The Night Has Teeth (Book One) EXCERPTS ONLY

9. Poor Misguided Fool

Daylight is fading outside the window when I wake up in my bedroom. I stretch, working the kinks out of my neck and shoulders. Every bit of me is banged up and bruised, particularly where Madison’s knee crushed my windpipe and Arden threw me down on my side. In the instant before my memories of this morning flood back, I nearly jump out of my skin at the sight of a black wolf lying at my feet. I manage to remind myself that it’s Amara before the sound of a gasp can rise in my throat, and I close my eyes for a moment to calm myself. She spent the morning at my bedside while Arden was out hunting whatever crept in on us in the woods of Vincennes Park. There’s no doubt in my mind that she could sense I was freaked out by the prospect of being on the most-wanted list of a four-hundred-year-old werewolf, so she stayed nearby.

Sitting up quietly, I edge near enough to peer down at her as she sleeps soundly. Her silky black coat glistens, reflecting light in exactly the same way as her hair does in human form, like a moonlit river. I try not to smile as her paws begin to twitch and her mouth trembles. She must be dreaming. What do werewolves dream about? It’s probably nothing I want to consider too closely. A low growl comes from her and I tense, nervous about moving too suddenly. I try to move away without disrupting her sleep, but she suddenly lets out a snarl and I jump back. Her eyes are open and she’s now alert. I sit, frozen, as her ears drop back. As she looks into my face with glossy black eyes, she appears to comprehend that whatever troubled her in her sleep isn’t here.

Because I don’t know what else to do, I tentatively reach down to stroke her behind the ear like I would a dog. I know, right? But this whole werewolf thing still feels too surreal. Besides, I think we humans are pretty good at deluding ourselves. I tell myself she’s just a big dog, and it makes the situation a lot easier to digest. She stretches out with a yawn.

“You go ahead and sleep in if you want,” I suggest. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I assume she understands, since she curls into herself. Grabbing some fresh clothes, I head to the tiny bathroom to wash up. A thick cloud of steam fills the room by the time I finish, and I wipe a streak across the mirror to shave. My reflection looks tired and older than it did yesterday. The smell of a frying breakfast hits me, even though, by all rights, it should be suppertime. My nose tells me the menu: eggs and bacon and toast. It brings a smile that can only be described as cartoonish. I begin to imagine myself floating down the hall, lured by a smoky tendril of fragrance.

Hastily, I finish up and find Amara in the kitchen preparing the meal. Everything seems so normal, and I feel happy enough that I want to walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. Memories of waking up as a child on Sunday mornings to these same smells fill my mind. I’d come down the big wooden stairs in my pajamas to find my dad frying the eggs while my mom made toast and boiled water for the coffee. It was the one day in the week when my parents put aside all their commitments to just hang out at home. Family day. And I’d revel in the warmth of their company, in the scent of real butter frying, in the stickiness of the maple syrup on my fingers even hours later. A pang of homesickness hits me in the gut like a physical punch.

“What is wrong, Connor?”

“Huh?”

“I studied a video online on how to make a full English breakfast,” she explains as she carefully inspects the contents of my plate. “Is it not right?”

“No,” I say. “It’s ... perfect.”

I appreciatively sit down and savor every morsel. Between mouthfuls, I’m anxious to ask more questions, find out more about her life, make sure I understand the world I’ve found myself living in. How many other werewolves are there? And how long have they been integrating into human society? But the most pressing question on my mind right now is, “Where’s Arden?”