The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group (31 page)

‘
Guinea pigs?
’ I echoed.

‘These vampires live on guinea pigs. One a day,’ Estelle advised me. I don’t know what kind of weird face I must have pulled, because she quickly added, ‘It’s better than sucking the blood out of
people
.’

‘We’ll organise something.’ Dr Plackett was trying to reassure her, I think. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, there are always alternative sources of nourishment. Feral pigs and so forth.’ At the sound of Nina’s wordless protest, he suddenly lost his cool, shoving the leather bag under his arm as he marched over to grab Lincoln. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that we have
options
!’ he barked. ‘But at the moment I’m applying triage procedures, and taking things one step at a time! So if you’d kindly let me handle this like a professional
—’

‘Wait!’ I could tell that he was about to push Lincoln out of the room, and I didn’t want that to happen. Not until I’d made one more attempt to convince my mother. She was standing there with her eyes shut, gnawing her fist and shaking her head as if she’d given up on the lot of us; I wanted her to listen and understand. I wanted her to
stop being so close-minded.
‘Wait,’ I said to Dr Plackett. ‘Before you go, can I just . . . I mean, it would be good if . . .’

‘If what?’ he snarled. ‘Hurry up!’

‘If he
could tell Mum what he did to me.’ I finally managed to spit it out, aiming an accusatory finger at Lincoln as I did so. ‘Mum, this is the guy who kidnapped both of us. Me and Sergio. Okay? This is the guy who locked us both downstairs in the underground tanks.’ When Lincoln didn’t react, I was suddenly filled with rage. ‘Didn’t you? Huh?
Didn’t you?
’ I yelled, making everyone jump.

Even Lincoln responded. His bleary eyes rolled in my direction. ‘Uh . . . yeah . . .’ he mumbled.

‘Tell her why you did it!’ I leaned towards him in a threatening kind of way, but no one tried to pull me back. Not even Nina. ‘Go on! Tell her why!’

Lincoln licked his cracked lips. ‘For – for the money?’

‘No! I don’t mean that.’ Before Sergio could jump in, I rephrased my question. ‘Why did you choose us in the first place? Huh? Why did you go to all this trouble?’

‘Be-because you’re werewolves,’ Lincoln croaked. It was the reply I’d been angling for. Triumphantly, I turned to my mother.

‘See?’ I said. ‘What did I tell you? Why would
he
lie?’

Mum’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Toby,’ she murmured, her voice breaking, ‘can’t you see the state he’s in? He’s been terrorised. He’d say anything. He’s hurt. He’s
scared.
’

I couldn’t believe my ears. Neither could Estelle, to judge from the way she snorted. Reuben heaved an impatient sigh. Sergio scowled. Dr Plackett cast his gaze towards the ceiling.

Then all at once, out on the front veranda, there was an explosion of furious noise.

Danny’s dogs were whipping themselves into a frenzy.

I don’t think anyone stopped to consider what this actually might mean. We simply stampeded towards the kitchen door out of the room, desperate to see what was going on. Reuben reached the hallway first, with Sergio close at his heels. Estelle and Dr Plackett were next in line; they tried to muscle their way past the other two, without much success. Even Mum rushed to have a look. Nina lagged behind because she got stuck with Lincoln, who had to be herded along. And I, of course, had my dud foot to contend with.

When at last I caught up with the others, they were all peering down the corridor. At the very end of it, in a pool of yellow light, Gary Santos had thrown himself against the front door –
whump –
which
slammed shut as he sagged against it. He was gulping down air, his knees shaking. Over a volley of hysterical barks, I could just hear the scratching of claws and the thump of low, heavy bodies.

Clearly, he had tried to sneak outside, not realising that four traumatised dogs were lying in wait on the welcome mat.

‘Ugh . . . ugh . . . ahh,’ he panted, pushing at the bolt with trembling fingers. Then, slowly and haltingly, he turned to confront us.

‘I’m gunna be sick,’ he moaned.

Catherine Jinks
was born in Brisbane in 1963 and grew up in Sydney and Papua New Guinea. She studied medieval history at university and her love of reading led her to become a writer. Her books for children, teenagers and adults have been published all of the world, and have won numerous awards.

Catherine lives in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales with her husband, Canadian journalist Peter Dockrill, and their daughter Hannah.