Red Rider's Hood

5 Making mischief

"They lived just around the corner," Grandma told Marissa and me as she poured us cups of scalding-hot wolfsbane tea. "When things got bad, they taught us how to brew wolfsbane―strong enough to keep the wolves away, but not strong enough to kill you when you drank it. She spooned a heavy dose of honey into each of our cups. "There. Try that."

I stirred and took a sip. It tasted a lot better than the wolfs­bane cigarette had smelled. It tasted like jasmine and mint.

Marissa tried her tea, grimaced, and added more honey. "What do you remember about them?"

Grandma shrugged. "They were just a friendly couple. Quiet. You'd never guess they were werewolf hunters. When they finally put Xavier's gang down, they just disappeared."

"Any pictures of them?" I asked. Photography was Grandma's hobby. No one ever escaped her lens.

She just shook her head sadly. "They were camera shy. If a camera came out, they made themselves scarce. I suppose I understand why. They were only safe as long as they were anonymous."

"Would you recognize them if you saw them again?" I asked.

Grandma sighed. "Thirty years changes people. I can't say I would."

Marissa stood and began to pace the room. "If we don't even know what they look like, how can we find them?"

"The medallion," said Grandma.

"Huh?"

"One of them wore a medallion―very scarred, very old. Bronze, I think it was. Find the medallion, and you'll find them."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," I said. "How are we going to track down a medallion?"

I reached to pour myself another cup of tea, but Grandma stopped me.

"Careful," she said. "One cup is plenty. As long as it stays in our blood, it should keep the werewolves away." Then she turned to Marissa. "Tell me, dear, how did you come by the skull of Xavier Soames?"

Marissa glanced around as if the walls might have ears, then spoke in a low whisper. "It was my uncle who got it," she said. "He's the one who told me about Xavier Soames, and how the Wolves had terrorized the neighborhood. It made him a little bit crazy, I think. For as long as I can remember, he's been very superstitious―carrying rabbit's feet, avoiding ladders, that sort of thing. He taught me all he knew about werewolves. He had read that the best way to keep evil spirits from coming back was to make mischief with their bones."

"What kind of mischief?" I asked.

"Moving the bones around in the grave, that sort of thing."

I swallowed hard. Digging up a grave, opening a coffin, and shifting bones was not the kind of mischief I'd ever want to get into.

"My uncle snuck into the graveyard late one night, just before the moon rose, and dug old Xavier up. It had been only a year, but there wasn't much left of him but crusty bones."

"Makes sense," Grandma said. "The earth is quick to con­sume the flesh of things that ain't natural."

"Anyway," continued Marissa, "he began to do what he came there to do, moving the bones and all, and then the moon rose. At that moment, right before his eyes, the bones began to change. Every single human bone transformed into the bone of a wolf. It scared him half out of his mind―he thought the bones themselves would reassemble and attack him. But they didn't."

"So not even the bones of a werewolf can resist the call of a full moon," Grandma said with a shiver. "That's more than I ever wanted to know."

"Before he closed the coffin and filled in the grave, he took the skull. He's kept it locked in a chest ever since, afraid to take it out, but afraid to get rid of it, too."

"Where's your uncle now?" I asked. "Maybe he can lead us to the hunters."

Marissa shook her head. "Once he realized that Xavier's grandson was also a werewolf and was gathering a new gang, he left town. He gave me the skull before he left to warn me. The first time I saw the change myself, it scared me half out of my mind, but pretty soon I realized I could use the skull kind of like a wolf clock. All I have to do is look at that skull to know when the werewolves are out. And of course, I can use it to put people like Red here to the test."

"Very clever," Grandma said, but before Marissa could feel too proud of herself, she added, "but you're a fool for carry­ing it around so people can see. All it takes is one member of the pack to report back to Cedric, and they won't even wait for the full moon to put you on the menu."

Marissa was a little hurt by the reprimand. "My brother looks out for me."

Grandma tossed a sour look toward her. "Marvin? He's one of them! He was right there next to Cedric when he threw me in the basement."

"And stole the money from me," I added.

"No. If he was one of them, I'm sure I'd know. He's gotten in over his head maybe, but I'm sure he hasn't been 'made' yet."

"'Made'?" I asked.

"When you join the Wolves, you don't become a werewolf right away," Marissa explained. "You've got to show your loy­alty, and when Cedric thinks you're ready, he bites you, and once he does, there's no turning back. You're a werewolf."

"Does Marvin know about the skull?" I asked.

"I never showed it to him." Marissa began to pace as she thought about her brother. "Marvin has never liked Cedric―it doesn't make sense that he'd want to join the Wolves. He's got to be working some angle―trying to trick them into telling him their secrets, or trying to expose them, or something. Whatever it is, he can't really be one of them." I could see that the more she talked, the more she convinced herself she was right. "I know he helped steal your money . . . but I also know in my heart that I can trust him."

Well, I wasn't about to tell her any different―after all, she loved her brother, whether he deserved that love or not.

Grandma, on the other hand, spoke her mind plain and clear. "I don't trust him as far as I could kick him, and neither should you. Trust doesn't help you survive at a time like this."

But Marissa shook her head. "Trust is the only thing that helps you survive," she said. The two of them stared each other down.

"You're a foolish girl."

"And you're a suspicious old woman!" Marissa said.

"So, we've got a little trust and a little suspicion," I said, trying to referee before they got too angry at each other. "Maybe having both is a good thing." I turned to Marissa. "Marvin doesn't have to know everything you do, does he?"

Marissa sighed and shook her head. That seemed to settle Grandma a bit. "The only ones I'll trust are those hunters," Grandma said.

"Will you trust me, Grandma?" I asked.

I couldn't see her eyes behind her glasses, which had fogged up from the steam rising from her mug. "Of course, Red. Of course."

We stayed over at Grandma's that night, since the moon was still full. Marissa told her parents she was staying with a friend, and mine were thrilled when I called to tell them I was spend­ing some quality time with Grandma. When the sun rose, Marissa and I took the Avenue C bus, sitting silently together in the back. Only after she rang the bell for her stop did she turn to me. "Last night was the third night of the full moon, so we won't have to face any wolves until next month."

But I shook my head. "We'll still have to face wolves," I told her. "They'll just be human ones."

"True enough."

I pounded my fist into my hand with such force my palm stung. A sudden fury raged in me that I couldn't put down. "I could take on Cedric right now."

"You gotta be patient," Marissa said. "Being reckless right now will get you killed."

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could, she closed her hand gently over my fist. Then she thought for a moment. "Live by your impulses, and you'll be just like them. You're bet­ter than that, aren't you, Red?"

I couldn't answer her. Partly because I couldn't stop staring at her hand on mine, but also because I didn't know.

When I got home, Dad was gone―he was on one of his twelve-hour shifts―but Mom was still getting ready to leave for the day.

"It was nice of you to stay over with Grandma last night," she said. "She gets lonely in that house all by herself. You're a good grandson, Red."

The biggest problem with my mom is she can read me like a TV Guide. All she's gotta do is look at me to know whether it's drama or comedy. Today, I guess the Guide told her I was tuned into a horror marathon. She pursed her lips, read me a bit fur­ther, and said, "All right, what's wrong?"

I sighed, and tried to figure out what I could get away with telling her. For a second split finer than a neck hair, I thought of telling her everything. That the gang that called themselves the Wolves really were, and they were feeding on innocent townsfolk every full moon. But my parents weren't exactly the type of people I could talk to about this. My dad was a para­medic; he saw life and death every day, and nothing in between. To him there were neither curses nor miracles, only timing and triage. As for Mom, she was getting a degree in architecture. Her world was all lines and angles on a blueprint. Even in her religious beliefs she went straight by the book. For her there was no thinking outside of the lines. No, I couldn't let them know, but I couldn't lie either. I couldn't tell her Saturday- morning cartoons, when the TV Guide on my face said Creature Feature.

"My Mustang got stolen," I said. It was true, and it was hor­rific, at least to me.

"Oh, Red," she said. "And you just finished working on it!"

"I never should have left it parked on the street," I said, my anger real. "I should have put it in Grandma's garage."

"We'll go to the police," she told me. "We'll make a report."

"I already did," I told her. "With Grandma."

I knew she'd call Grandma to talk about it, but I also knew that Grandma was quick enough to play along and not give away the truth.

"You'll get it back," Mom said. "I know you will."

"So do I," I told her. She hugged me, gave me some bus fare, then left. Once she was gone, I took a few sprigs of wolfs­bane from my pocket, made myself a cup of tea just like Grandma taught me, and drank it down to the bitter, weedy dregs. Then I went out looking for Cedric Soames.

Cedric's little sister was at her usual spot, jumping rope with her friends, doing it so well, you'd think double Dutch should be an Olympic sport. When she saw me signal to her, she hopped out of the spinning circle of ropes and skipped over to me.

"Cedric said you'd be coming by," she said, flashing me her ugly smile. "He said to warn you not to look for him and his friends, or he might have to do something nasty."

"Where is he?"

"Driving around in our new car." Tina popped a pink bub­ble that stuck to her face. "It's nice. But I guess you already know how nice it is."

I huffed angrily, and she wrinkled her nose. "You got bad breath. Smells like you been chewing crabgrass."

I blew more air in her direction, wondering if Tina might be a werewolf, too.

"Ewww," she said. "Go suck an Altoid."

Yes, I had to admit, wolfsbane breath was pretty gross―but the fact that she still stayed there after smelling it meant Cedric hadn't given his little sister the bite.

"You tell your brother he's gonna pay for that car with silver."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He'll know."

I walked off, and she returned to her friends, but when I looked back, it seemed to me that she couldn't pick up the rhythm of the ropes no matter how hard she tried.

For three days, rather than taking the bus, I rode my old red Schwinn around town, always imagining I'd see my Mustang just around the corner. I wasn't quite sure what I'd do if I came across Cedric, so perhaps it was best I didn't find it.

Marissa and I worked day and night to track down the werewolf hunters. It was a dangerous business, because if word of what we were doing got back to Cedric, we'd be history.

Most of Marissa's time was spent at the library, scouring old newspapers and public records for clues. She discovered the dates and names of people who'd gone missing. She found out which homes were bought and sold during those dark times, and even found out where some of the sellers moved to―hop­ing that it would lead us to the hunters.

Me, I didn't have the patience for that sort of thing. I had to be on the prowl, so I took to the streets in Grandma's neigh­borhood. I started mowing lawns and doing other favors for some of Grandma's older neighbors, getting them to like me and trust me enough―and for me to trust them enough―to ask them questions.

"I've been in this very house for thirty-six years," one old-timer said as I helped him take his trash cans out to the curb.

"Wow, that's a long time to live in one place," I said... then I started meandering around to the real questions. "I hear rumors about weird things that went on way back then."

He looked down into his trash can like there was something interesting in there, but I knew he was just avoiding my gaze. "Depends on what you mean by weird."

"Weird like a couple of hunters."

"Nothing weird about hunters. Lots of folks hunt."

"Well, I hear these hunters didn't exactly hunt deer. Or so I heard."

He still stared into the trash can, so I pushed just a little further.

"It makes me wonder where they might be now."

"Dead, I expect," the old man said. "Hunters of that nature don't live very long."

"But if they are alive, I wonder where they might be . . . and how a person might be able to get them a message. ..."

The old man backed away from the trash can and waved his hand in front of his nose. "Whew, what a stench." He covered the can with the lid. "Good thing about bad rubbish is you can make the stench go away just by covering it up. It never comes back as long as you keep a tight lid on it."

"Maybe so," I told him. "But sometimes the really bad stenches come back."

He looked at me then. We both knew we weren't talking about trash. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled dollar bills, holding them out to me. "Thanks for your help."

I didn't take his money. "My pleasure."

I turned to go, but before I got too far, he called to me.

"If you talk to the right people, maybe your message will get through."

I turned to ask him who might the right people be―but he had already gone inside.

There were a few more folks on the street who had been around for thirty years or more, but they were all like the old man―afraid to talk, like maybe just talking about it would bring the bad times back. Still, I did find out some things. Like how every house on the block had once had silver doorknobs. And how the local playground had become overgrown with wolfsbane that someone had planted years ago. That is, until someone mysteriously torched it just a few months back. Then there was this one crazy old woman who showed me a little lock of hair she kept in a jar of formaldehyde.

"It came from a werewolf," she told me, her eyes big as golf balls. "It turns to wolf fur on the full moon."

The old woman also said it belonged to Frank Sinatra, but I had serious doubts.

It was as I rode down Bleakwood Avenue on my way to meet Marissa at the library that I heard the threatening roar of a motorcycle beside me. Before I knew what happened, a Harley, black as a moonless night, cut me off, clipped my front wheel, and sent me flying head over heels onto the pavement, skinning my palms and knees.

I looked up, fully ready to battle whoever it was, but was stopped by what I saw. There was a black medallion hanging around the cyclist's neck, dangling heavily against his leather jacket. I tried to get a glimpse of his face, but his visor was as dark as the motorcycle. Still, I could tell he was looking straight at me. This hadn't been an accident.

"I've been looking for you," I said, picking myself off the ground. "The Wolves are back. We need your help."

He didn't respond right away. He just stood there, sizing me up. And then a harsh whisper came from beneath his visor.

"Stay out of this!"

Then he gunned the Harley and disappeared down Bleakwood as quickly as he had come.