Red Rider's Hood

I thought Cedric might whack me in the head, too, but he didn't. He just gave Klutz his cue stick back and took Loogie's soda, like it was his own. It was an unspoken rule: Whatever was yours was also Cedric's. Which maybe explained why none of the Wolves ever showed up with their girlfriends.

'You're full of questions today, Little Red.'

But Cedric offered me no answers. Instead, he demanded to know more about the so-called Confederacy of Werewolf Hunters, so I made up stories about John Steel and Danielle Grisham, and how they were, at this very minute, flying in from London.

As for Grandma, she thought the stories I was feeding the Wolves were a fine thing. 'When you're at war, like we are, it's not called 'lies,' it's called disinformation,' Grandma said. 'Spreading disinformation is a powerful weapon. If they think they're outmatched and outnumbered, they'll be scared and start doing stupid things. That's when we'll have them!'

I couldn't tell her how spinning all those lies to Cedric was making me feel all twisted up inside.

I had once told Cedric that Grandma had a secret room where she kept all her werewolf stuff. Good thing he never came back to look for himself because there was no such place. There was a darkroom, but that hadn't been used for years. All that was in there were old photographic supplies. Grandma's werewolf work was done out in the open; the only thing shield­ing it from prying eyes were her Venetian blinds.

Four days before the first full moon, she was working a blowtorch, melting down silver jewelry into bullet slugs on the same table where she served Thanksgiving dinner.

'Silver bullets aren't exactly an item you get at Wal-Mart,' she told me. 'You gotta make them yourself, but you have to be careful.'

I watched her pour the molten silver into little molds, like she was making a pie. She had bought a whole bunch of .22-caliber shells and had removed the bullets, replacing them with the silver ones once they had cooled in the mold. 'Not exactly rocket science,' she said, 'but if you do a shoddy job, the bullet may just blow up in the barrel?or in your hand.'

'I hate guns,' I mumbled to myself, but Grandma heard.

'Don't you worry, Red?I got you covered,' she said. She took off her protective glasses and went into the closet, coming out with something you don't usually find in your grandma's closet. It was a steel crossbow.

'Ever use one of these?'

'No,' I said. I had spent a couple of weeks in summer camp once and did some archery there, but this wasn't summer-camp archery we were talking about.

'I'm making you some silver-tipped arrows. They'll do the job.'

I took it from her and held it by its smooth ivory handle. It was heavy, but so well balanced, it felt half its weight. A cross­bow was different from a gun. Crossbows were always in the hands of good guys. At least in the movies. I found that I could stand to hold it, in a way I could never stand to hold a gun. This was a fine anti- werewolf weapon.

'A werewolf's a big target, but it'll also be moving,' she said. 'You're going to need practice.'

13 Abject End Park

Crossbow practice needs space. Crossbow practice needs soli­tude. And, most importantly, crossbow practice requires a target?in my case, a very big target?and one that can stop an arrow without splintering it. Like the massively thick oaks that have taken over Abject End Park?the border between our part of town and the ruined buildings of the Canyons.

I figured the best time to practice would be at dawn. Aside from the occasional cop car or garbage truck, the city would still be asleep?and so would the Wolves, sleeping off whatever mayhem they had gotten into the night before. As long as I got back home before any of them were up and about, they wouldn't know what I was doing.

I set my alarm for 4:30 a.m. and was in the park just as the sun was beginning to rise, turning the eastern sky a grimy yel­low. It was barely sunrise, and the day was already beginning to get hot.

Marissa was already there, waiting for me. 'So you made it.'

She stifled a yawn as she stepped out from the shadows of the bushes.

'I told you I'd be here,' I said.

'I came prepared.' She picked up a heavy thermos, unscrewed the lid, and poured us both a cup of hot chocolate. 'I should have brought something cold, but I gotta have my morning cocoa.'

'Thanks,' I looked at Marissa with a mixture of feelings. She was thoughtful, and smart, and ready to take on anything. Too bad she had to take on something as nasty as werewolves. Thinking about that made me angry?not just at the Wolves, but at Marissa, too, and I didn't understand why. So instead of thinking about it, I forced all my attention back to target practice.

'Time to shoot me some tree,' I said, then put down the cup and picked up the crossbow, looking around for a likely target. About fifty yards away, I saw an ancient oak with a dark circle on its bark where a branch once had been, and an even darker spot near the center of the circle. A natural target. 'That's my bull's-eye.'

My quiver of arrows was slung over my shoulder, the way all professional merry men carry it. Without looking, I smoothly reached back for an arrow . . . and jabbed my finger on one of the sharp arrowheads. 'Youch!' I put my finger in my mouth to suck the droplet of blood that appeared. Marissa grimaced.

'Note to self,' I said with a laugh, 'arrows go in point down.'

Marissa chuckled.

Gingerly, I grasped an arrow by its shaft and pulled it out.

Then I placed it in the groove of the crossbow and pulled it back until the bowline was taut and the arrow locked into place.

I stared down the arrow with one eye closed, aiming at my victim tree until the sharp arrowhead pointed dead center, then I squeezed the trigger.

With a sharp hiss, the arrow was away. I followed its lightning-fast flight, so smooth, so quick?and so far off the mark. The arrow missed the tree by a good ten feet and landed some­where in the bushes twenty yards beyond, stirring up a flock of pigeons.

'Nice shot, Robin Hood,' Marissa said drily. 'I think you just killed two birds with one arrow.'

'I meant to do that,' I said, pulling another arrow out of my quiver.

'I'll tell them to put that on your tombstone.'

I gave her the cold look of a not-so-merry man and lined up my next shot. This time I held my breath as I pulled the trigger.

Thwack! The arrow hit the tree! Okay, so it wasn't anywhere near the target, but it was actually stuck in the tree I was aim­ing for.

'Nice,' Marissa said, and I could tell by her tone that she really meant it.

I aimed my next shot high, and actually got the arrow closer to the circle. My next arrow was inside the outer ring of the target.

'I think maybe I just found my sport,' I said, after firing the last of my arrows. 'Too bad it took a battle with supernatural evil to find it.'

We walked together to the tree to retrieve the arrows.

'I hope you have found your sport,' Marissa said, suddenly intense. 'I hope you can hit that bull's-eye again and again. Maybe . . .'

Her voice trailed off.

'Maybe what?'

She spoke so softly I could barely hear her voice. 'Maybe that will save him.'

'Save who?' I asked, knowing full well who she meant, but wanting to hear her say it.

'Marvin.'

I nodded in understanding. Now I knew why this battle was so important to her. She saw it as a battle for