Ekaterina Sedia - Running with the Pack

Humans were clearly mad. Markéta changed again—she hadn’t made the change so many times in a day in years, if ever—and sat staring at Radcliffe with a wolfish gaze, waiting for him to falter. Minutes dragged on, and he remained steady, until she herself looked away and gave a short sharp laugh. “Then I suppose we should find water that I might wash myself in, and my clothes, and then go to young Lord Thomas with the sad news about his father. And then I think we shall visit France, Master Radcliffe, there to further discuss our future.”

“Randolf,” he said absently, and offered her a hand to help her stand. “My given name is Randolf. Will you call me by it?”

Markéta froze, then laughed and put her hand in his. “Randolf. Wolf’s shield . Did you know the meaning of your name, sir?”

He drew her upward, only smiling when she was on her feet. “I did. It bodes well, does it not?”

“If one is bound by superstition and coincidence, perhaps.”

Radcliffe’s eyebrows rose. “And are you?”

“I’m wiaralde-wulf, Master Radcliffe, a creature of superstition myself. I suppose I must then be bound by it.” Her teasing faltered. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone to walk beside, Randolf. Are you certain of this?”

“I am certain,” he murmured, “that there is a world awaiting us that we cannot yet imagine. Let us not disappoint it, Markéta. Let us see what discoveries lie in store.”

And what future her people might find, she did not say, if there were men even now willing to embrace the wiaralde. There would be time enough for those thoughts in the years ahead, and she had spent so long thinking as a human did. It would be good, for a little while, to embrace the wolf.

With a smile and a loll of her tongue, she leapt forward, not to abandon, not ever to abandon, but to scout ahead of her shield until he might learn to be a wolf himself.

“My dad can’t come to parent-teacher conferences on Monday,” Tyler says. He keeps his voice calm and steady as he meets his English teacher’s eyes. “He has to work.”

Tyler is a pro at this. He can tell exactly when doubt flickers in Mrs. Jankovic’s eyes and when his open, friendly expression settles it for her. There are too many eighth-graders in her class for her to chase up worries about every one of them. Too many kids in this middle school, period.

That’s why Tyler’s dad chose it for him.

When Tyler gets home, he hears his dad moving around in the basement—probably getting it ready for next week. Tyler scoops out some ice cream for himself and settles down at the kitchen table to do his homework early. His friend Paul is coming over later, and Tyler’s dad has promised to rent them a DVD. They’re hoping for Tomb Raider , but he’s told them not to hold their breath.

Footsteps sound on the basement stairs, behind the closed door. They pause for so long that Tyler turns around to check that the industrial-strength bolt hasn’t accidentally locked itself into place. He’s craning around to look, vanilla ice cream still sliding down his throat, when the door bangs open.

The first thing he notices is the smell, acrid and unmistakable.

“Sorry,” his dad mumbles. He averts his eyes from Tyler’s shocked face, stumbles into the kitchen. He’s already losing coordination, his movements shambling.

Tyler finds his voice, but it comes out as a squeak. “It’s not supposed to come for a week!”

“I guess it’s starting early this month.” His dad shrugs, paws at the freezer, sighs heavily. “Can you get the ice cream out for me?”

Tyler shoves his chair back, hurries to the fridge. All his senses prickle as he passes close to his father. There’s no visible sign yet—not unless you know how to read his dad’s expression—but all his other senses can tell that the Change has begun.

Enemy , they whisper. Goosebumps crisscross his skin. Run away.

Dad , he tells himself, and slips between his dad’s big body and the fridge. He feels his dad’s uneven breathing ruffle his hair as he opens the freezer. He doesn’t let himself look back or edge away. He pulls out the carton of ice cream and scoops out three dollops into a blue bowl. Only then does he allow himself to turn around.

Yellow streaks have already appeared in his father’s eyes. The smell of heavy musk is growing.

How long does he have left?

The phone rings. Tyler shoves the bowl at his dad and darts for it.

“Hey, Ty.” It’s Paul, his voice bright and cheerful. “What movie are we gonna watch? Did we score Tomb Raider ?”

“Sorry,” Tyler says. His voice wants to quaver, but he won’t let it. You can never let anyone suspect, his mother told him. That was the first rule she taught him, and the last, before she left him here alone with It. “Tonight isn’t so good after all. Maybe we can do it some other time?”

Tyler has a game he plays with himself, sometimes. Times like tonight, when the heavy bolt is locked into place, but he can still hear It lurching through the basement, searching for a way out. He looks through the DVD collection on the bookcase, hums to himself to drown out the noise, and plays the Game.

The Game is this: What if Tyler’s mom called on the phone right now, and he could only give her three reasons to come back? Which three would they be?

Sometimes he decides on: I clean my own bedroom now, I got all As and Bs last quarter, and I’m learning how to cook.

Sometimes, when it’s been long enough since the last time It came, when his dad’s just bought Tyler a new video game, or they’ve spent a whole evening watching dumb movies and laughing together over them, he thinks he might tell her: Things are easier now. It’s safe for you to come home. I think he’s getting better.

Better. What a joke. Something crashes downstairs. Tyler hums louder, scanning the same shelf of DVDs over and over again, trying to find one that sounds interesting right now.

It’s never arrived this early in the month before.

Tonight, if Tyler’s mom called, he would lie to her. He would say: You’d better come back, or else we’ll forget you. I think Dad might have already. I almost never think about you.

He would threaten her: If you don’t come back, I’m gonna take your picture off the wall in my room and throw it away.

And as his third reason, he would tell the biggest lie of all: Maybe we’ll decide that we don’t even want you back.

But the phone sits silent and still all night long, and Tyler falls asleep on the couch with his knees scrunched up against his chest and his hands still pressed against his ears.

“Tyler,” Mrs. Jankovic says the next morning. “No homework?”

“Sorry.” Tyler shrugs and slouches past her, sluggish with lack of sleep. He drops down into the seat next to Paul. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Paul frowns at him. “What happened last night?”

“Stuff came up.” Tyler shrugs again. The movement feels heavy and slow. “My dad wasn’t feeling so good.” The words taste sour in his mouth.

When he looks up, he sees Mrs. Jankovic watching him.

By the time Tyler’s finished with the school day, he’s in a filthy mood. He stomps back into the house and throws down his backpack. In the basement, a sudden silence falls. A moment later, shuffling footsteps approach the bottom of the stairs, trying to be silent. They mount the stairs softly.

“You idiot!” Tyler yells. “I can hear you, you know! The door’s locked anyway. You can’t get through!”

There’s a sudden rush up the staircase. A heavy body lands against the door with a thud. The thick wood holds, secured by the bolt. Tyler stares at the door, his head throbbing. A hoarse grunt of frustration sounds. Long fingernails scratch at the other side of the door.