  See, when you ride out into these streets, you never know what you're in for. Good or bad; thrilling or dangerous. Some­times it's a little bit of both. It's not that my neighborhood's an awful place, but it's crowded. We got every culture here: His­panic, African-American, white, Vietnamese, Armenian―you name it. We're this big melting pot, but someone turned up the heat too high, and the stew started to burn. Gangs, crime, fights, and fear are now a regular part of our local stew.

  It all started the day I had to deliver some "bread" to my grandma. That's what she calls money, because she's still stuck In the sixties, when money was "bread," cops were "fuzz," and everything else was "groovy." Don't even bother telling her it's a whole other millennium. Going to her house, you'd think the sixties never ended. There are love beads hanging in doorways, Jimi Hendrix playing on an old record player, and a big old Afro on her head. It really ticks people off in movie theaters, because when Grandma sits down, there's nothing but hair for the people behind her, And the funny thing is, she's not even black. She married a black man, though, and their daughter married a Korean, and that's how they got me. I guess I'll marry a Puerto Rican girl or something, and fill out that gene pool swimming inside me.

  Anyway, Grandma didn't believe in banks, because her father lost all his money in the crash of 1929. Grandma made our whole family swear by cast-iron safes hidden behind paint­ings. For some reason, our house became the main branch.

  "You take this bag to your grandma first thing in the morning, and don't stop for anything on the way," my mom instructed me. She knew how much I enjoyed running errands in my Mustang. But she also knew I liked to take the long way to get where I was going. Driving was still new enough to me that I enjoyed every second behind the wheel―even in traffic.

  "Promise me you'll go straight there."

  "Cross my heart," I told her.

  She wanted me to leave at dawn, before she went off to work. If I had, the whole nasty business might have been avoided, but as it was, I slept late. The sun was already high in the sky by the time I hit the street, where the neighborhood girls had been playing hopscotch, probably since the break of dawn.

  "Hey, Red Rider, we like your new wheels," the girls said as I passed them on the way to where the Mustang was parked. "Who's gonna get your bicycle now that you got a car?"

  "Who says anybody's going to get it?" I told them, "Some days are bicycle days; some days are Mustang days."

  I hopped into the car and little Tina Soames took a moment away from her hopscotch game to lean in the window.

  "Betcha it gets stolen," she said, and smiled with a broken front tooth that would never be fixed, because her parents didn't care enough. "Betcha it gets stolen real soon."

  If anybody was going to steal my car, it would be her brother, Cedric. Cedric Soames: a rich name for such a lowlife―and believe me, life didn't get any lower than him. He was a year older than me. He rarely showed at school, but he got good grades anyway, because even the teachers were afraid of him and his gang.

  "So, Tina," I asked, "is that a warning, or a threat?"

  She shrugged. "A little bit of both, I guess. I know you built the thing up from a pile of junk, so I would hate to see you lose it. But then again, my brother sure does bring home nice things." Then she skipped away to continue her game of hopscotch.

  I started the car, listened to the purr of the engine for a few seconds, then tore out, heading across town toward Forest boulevard, where Grandma lived. I couldn't get the thought of Cedric out of my mind. He wasn't just mean, he was unnatural―definitely one of the burned ingredients in our neighborhood melting pot. And some things are best never scraped from the bottom of the pan.

  It was a hot July day. You could see steam from the morning's rain rising from the asphalt. The humidity made you feel like you were breathing bathwater, and my shirt stuck to my skin like it was painted there. I was still thinking about Cedric Soames when I came to the intersection of Andersen and Grimm – one of the busiest corners in my neighborhood, with a traffic light that always took too long to change. I sat at the intersection, waiting for a green light, when some guy dressed in rags put a squeegee to my windshield and started to wipe it clean, even though it was clean to begin with.

  "Hey, man," I said through my open window. "I don't have change for you, so you might as well forget it."

  "So pay me next time," he said. "For now, just consider it a public service."

  The light changed, but he was still leaning over the wind­shield, so I couldn't pull away. Cars behind me started honking.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" I yelled at him. "Can't you see the light's green?" I honked the horn. "C'mon! Out of the way!"

  He leaned even farther over the hood like he was trying to look into my car, but I figured maybe he was just studying the glass, because he said, "Look at that―some bird did its busi­ness right in the middle of your windshield."

  He was right―I hadn't seen it before. Must hav
e been an owl or something big like that. Meanwhile, the cars behind me were honking like this was my fault, but what was I supposed to do, run the dude over? He finished and I looked up. The light changed from yellow to red.

  "You owe me big next time, you hear?" says the beggar. And then he flashes me a smile I recognize. He had a single gold tooth―not one of the front ones, but the sharp one. His canine tooth. The one on the left.

  "Marvin Flowers?" I said.

  "In the flesh," he answered.

  "But. . . but. . . what are you doing here?"

  Marvin Flowers, or "Marvelous Marvin," as he was better known, was the best high school quarterback Madison-Manfred High had ever seen. He had left town a year before, with a col­lege scholarship and a winning gold-toothed smile, waving good-bye to all of his friends at Mad-Man. He said he was going places.

  "What are you doing here washing windows for spare change?" I asked.

  "Had to drop out of college," he told me. "Family prob­lems." The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting a shadow over Marvin's already dark expression.

  "You know," he said, his voice making me feel cold in spite of the heat, "this city can get ahold of you and pull you back no matter how hard you try to climb out. Like a grave."

  It was such a weird thing to say, I laughed nervously and looked to the traffic light, which was still stuck on red, almost as if it was was waiting for Marvin's signal.

  What am I afraid of? I said to myself. This guy is just a street beggar now. Feel bad for him, sure, but don't fear him.

  Then Marvin smiled again and the sun returned to its nor­mal glare. Maybe it was just to get rid of him, or maybe I really did fell sorry for him, but whatever the reason, I reached over to the little sack next to me on the seat and pulled out a bill from my grandma's stash of "bread." To my surprise, it was a fifty. I look in the sack and couldn't find anything smaller. There had to be thousands of dollars in there. I took a deep breath. I wasn't just bringing Grandma the bread, I was bringing her the butter, and a golden knife to spread it!

  Marvin leaned into the window raised his eyebrows. He had seen what was in the bag, too. I wanted to peel away, but still the light stayed red.

  "Just something for my grandma," I told him, tossing the bag to the floor of the car.

  "Very nice."

  "Here." I handed him the fifty. "Great job on the window."

  "Thank you very much." He pocketed it. Then, I figured out of appreciation for the fifty, he said, "You know . . . my sister likes you."

  This was news to me. Marissa Flowers was in my grade, but she never looked at me twice. I, on the other hand, had looked at her a lot more than twice.

  "She's got a summer job over at Stiltskin's Antiques. In fact, she's there right now, bored out of her mind, I'll bet. A visit from you would brighten up her day, I think."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  "My grandma is expecting me."

  "Old people are patient," he said. "What difference is half an hour going to make? Or even an hour, for that matter?"

  I guess he was right. After all, my father always said you gotta make time for the finer things in life, and Marissa Flow­ers was definitely one of those finer things.

  "Maybe I will," I told him.

  He smiled and nodded―and with his nod the light turned green. "See you around, Red."

  2

  Thirteen steps to Grandma's house

  Stiltskin's Antiques was a little hole-in-the-wall shop. My mother used to drag me there when I was little. It was where I got my old Radio Flyer wagon, so the place wasn't all bad. As I didn't have a cell-phone habit, I couldn't call Grandma from the car, and the pay phones I passed weren't about to take a fifty-dollar bill, so I figured Grandma wouldn't mind waiting just a little while longer. She was the one who was fond of say­ing "all good things come to those who wait," and the sack of money was certainly a good thing.

  There was a space right out in front with half an hour still on the meter. I should have found this suspicious. I should have realized there were forces conspiring, but I just figured it was my lucky day. I locked the bag of cash in my trunk and went in.

  "Well, if it isn't the Red Rider," Marissa Flowers said as she saw me step in.

  The place smelled like wet wood and old folks, but everything in there was beautiful. Pink and blue crystal, delicate porcelain, and of course, Marissa. She was at the cash register, polishing a tea set to perfection.

  "What brings you here?" she asked, batting her eyes and tossing her long hair, which was dark with blond highlights.

  I felt myself going red and hoped she didn't notice. "I need a birthday present for my mother," I told her, which wasn't a complete lie. I eventually would need one.

  "What kind of antiques does she like?" Marissa said.

  "Beats me. I don't know anything about antiques."

  "Neither do I," she admitted. "When I took the job, I couldn't tell brass from bronze, or crystal from Corning Ware. But I'm learning."

  She put down the silver set so gently it didn't make a sound, and then began pulling out a whole bunch of bright colorful glass vases that weren't anywhere near my price range.

  "How about one of these?" she asked. "Do you like any of them?"

  "Yeah, I like them all," I told her. I couldn't look in her eyes. If her brother had made it seem like the sun had stopped shin­ing, she made it seem like the place had no roof and the sun was beating down.

  Did you ever get the feeling that everything was too perfect? like the moment was so good that something had to be wrong? Kind of like the way a fish sees that bright, shiny lure just before it chomps down and gets hauled out of the water to become someone's lunch.

  "Say, I was wondering what time you get off?" I asked.

  "Why?"

  I shrugged and looked away. "Oh, I thought you might like to go to the multiplex and see a movie."

  "With you?"

  "No, with Godzilla," I said. "So, you want to come?"

  "That depends. Is Godzilla paying?"

  "Well," I said, "since Godzilla asked, Godzilla will pay."

  Marissa laughed. "Don't worry, Red. I'll pay for myself."

  My jaw almost dropped clear to the musty floor. "So that means you're going?"

  "I get off at six-thirty," she told me.

  "All right. See you then." I'm not the kind of guy to skip, but I have to tell you, I practically skipped out of that antique shop and into my car. As I drove off, it was as if my wheels didn't even touch the ground.

  Grandma lived in the oldest part of the city. On both sides of the street were rows of dark brick homes with tall stoops. Each had thirteen steps―"like gallows," Grandma was fond of saying.

  The sidewalk was all broken up, like a fun-house floor, by die roots of the hundred-year-old sycamores that arched over Forest Boulevard. They made the sun play peekaboo, painting the streets in polka dots of light. It was a great street for Hal­loween, because by fall, the whole street was layered in golden leaves that crunched under your feet. But now, in July, the leaves made a big green canopy, like some sort of urban rain forest.

  I pulled my car into the driveway, got the money sack from the trunk, and climbed the thirteen steps to Grandma's house, holding it tightly in my hand.

  As I neared the front door, a hot breeze tore through the trees, making them quiver. Something tumbled down across my hair and over my shoulder. I brushed it off, thinking at first that it was a spider, but it was only a leaf. A big, summer-green sycamore leaf.

  Why had the leaf fallen? I wondered. For the slightest instant, I had the strange feeling that the trees were trying to tell me something. "Sssssssstay outssssssssssside," their leaves rusded. "Don't sssssssstep in."

  I shook off the feeling and rang the bell. No answer. I tried the bell again and still no answer.

  Well, I am late, I thought. Maybe Grandma went out shopping. I tried the door. The knob turned, the door was unlocked. That was odd. Grandma was neve
r one to leave her door unlocked. The neighborhood wasn't the safest. I pushed open the door and the old hinges creaked.

  "Grandma, are you in there?"

  I heard breathing. Faint, raspy breathing.

  "Grandma?"

  I stepped in, propping the door open behind me. Grandma kept her house dark. It was to keep the sun from aging the car­peting and furniture, she always said. Old Venetian blinds cov­ered every window. That and the trees outside made it always seem like night in her house. I tried a light switch, and it didn't work.

  "Grandma, did you forget to pay your electric bill again?"

  "Red," I heard. "Red, is that you?" Her voice sounded funny, like she had a cold. I followed her voice to the bedroom, and there she sat, in the darkness, under her covers.

  "Did you bring me my bread?" she whispered.

  I held up the bag.

  "Good, good." She cleared her throat. "Come a little closer, my child. Let me see you."

  Grandma was the only person I allowed to call me child. As I stepped closer and my eyes began to adjust to the light, I could see that her Afro, all curly and gray, was even bigger than I had last seen it.

  "Man, Grandma, what big hair you have."

  "The better to style with, my dear."

  Her finger reached out and beckoned to me. I took another step closer. Outside the trees hissed their eerie warning, and now there was a smell in the room. It wasn't the smell of moth­balls and air freshener that usually filled her house. This smell was alive and dark. It was gamy, like the breath of a tiger after eating its kill. I took a step closer. There was a glass beside the bed filled with water and Grandma's false teeth. They were magnified by the curved glass.

  "Wow, Grandma," I said. "What gnarly teeth you have."

  "Better to smile at you with, my dear."

  She put out her hand and patted the bed for me to sit down, but even in this dim light, I could see there was something very odd about those hands.