The Night Has Teeth (Book One) EXCERPTS ONLY

1. Put Me Back Together

I'm running late. I hate being late.

My parents get credit for that. I was always the kid who got left behind ― on baseball fields, at music lessons or whatever other extracurricular activity they enrolled me in to keep me occupied ― finally to be picked up long after all the other kids were packed into minivans and SUVs with their brothers and sisters. My mom and dad's clocks always ran thirty minutes slower than other parents' clocks. By the time I got to third grade, I learned to deal and joined the ranks of latchkey kids who grow up with an extra helping of self-reliance. Don't get me wrong. It's not like anyone should have called social services or anything. I mean, they're not bad parents. It's just hard to fit me into their already overbooked lives. I don't hold it against them. Well, not any more. Not now while I'm here in Paris, an ocean away from home.

After my brief stint in the public school system, my parents must have figured I was suffering from only-child syndrome, so they made every effort to ensure I was properly socialized. Like a puppy. Since my second day of kindergarten, I've been attending the Lycée Français de New York, studying in the Bilingual International Baccalaureate program. In English that basically means I speak French fluently. And that I'm a geek ― not the chic kind you see on TV or the math/science savant either. Just the regular, manga-reading, online-gaming variety who is painfully awkward in social situations. To fill in the rest of my free time, my parents enrolled me in as many after-school and weekend programs as they could find in the hopes that I would eventually find friends, or at least other kids my age with similar interests. Problem is, I've never been able to fit in. Not now, not ever.

That's where studying abroad comes into play. For my last year of high school, I landed a scholarship that my parents would be crazy to turn down: full tuition and a home-stay with room and board covered. It was a no-brainer that I'd go. I'd be completely immersed in the language, thereby further improving my chances of getting into a university like the Sorbonne. It's not like I've got anything going for me back in New York. I've got no real friends to speak of, no girlfriend, and I've even given up on most of the enforced hobbies of my earlier childhood. A year abroad is the perfect opportunity to reinvent my identity — a task that would be impossible to accomplish in the city where I grew up, among all the people who grew up with me. The bigger the change, the greater the distance required. That's where, more specifically, the Victor Hugo International School in Paris comes into play. Clean break. Fresh start. That's assuming, of course, that I don't miss out on life by being late. Somehow I managed to sleep through the alarm.

I toss the suitcase that I've been living out of for the last week at the foot of my narrow bed and rummage like an animal for the least wrinkled clothes I can find: jeans and a Green Day logo T-shirt. It'll have to do. While trying to put everything on at the same time, I stumble across the well-decorated flat. From the antique furniture right down to the ancient-looking wall hangings, the place has the feel of a museum of world history. The host I'm staying with is nowhere to be seen. It's just as well. She's nothing close to what I expected. What I imagined was home-cooked meals and doting attention. After she tried to serve me steak tartare for my first supper, I discovered to my horror that there's such a thing as a raw food diet. We've come to a quiet understanding wherein I get a food allowance in exchange for keeping quiet about the arrangement. Technically, I am still getting the required three square meals a day provided by my host.

Truth is, I was a little anxious about the whole home-stay arrangement. Having spent the better part of my existence on my own, let's just say I'm used to having personal space. Making idle small talk with a host family was the least appealing part of my decision to study abroad. Here's another area where I've been surprised, though. My host keeps odd hours, sometimes getting in after midnight and sleeping in late. Other times she's gone before I even wake up. I never know when to expect her around the apartment, and we've barely exchanged more than a dozen words since my arrival.

Hopeful for breakfast, I nearly rip the door from the tiny fridge. I've spent the last week hanging out at cafés and sightseeing rather than buying groceries and unpacking. Clearly. The contents of the fridge ― or really the lack of them ― are a quarter-bottle of milk and a jar of jam. Only one of these will stand on its own for breakfast, so I down what's left of the milk and manage to spill most of it down my chin and onto my shirt. Perfect. No time to change.

I'm still doing up the fly of my jeans as I run past the mirror. The hair on top of my head sticks up at all gravity-defying angles, like a twiggy brown nest constructed by a bird on crack, so I run my fingers through it to work with what I've got, until I'm sporting what I hope comes off as a purposefully bed-headed style. After locking up, I turn to grab my bicycle, which is propped against the far wall of the small landing. This apartment is the only one above a butcher shop on the ground level. As I make my way down the narrow staircase, a pocket of light floods in below from the door being opened. That's when a dog comes charging up the steps. Only it doesn't look like a dog. The space is too cramped for me to really go anywhere but up. Before I can step back, it pounces. I collapse under its force, taking the full brunt of a 150-pound canine.

The back of my head hits the tread of a hardwood step. Angry amber eyes are on me as the beast bares its teeth. A hand pulls on the thick gold chain around its neck, holding the animal at bay. Looking past the dog I'm met by the sloe-eyed gaze of a girl whose black hair flows down around her shoulders as a stark contrast to her pale face. She's pretty in a way that isn't what you'd call Hollywood actress hot ― all impossibly thin and surgically-altered. She's more exotic, with unusual features. There's something raw and wild about her looks. Like a panther.

Like I said, my host family is nothing close to what I expected. What I imagined was a middle-aged couple suffering from empty nest syndrome after the departure of their grown kids. Instead I got Amara Liang and her dog. Although I haven't asked, she looks to be in her early twenties. Not old enough to be my mom, even my host mom. Maybe she just has great genes. In any case, what do I know? The school obviously thought she was together enough that I wouldn't die in her care. Besides, I figure with someone her age, the rules around the household will be slack. No curfews and lectures.

All the same, I can't shake her. Whenever I'm in the apartment, I wish she were around just to get the opportunity to talk to her, which is the opposite of what I expected. Yes, I know I'm being a creep for practically stalking her in my mind, but I just hope that she'll somehow find me interesting.

Hot breath in my face snaps me back to my current predicament as her dog lets out a low howl. There's something feral and wolf-like about the animal, even though it's got a lush brown coat and is obviously well-cared-for.

"Are you alright?" Amara asks as she effortlessly pulls the beast off me.

"Yeah," I say, getting up to my feet, feeling woozy.

"You are late, are you not?"

"Uh-huh."

My hand goes to the back of my head, where a lump is forming. She examines me for a long, uncomfortable moment until I regret the panther analogy, because I start to feel like a piece of meat. With a Gallic shrug, she simply straightens out her messenger bag, yanks on the gold chain to send her dog up onto the landing above us, and squeezes by me herself. Her keys jingle as she works the lock. Taking a few steps down, I pick up my bicycle by the bottom of the stairs, where it fell after I did. When I glance back to say goodbye, she's already in the apartment. Just like that. I'm about to look away when the dog's amber eyes bore into me with a heat that's nothing short of menace. Great. Not a single friend in this city, but I might have a four-legged enemy. And he doesn't even have a proper name for a nemesis. When I asked Amara, instead of coming back with the French equivalent for Killer or Jaws, she told me to call him Lou. Who gives their dog a human name, anyway? What a perfect end to my day. And it crushes me to remember that the day hasn't even really begun.