Defiance

“Our very own Dibsie.” Shanks’s grin stretched, if that were possible. He sized Nat up, dark eyes running appreciatively down her. “Mark that spot, Skyrunner. I’ll set my teeth.”

She waved her fingers, pale-blue polish glittering. “You wish, fleabag. Dibs, man, congrats.”

Dibs was scarlet by now. He looked down at his feet, muttering something, and the other wulfen clustered around us. I knew most of them—Shanks’s loose collection of friends and buddies, familiar faces.

Most of them had been there last night. But they didn’t treat me any differently. Bobby T. gave me a thumbs-up, rolling his shoulders under his leather jacket; on Nat’s other side slim dark Pablo crouched in an acid- green Lucky Charms T-shirt, the change rippling just under his skin. Gerry hopped on his toes once, twice, his brunet curls bouncing. They were all excited.

“All right, rules!” Shanks didn’t have to raise his voice. Everyone just went still and listened. As wulfen went, he was pretty dom. Dominant, that is. Alpha.

Kinky, Graves said way back in my head. I shook it away, and Nat glanced at me.

Shanks just plowed straight ahead. A flash of orange went through his eyes, and his skin rippled a little, like little mice under the surface. “No cabs, no buses. Straight-up run. Midpoint’s Coney and home base is back here, but no lying in wait.” This was directed at Alex, who shrugged and grinned, his hair standing up in wild vital springing curls. “Jumping’s legal, so’s using the crowd. Changeform’s only legal if it’s sub rosa. Got it?”

Which basically meant it was a pretty regular daylight run, nobody could hang around home base or midpoint waiting to jump Dibs, and we had to avoid being so weird it would make a commotion. My heart leapt, pulse settling into a high gallop. A disbelieving smile cracked my face. “We’re playing rabbit?”

“Toldja it was a surprise.” Nat bumped me with her hip. At least she didn’t get all weird about touching me. Maybe it was okay for female wulfen, I dunno. Or maybe it was how I smelled that turned the boys off. Now that I was, um, fertile. And getting so close to blooming.

I almost hopped up and down like Gerry. I’d heard about chase-the-rabbit—one wulfen bolts and the others give a head start, then the hunt’s on. It teaches the pursuers cooperation and tracking, and teaches the rabbit how to slip free of pursuit.

Plus, it’s just plain fun. And this was the first time I’d ever been invited. They took me along on other runs, but playing rabbit meant I could keep up.

It meant I was part of the group. My heart just about swelled up like a balloon, and I looked down at my boot toes. I didn’t want anyone to see my big stupid grin.

“Prize?” Alex piped up. “Come on, can’t have rabbit without a prize!”

“Catch him before he gets back home and we’ll do a flyby for pizza.” Shanks tilted his head slightly. “Catch him before Coney, and we’ll get beer with it.”

I made a face. So did Nat. But the guys all rumbled their approval.

“How much time do I get?” Dibs was calming down, even though I could hear his pulse thundering, and little ripples raced through his skin. The Other was turning briefly inside him, making his eyes glow too. It’s the thing inside them wulfen can tap for the changeform, the thing that has a line right down into the heart of a hunting beast.

It didn’t scare me. I had so much else to be scared of nowadays that wulfen were looking pretty damn safe. Plus, I trusted them.

I trusted them all.

Shanks punched Dibs on the shoulder, but very lightly. “You’ve already wasted half of it, Dibsie. Get going.”

Dibs stood there for a few seconds. A slow, very sweet grin lit up his entire face, and I blinked. In that one second, shy, blushing Dibs looked . . . well, almost handsome.

Then he turned on his heel and was gone, skirting the edge of the pool and vanishing into leafshade and sunshine. His hair blazed for a moment, but then branches moved to hide that gleam.

Shanks glanced at me. The orange in his irises fought with the fluid leaf-shadows. “Keep up, Dru-girl.”

I snorted. “You haven’t lost me yet, Robert.” It was what Christophe called him, just like he called Dibs Samuel all the time.

It was Shanks’s turn to make a little dismissive noise. He folded down, crouching, dark head cocked and the emo swoosh hiding his eyes. Readiness ran through the rest of them like oil over the surface of a plate, tension gathering. Nat rolled her shoulders twice, glancing at me. The last couple runs she’d kept pace right beside me, and once she’d grabbed my hand just as I was getting ready to launch myself over a couple of elevated trains.

Don’t ask. Anyway.

Shanks threw his head back and howled. The rest of them joined in, a rising chorus of high thrillglass baying, their throats swelling and their eyes lambent. Even under late-spring sun, that cry filled my head with moonlight and plucked deep below the conscious surface. It teased and taunted and tweaked and pulled at that . . . thing.

The low, furry, clawed thing inside all of us that remembers the joy of night-hunting.

My chin was up, my mouth open, and a spear of silver ice wound through their harmony, a svetocha’s distinctive cry. It was uncomfortably like a sucker’s glassine hunting scream, but I was helpless to stop it, and they never said a word about it.

Nat yanked on my arm, and the world turned over. It rushed underneath me, my boots touching down every so often, and my heart leapt against my rib cage like it wanted to escape. Feathers brushed every inch of my skin, and I hurled myself forward in the middle of the shifting, leaping pack of wulfen.

They closed around me even on daylight runs, arms pumping and the change rippling over them like clear heavy water, fur not quite breaking free of the surface. We poured around the edge of the Pond and the whole green length of Central Park unreeled underneath us like a treadmill’s belt. As always, it was oddly silent, just the wind in my ears, stinging my eyes, all of them suddenly welded into one creature running just for the heart- exploding joy of it. If you’ve ever seen a cheetah going all-out, maybe you can guess what I mean.

Breath tearing in throat, I jumped and my right boot skimmed the top of a granite boulder, barely brushing the moss. My leg uncoiled, pushed me forward like a slingshot. The rest of them leapt, Evan catching a tree limb and jackknifing, launching himself into clear air. He landed with sweet natural authority and was neck-and-nose with Shanks for a few steps, but he fell back as the leggy boy veered and we burst out of the Park’s green into the concrete jungle.

We ran, flashing through hot gold sun and gray exhaust-scorch shadow, and for a little while I could pretend someone else was running with us. A boy in a long black canvas coat, his green eyes alight and the change never quite breaking through his skin—because loup-garou use the Other for mental dominance, not for the physical morphing.

We ran, and the ghost of Graves ran with us. If tears slicked my cheeks, I could pretend they were stung free by the wind. We hit the Brooklyn Battery toll tunnel and poured through in merry violation of several laws, relying on sheer outrageousness to keep people from really looking as we blurred single file on the skinny walkway next to honking traffic. Nat right behind me, matching me stride for stride, every once in a while sending up her own peculiar cry that trailed off on a soprano note like crystal just before shattering. Cars whizzing slowly behind us, the glare of a summer day gone as some of the boys even veered out into traffic, playing tag-me with the cars whose drivers would only catch a glimpse or a flash of bright eyes or tossing hair. Brakes squealed, but we were already free of the tunnel, lunging up into sunlight, and the touch flamed inside my head.

We broke south as soon as we hit the entrance, and Stuvy’s tangle flashed by in random bullets of impression—a dry cleaner’s, a boarded-up nightclub, a row of brownstones frowning as we tore down the street. My mother’s locket bobbed against my chest, a warm forgiving touch. The song of wind in my ears and the world unreeling under me shut away every nasty thought, every pain except the stitch threatening in my side and the sweet thrill of my heart working so fast it might explode with delight.

He almost made Coney Island. I almost had him, too, but he jagged right when we were half a block behind him, running all-out but not realizing he was boxed yet. Shanks leapt past me, clearing a bicycle rack and barely touching the street as he uncoiled, going airborne again. My breath came in high harsh rasps, my entire body sang, Gran’s owl gave a soft cry. The rest of them closed around me like a warm coat, and Shanks brought him down in Calvert Vaux Park with an ebullient whoop that was equal parts wulf and boy. They went rolling in dusty grass on