Kelley Armstrong - Clay 1 - Savage.pdf - Kelley Armstrong - margozap

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It was a late summer night. Hot and sticky, like most summer nights in Baton

Rouge. My family had retreated to an RV campsite on the cityfs edge, as they

did every summer weekend. It was past midnight and I was wandering the woods

alone. Nothing unusual about that. I suppose there should be something unusual

about a six-year-old roaming the forest at night, but my parents had a vague

idea of my whereabouts, and didnft care about the specifics. So long as I

stayed out of trouble and didnft bother them, I could do as I liked.

Saturday nights at the campground were always the same. My parents and their

friends would gather at one of the sites, start a bonfire, and drink and talk

until morning. We kids were left to amuse ourselves. My older brothers were

supposed to look after me but, as usual, they were with their friends,

enjoying filched beer and cigarettes, and were quite happy to let me take off

on my own, so long as I hightailed it back to the campsite when my parents

finally whistled us in to bed.

I wandered the wooded paths for a while, but didnft expect to see anything.

Not what I wanted to see, at least. Ifd only seen it once, and when I had,

Ifd ran and not stopped until I was safe with my brothers. Ifd cursed my

cowardice a million times since then. All my nights of exploring, and when I

finally found something worth seeing, Ifd bolted like a baby. Each Saturday

night after that, I screwed up my courage and ventured into the woods . . .

and saw nothing more wondrous than fireflies.

Time was running out. Just yesterday, my brothers had said there were only two

weeks of summer left, which meant only two more weekends at the campground.

Tonight, I decided Ifd take the next step. Ifd go to the string of cabins

along the front road, see if he was in his, maybe catch him heading into the

woods.

As soon as I neared the edge of the woods, I saw him. A gray-haired man,

sitting alone behind his cabin, smoking and staring out into the night. I

watched from the forest, heart hammering. Finally, the man stubbed out his

cigarette, got to his feet and turned to head into the cabin.

In that moment, I made a decision?a decision only a six-year-old child would

even consider.

I stepped from the forest. The man stopped, but didnft turn around.

"Tired of hiding in the trees?" he said.

His voice was sharp with an accent Ifd never heard in these parts. He turned

then. His gaze traveled over me, eyes hooded to bored slits.

"Well? What do you want, boy?"

"I saw what you did."

His expression didnft change. "How nice for you."

Ifd expected him to deny it, or at least play dumb, so when he didnft, I was

left standing there, arguments jammed in my throat.

"I?I saw you do it," I said finally. "I saw what you turned into. I know what

you are."

"So you said." He yawned and rolled his shoulders. "How fast can you run, boy?

Hope itfs not too fast, because, truth is, Ifm not really in the mood?"

"I want to do it."

He stopped stretching. "You want . . .?"

I stepped closer. "I want to do it myself. If you help me, I wonft tell on

you."

"Tell??" He threw back his head and laughed, then looked down at me, lips

still twitching in barely contained laughter. "And how do you think Ifm

supposed to help you? Wave my magic wand and poof, youfre a?"

"You have to bite me." I pulled myself up as tall as I could. "Ifm not

stupid. I know how it works."

His gaze met mine and, for a second, he faltered. Then he shook his head

sharply. "Well, boy, something tells me Ifm going to wake up in that chair a

few hours from now, and this will all be part of the strangest dream Ifve

ever had, but sure, letfs give it a whirl. If somehow I am awake, this is a

hell of a lot easier than chasing you. Now, you just wait right here while I

get ready, okay?"

I nodded.

"If you run away, Ifll have to come after you. Neither of us wants that,

right?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now, itfll sting some, but donft you worry. Before you know it,

itfll all be over."

A final nod from me, and he disappeared into the forest.

Long minutes passed, and I began to worry that hefd cheated me. Then the

brush rustled. From somewhere deep within me came the urge to bolt. I forced

my feet to stay still, despising my weakness.

I turned slowly. I knew what to expect, but still didnft expect it.

Before me stood a wolf as tall as I. His eyes met mine, eyes that were

unmistakably human. Those eyes and his monstrous size were the only things

left of the man. The rest was wolf.

The test had come. I felt my body betray me, arm hairs prickle, legs tremble,

a heavy weight bearing down in my groin as if I was seconds away from pissing

myself. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet his gaze. He had to bite

me. I knew what a werewolf was, and how you became one. My older brothers

delighted in scaring me with monster stories, never guessing that I wasnft

scared at all, that I listened to their tales and thought only of how lucky

the monsters were, that they never had to cower under a bed or hide in a

closet, listening to drunken curses and punches, and knowing if they were

found, theyfd be next. Monsters didnft fear. They were fear. Now I had a

chance to try that for myself. So I took a deep breath, held out my arm and

waited.

Something flickered in the wolffs eyes?surprise, shock, maybe even the barest

hint of uncertainty. He growled. I didnft budge. He snapped at my arm, teeth

sinking in. Pain ripped through it. I stumbled back, tripping over my feet and

falling as he let go. Warm blood trickled down my arm and hot urine soaked my

jeans. I looked at my arm and saw blood flowing from twin gashes in the soft

underside. I struggled to my feet. The wolf stared at me, as if confused. His

tongue lolled out, blood-pink saliva dripping from its tip.

I met his eyes and grinned. I had done it. Ifd been bitten. The gift was

mine.

He lowered his head, eyes never leaving mine. A low growl started in the pit

of his stomach. He hunkered down. Then he sprang.

I should have died that moment. That was his plan, not to turn me into a

werewolf, but to kill me, to put a quick and easy end to the minor

inconvenience of my existence. So what happened? Was I so brave and strong and

smart that I outmaneuvered my fate? Hardly. I tripped.

I saw him spring. As I stumbled back, my foot caught on a root and I twisted

sideways. Instead of landing on top of me, the wolf crashed down beside me,

fur brushing my arm.

Somehow, I managed to keep enough balance to come out of the tumble running.

Instinctively, I ran for the front of the cabin, for the main road heading

past the campground.

Before Ifd gone twenty feet, I heard a snort and knew the wolf had recovered

from his fall. My throat dried up. My brain shut down. My legs seemed to move

of their own accord, running so fast that slivers of pain shot through my

calves and my lungs.

I raced for the road. I heard pounding, either the blood rushing in my ears or

his paws on the hard-packed dirt?it didnft matter. I knew he was behind me.

I heard a scream. No, not a scream. The screech of tires and brakes. The flash

of headlights. A car heading into the campground.

I tripped over on the curb and sprawled onto the road. Someone shouted. I

lifted my head to see two men jump from the car, arms waving. The wolf

hesitated, then turned and ran for the forest.

"What the hell was that?" one man yelled. "It was huge!"

"Forget it," the other said. "Go call an ambulance. The kidfs bleeding."

I wobbled to my feet.

"Whoa. Hold on there, little guy."

I looked up, saw them approaching, two large faceless shadows. I bolted for

the opposite side of the road, heading for the highway across the embankment.

Behind me, the men shouted. Instead of following on foot, though, they ran

back to their car. By the time they got the car turned around, I was long

gone.

I donft remember what happened next. I assume there was a search for me,

maybe my picture made it onto a milk carton somewhere. If so, I knew nothing

of it and, in later years, never checked back to see how big a fuss my

disappearance had caused. As for my parents, Ifm sure they played up the

tragedy for all it was worth, but stopped searching the moment everyone else

stopped caring. If there was a search, I escaped simply by avoiding people, an

aversion that became second nature after I was bitten.

Of those first few weeks, all I remember is the pain. Pain and hunger. My mind

retreated to some dark hole in my psyche, emerging now and then to spout

ribbons of gibberish, then muttering away into silence. The world turned to

permanent shadows, even while the Louisiana sun parboiled my skin. Ordinary

shapes contorted into funhouse mirror reflections. Alley cats grew to the size

of ponies, with gaping mouths and fangs that threatened to swallow me whole.

Childrenfs laughter twisted into the taunting laughs of the old werewolf. I

had only to hear a human voice and Ifd run scuttling to the shadows. And

still the hunger grew.

Survival

As a human child, Ifd already begun learning to fend for myself. With my

transformation came the boost I needed to survive. A six-year-old child canft

live on his own, but a half-grown wolf already has the tools and the instincts

he needs. Instinct made me avoid humans and other potential predators. Common

sense told me to take shelter from the elements. My sense of smell sharpened

and tuned to the scent of food, leading me to trash bins and Dumpsters and

road-kill.

I never went home. Never tried to. I could say that Ifd forgotten where home

was or that I was afraid of how my family would react, but thatfs a lie. I

chose not to return.

I donft remember the first time I changed into a wolf. One night, I passed

out, and awoke to find my body covered in yellow fur. My brain was beyond

reacting. It took this in stride, as it had everything else in my new life. I

got to my feet and went in search of food.

As a wolf, I learned to hunt . . . or at least to scavenge. If I managed to

kill the odd mouse or sparrow, it was more dumb luck than skill. Even that

added food wasnft enough to feed the fire in my gut.

One day, as the hunger threatened to gnaw through my stomach, I realized I had

to find something larger than a mouse or half-eaten hamburger. I left my bed

of matted newspapers and went hunting.

The city was in the midst of an mid-autumn heat wave. The midday sun shoved

through the buildings and trees, and broiled the pavement into a stinking

stream of asphalt. Every living thing with a brain had taken shelter, leaving

me hunting for food in a scorched wasteland.

Fortune let me stumble onto a cat napping beneath a bush. The cat jerked awake

and stared at me in heat-stupid confusion. I flung myself forward . . . and

leapt clear over the cat, which quickly regained its senses and ran away. I

got to my feet and went in search of new prey, but it was no use. Fortune,

thoroughly disgusted with my ineptitude, left to find a worthier recipient.

I wandered through the alleyways, eating from the open trash-cans, and

drooling at the ones sealed tight. In this weather, most people covered their

cans, so easy pickings were rare. Finally, after what seemed like hours of

searching, a smell hit me, the stink of dirt and decay, but underlain with

something that cut short my retreat. The smell of death. Of fresh meat.

I followed the stench, rounded a corner and came upon a pile of rags shoved

under a concrete step. The smell overpowered my senses, making my eyes water,

and prodding me to turn tail and run for cleaner air. But the lingering scent

of meat kept my paws riveted to the pavement. Buried somewhere under those

rags was food, and I damned well wasnft leaving until I found it.

I eased forward until I was under the step. Then I grabbed the first layer of

cloth between my teeth and tugged. A filth-crusted blanket pulled away from

the heap beneath, and the heap became a man. A dead man. A derelict. I donft

know what had killed him. Maybe the heat. It didnft matter. All that mattered

was that he was dead, and I was starving.

With the added strength of a full belly, I was able to roam farther in search

of food. After a couple of days I came to the bayou, and soon made it my home.

My den was probably a cubbyhole in some hillock or outcropping of rock. I

remember it only as a montage of senses, someplace warm, dry and safe. I was

comfortable there, away from people. I quickly learned to hunt rats and birds.

While they didnft always fill my stomach, they kept me from starving, and

that was enough.

One evening, I found myself back in the city. I donft remember how or why I

arrived there. Maybe somehow I knew that on that day I had to be in Baton

Rouge, at that hour I had to be in that particular park, at that moment I had

to be beside that pathway, waiting. My life pivoted on this point as much as

it had the day I'd confronted the old werewolf.

I was in wolf form. This wasnft intentional?it was no longer a matter of

intention, if it ever had been. I vacillated between forms endlessly, falling

asleep human, waking a wolf, hunting as wolf, eating as human. Ifd stopped

noticing the difference. The agony of the change became part of my life, like

the ache in my gut.

That evening, I lay hidden in a stand of flowering bushes, watching the

passersby. When the scent first wafted past, my hazy brain recognized it as

familiar, bringing to mind an image of the old werewolf whofd bitten me.

A growl escaped before I could choke it back. The sound was soft, barely

louder than the rustle of dry leaves, and nobody noticed. Nobody except one

man, dark haired man, maybe as old as my father, and about the same size,

average height and broad shouldered. He was strolling through the park gardens

with a young woman. When I growled, he turned and scanned the area.

I pushed back into the bush. He caught the movement. His eyes narrowed and his

nostrils flared. He said something to the woman, the sound reaching me only as

garbled noise. Leaving her behind, he started toward the bush, his long

strides devouring the ground between us.

As he approached from upwind, I caught a whiff of scent. It was the same smell

that had made me growl, the smell that had reminded me of the old werewolf.

But this obviously wasnft the same man. My muddled brain struggled to make

sense of it. Finally, some deeper instinct solved the riddle, and I realized

that what Ifd recognized was the common scent of a werewolf.

As my brain hit the answer, it freed my legs. I tore back out of the bush and

didnft stop running until I reached my den in the bayou.

Kelley Armstrong - Clay 1 - Savage.pdf

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