Raised by Wolves

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

THE CHIEF’S FACE darkens, and then he turns and walks away. Lacey shoots me a wounded look and trots after him.

Looks like I hurt some human feelings.

Can’t say I care, though.

I sneak a glance over at Waylon. He’s sprawled on the bed, using his beat-up leather jacket as a pillow and acting so relaxed you’d think he was enjoying himself.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. There’s a hint of challenge to his voice.

I bristle. “I’m not.”

This is a lie. I was staring at him. But it’s not because he looks like some stupid teen heartthrob with perfectly messy hair and smoldering eyes. It’s because I’ve never seen another person my age up close. Never talked to another boy besides Holo, who’s so familiar to me that he might as well be my own shadow.

Now I’m staring down at my feet, but I can picture Waylon perfectly: his sharp cheekbones, his easy smile. His hint of a swagger when he moves.

Suddenly there’s a bagel waving back and forth in front of my face.

“Are you going to eat this?” Holo asks. “It’s the last one.”

“What? No.”

“Good,” he says. He takes a giant bite of it. He looks happier than he did before Lacey brought food, but he’s still afraid. I can smell it on him. If he had a tail it’d be tucked between his legs.

“—I’m telling you, those goddamn bastards are back!”

Holo flinches at the fierce voice. I go to the corner of the cell and press my face against the bars. Near the front door of the police station, there’s a bearded man in overalls and a big dumb hat. He’s pointing at the chief, yelling about how those “bloodthirsty bastards” need to be shot. Or trapped. Or poisoned. How they need to be “strung up from the trees as a warning to their bastard brothers.”

Fear creeps up my spine.

“I’ve lost a dozen chickens in the last week,” Dumb Hat yells. “Brady lost two lambs and a ewe, and Johnny Mills says they got his dog.”

I’m praying that neither one of them says just one particular word—

“And you think it’s wolves?” the chief says to Dumb Hat.

There it is—the word I didn’t want to hear. Holo looks up at me, his eyes dark with fear.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. Meanwhile my blood’s turning to ice.

It’s not wolves , I want to scream. But why would they believe me? Especially since I’m not even sure I can believe myself.

You never know what a wild animal will do. That’s why you call it wild .

“Raccoons kill chickens, too, Stan,” the chief says.

“That’s right!” I yell. “Those shits’ll eat anything they can get their paws on.” I loved raccoons until they devoured a hummingbird nest I’d been keeping my eye on. Not just the sweet baby birds, the whole perfect, tiny nest.

Dumb Hat ignores me, but the chief shoots me a look like Please shut up, this is official police business . “Foxes kill chickens, too, and coyotes can take down a calf,” the chief adds.

“The howling the other night didn’t sound like coyotes,” Dumb Hat says stubbornly.

“I’m not saying it was,” the chief says. “But you know as well as I do that coyotes are a lot more common than wolves around here, and they’re first-class hunters. A couple of lambs and a mama is no match for a pack of ’em.”

That’s right, Chief—blame the killings on coyotes. Or foxes or bobcats. Anything but wolves.

“Eavesdrop much?” Waylon calls. He’s grinning at me. His smile is electric.

I have to fight to keep my face stony. “There’s nothing else to do in this hellhole.”

I realize he’s got his boots and motorcycle jacket on now. Does that mean he’s getting out? Does it mean we’re next?

Somehow I doubt it.

“You could get to know me,” Waylon says easily.

I practically snarl at him. “And what would be the point of that?”

He shrugs. “We could become friends.”

“And what would be the point of that ?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he says. “But who knows? Maybe it’d change your life.”

“Wow,” I say. I’m thinking, Are all hot teen guys this conceited? “You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself.”

Waylon laughs. “I didn’t say it’d change your life for the better ,” he says. He leans against the bars and crosses one leg over the other. “I’m probably too dangerous for you, anyway. I’ve got a fast bike. I don’t mind spending a night in jail.”

Too dangerous for me? It’s probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But I don’t get time to tell him so, because a blond woman charges down the hall and starts banging her purse against the bars of his jail cell.

“My God in heaven, Waylon Eugene, when will you learn?” She gives the bars one last wallop and then turns to the chief. “I swear, Chester, sometimes I think my son is mentally challenged.”

“More like behaviorally challenged, Mrs. Meloy,” the chief says.

I’m thinking, Waylon Eugene Meloy? It almost makes me like him, knowing he’s got such a bummer of a middle name. It’s like he’s keeping some kind of terrible secret.

“The sign said fifty-three,” Waylon says calmly.

“When has fifty-three ever been an official speed limit? The sign said thirty-five and you know it,” his mother snaps. “Anyway, you were going seventy-five.”

“Seventy-seven,” Waylon corrects, and then he winks at me. Winks! Is that a thing people do?

“Well, thank you for holding him,” his mom says to the chief. “Scaring him a bit and whatnot.”

The chief unlocks the cell and Waylon slowly walks out, not looking scared at all.

He thinks he’s tough, I can tell. But he hasn’t seen half of what I have. Hasn’t done half of what I have. He’s not the dangerous one here.

“Next time it’s going to go on his record,” the chief warns.

Waylon comes over to my cell and wraps his long fingers around the bars. Up close his eyes are a warm brown with golden flecks.

Almost like a wolf’s.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he says.

I toss my hair over my shoulder. “I doubt it,” I say.

He smiles, revealing a space between his two front teeth that makes another weird thing happen inside my stomach.

“If you say so. Well, it was nice being in jail with you,” he says.

And then he’s gone.