Red Rider's Hood

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.

6 Wicked as a wolf

'It's all for the best, I suppose.' Grandma had me sitting up on the dining-room table as she tended to my palms and knees. The stinging antiseptic solutions smelled worse than wolfsbane. It made me wonder what evil doctor decided that if it hurts it must be cleaning the wound. 'At least we know the hunters are back, and on top of things.'

'I only saw one of them,' I told her.

'Well, one's better than none.'

'Ow!'

'Now don't be a baby. It's not that bad.'

Marissa, sitting across the room, snickered, so I bit my lip to keep myself from whining. I was never a very good patient.

'Does it hurt worse than when I clobbered you over the head?' Marissa asked.

'I don't know,' I told her. 'You knocked me half-unconscious, so I didn't feel much of anything at the time.'

She snickered again. Fine, I thought. Let her. She was just jeal­ous because she hadn't been the one to find the hunter.

'If he thinks I'm just gonna back off and let Cedric Soames get away with stealing my wheels, he's wrong.'