IN AN OTHERWISE EMPTY corridor, Scott—wearing his lacrosse gear—shoved his bag into his locker and slammed it shut. He turned to find himself staring right at Jackson. "All right, little man, how about you tell me where you're getting your juice?"
"What?"
"Where. Are. You. Getting your juice?"
Scott was utterly bewildered. "My Mom does all the grocery shopping."
Jackson stared at him for a moment as if trying to decide whether the kid was screwing with him. "Listen, McCall, you're going to tell me what it is and who you're buying from. Because there's no way in hell you're kicking ass like that on the field without some sort of chemical boost."
Scott looked genuinely shocked. "You mean steroids? Are you on steroids?"
Jackson grabbed him, shoving him against the locker. "What the hell's going on with you, McCall?"
Overwhelmed, Scott snapped, words coming out in a torrent: "What's going on with me? You really want to know? So would I. Because I can see, hear and smell things I shouldn't be able to see, hear or smell, do things that should be impossible, I'm sleepwalking three miles out into the middle of the woods and am pretty much convinced I'm going completely, totally out of my freaking mind."
"You think you're funny? I know you're hiding something. I'm going to find out what it is. I don't care how long it takes." Jackson slammed his fist against the locker, leaving Scott stunned as he headed out.
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Amid the players rushing the field, a very late Stiles found Scott in the crowd and hurried towards him: "Scott, wait up! You gotta hear this."
"I'm playing the first elimination, Stiles. Can't it wait?"
"Just hold on. I overheard my Dad on the phone. The fiber analysis came back from LA. They found animal hairs on the body from the woods."
"Stiles, I have to go."
"You're not going to believe what the animal was—" But with his helmet on, Scott rushed onto the field, leaving Stiles to say the next words to himself: "It was a wolf."
Out on the field the Coach shouted for the players. "All right, gather round..."
Scott noticed Allison at the bleachers with Lydia. She gave him a wave and a smile. He held up a hand to wave back.
"You got a question, McCall?"
"What?"
"You raised your hand."
"Oh, no I was just—nothing. Sorry."
Coach turned to the rest of the team: "All right, you know how this goes. If you don't make the cut, you're most likely warming the bench the rest of the season. But make the cut and you play, your parents are proud, your girlfriend loves you, everything else is cream cheese. Now show me what you got!" He blew the whistle and the game began.
The pace was fast and brutal. When the ball got passed to Scott, Jackson came right after him. Lacrosse sticks smacking down on his gloves, Scott tumbled forward and slammed to the ground, kicking up dirt around him.349Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi2PHSJcGL7
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As the whistle stopped the play, Jackson loomed over Scott. Glowering down at him, he grabbed the ball while Scott—teeth clenched behind his mask—pushed himself up off the ground.349Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDSHPcUvGQY
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Coach gave the whistle a sharp blow, and the team gathered for the next play. Scott and Jackson found themselves staring across from each other at the draw, crouched down with their sticks and the ball between them.
"Set!" Coach called out.
They tensed, holding absolutely still. Then, at the whistle, Scott moved with shocking speed, grabbing the ball right out from under Jackson.
At the benches, Stiles moved to the sidelines to watch as Scott charged the length of the field. Defense lashed out with their sticks, but he parried expertly.
Jackson caught up and made a furious stab at stealing the ball. Then with Defense converging on him, Scott twisted his lacrosse stick around, keeping the ball safely in the pocket while he literally flipped forward, leaping right over the heads of the defensive players. Feet landing on the turf, he whirled around, tossing the ball in an over the shoulder shot past the goalie—right into the net.
The crowd in the bleachers roared with cheering, Allison on her feet along with everyone else. Everyone except Stiles.
"McCall, get over here!"
Scott trotted over to the Coach. All eyes were on him, including someone watching from behind a chain link fence...Derek.
"What in the name of God was that? This is a lacrosse field. Are you trying out for the gymnastics team?"
"No, Coach."
"Then what the hell was that?"
"I don't know. I was just trying to make the shot."
"Well, you made the shot. And guess what? You're starting, McCall. You just made first line."
Cheers erupted around him. As team members slapped him on the back and knocked his helmet with their gloves, a deliriously happy Scott didn't even notice Jackson's furious stare. Or Stiles—watching with a very worried look.
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Fingers clicked furiously over a keyboard. Eyes locked on his laptop, Stiles bounced from one web page to the next. Words and images popped up on the screen—Wolfsbane, Silver Bullets, Lycaon, Aconite, drawings of werewolves in different forms, a purple flower with the word WOLFSBANE underneath.
As his room darkened under the setting sun, an increasingly panicked Stiles watched a sheet of paper come out of his printer. The printout showed a detailed wood carving of a medieval hunter standing over the body of a werewolf, aiming a crossbow at the creature.
He pulled the page out, staring at it with a look of escalating fear when someone knocked on the door. Stiles practically leaped out of his chair. He rushed to the door, unlocking it to find Scott standing out in the hall. "Get in. You have to see this. I've been reading. Websites, books, all this information." As Scott took off his jacket, Stiles started grabbing printouts from his desk.
"How much Adderall have you had?"
"A lot. Doesn't matter. Just listen."
"Is this about the body? Did they find who did it?"
"No, they're still questioning people. Even Derek Hale—"
"The guy from the woods—"
"Yeah, but that's not it."
"What then?"
"Remember the joke the other day? Not a joke anymore." Stiles continued off Scott's look: "The wolf. The bite in the woods. I started doing all this reading and—Do you even know why a wolf howls?"
"Should I?"
"It's a signal. When a wolf is alone it howls to signal its location to the rest of the pack. So if you heard it howling that mean there's others. Maybe a whole pack of them."
"A pack of wolves?"
"No. Werewolves."
"You're seriously wasting my time with this? You know, I'm picking Allison up in an hour."
"I saw you on the field, Scott. What you did wasn't just amazing. It was impossible."
"So I made a good shot."
"No, you made an incredible shot. The way you moved—the speed, your reflexes—people can't suddenly do that overnight. And then there's the hearing, the senses, and don't think I haven't noticed you don't need your inhaler anymore. You haven't used it since that night."
"I can't think about this now. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"
"Tomorrow? Don't you get it? The full moon is tonight."
"What are you trying to do? I just made first line on the team. I have a date with a girl I can't believe wants to go out with me. Everything in my life is somehow perfect. Why are you trying to ruin it?"
"I'm trying to help. With the full moon it's going to be too hard to resist and there's no going back. You're cursed, Scott. And it's not only that the moon causes you to change, it's also when your bloodlust will be at its peak."
"Bloodlust?"
"Your urge to kill."
"I'm already starting to have an urge to kill, Stiles."
"You need to hear this. The change can be caused by anger or anything that raises your pulse. And I've never seen anyone raise your pulse like Allison does. You have to call her and cancel the date." Stiles grabbed Scott's jacket, pulling the cell phone out.
"What are you doing? Give me that."
"I'm just finding her number—"
"Give it to me." Scott yanked the phone out of Stiles's hand and shoved him against the wall. Pulling back before striking him, he instead lashed out at the desk chair sending it flying across the room, tossing it like it weighed nothing. Then, shaking with anger, he gazed up.
"I didn't mean to do that." He started to help Stiles up, but his friend flinched back. "I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean it. I have to go. I have to get ready for the party. I'm sorry." Grabbing his jacket, Scott hurried out.
Still shaken, Stiles gradually stood up. He slowly picked up the desk chair, putting it back. But then he paused. With a shaky hand, he turned the chair around to reveal...claw marks; the chair's fabric slashed to ribbons.
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