Kelley Armstrong - Clay 1 - Savage

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Gift

It was a late summer night. Hot and sticky, like most summer nights in Baton

Rouge. My family had retreated to an RV campsite on the city•fs edge, as they

did every summer weekend. It was past midnight and I was wandering the woods

alone. Nothing unusual about that. I suppose there should be something unusual

about a six-year-old roaming the forest at night, but my parents had a vague

idea of my whereabouts, and didn•ft care about the specifics. So long as I

stayed out of trouble and didn•ft bother them, I could do as I liked.

Saturday nights at the campground were always the same. My parents and their

friends would gather at one of the sites, start a bonfire, and drink and talk

until morning. We kids were left to amuse ourselves. My older brothers were

supposed to look after me but, as usual, they were with their friends,

enjoying filched beer and cigarettes, and were quite happy to let me take off

on my own, so long as I hightailed it back to the campsite when my parents

finally whistled us in to bed.

I wandered the wooded paths for a while, but didn•ft expect to see anything.

Not what I wanted to see, at least. I•fd only seen it once, and when I had,

I•fd ran and not stopped until I was safe with my brothers. I•fd cursed my

cowardice a million times since then. All my nights of exploring, and when I

finally found something worth seeing, I•fd bolted like a baby. Each Saturday

night after that, I screwed up my courage and ventured into the woods . . .

and saw nothing more wondrous than fireflies.

Time was running out. Just yesterday, my brothers had said there were only two

weeks of summer left, which meant only two more weekends at the campground.

Tonight, I decided I•fd take the next step. I•fd go to the string of cabins

along the front road, see if he was in his, maybe catch him heading into the

woods.

As soon as I neared the edge of the woods, I saw him. A gray-haired man,

sitting alone behind his cabin, smoking and staring out into the night. I

watched from the forest, heart hammering. Finally, the man stubbed out his

cigarette, got to his feet and turned to head into the cabin.

In that moment, I made a decision?a decision only a six-year-old child would

even consider.

I stepped from the forest. The man stopped, but didn•ft turn around.

"Tired of hiding in the trees?" he said.

His voice was sharp with an accent I•fd never heard in these parts. He turned

then. His gaze traveled over me, eyes hooded to bored slits.

"Well? What do you want, boy?"

"I saw what you did."

His expression didn•ft change. "How nice for you."

I•fd expected him to deny it, or at least play dumb, so when he didn•ft, I was

left standing there, arguments jammed in my throat.

"I?I saw you do it," I said finally. "I saw what you turned into. I know what

you are."

"So you said." He yawned and rolled his shoulders. "How fast can you run, boy?

Hope it•fs not too fast, because, truth is, I•fm not really in the mood?"

"I want to do it."

He stopped stretching. "You want . . .?"

I stepped closer. "I want to do it myself. If you help me, I won•ft tell on

you."

"Tell??" He threw back his head and laughed, then looked down at me, lips

still twitching in barely contained laughter. "And how do you think I•fm

supposed to help you? Wave my magic wand and poof, you•fre a?"

"You have to bite me." I pulled myself up as tall as I could. "I•fm not

stupid. I know how it works."

His gaze met mine and, for a second, he faltered. Then he shook his head

sharply. "Well, boy, something tells me I•fm going to wake up in that chair a

few hours from now, and this will all be part of the strangest dream I•fve

ever had, but sure, let•fs give it a whirl. If somehow I am awake, this is a

hell of a lot easier than chasing you. Now, you just wait right here while I

get ready, okay?"

I nodded.

"If you run away, I•fll have to come after you. Neither of us wants that,

right?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now, it•fll sting some, but don•ft you worry. Before you know it,

it•fll all be over."

A final nod from me, and he disappeared into the forest.

Long minutes passed, and I began to worry that he•fd cheated me. Then the

brush rustled. From somewhere deep within me came the urge to bolt. I forced

my feet to stay still, despising my weakness.

I turned slowly. I knew what to expect, but still didn•ft expect it.

Before me stood a wolf as tall as I. His eyes met mine, eyes that were

unmistakably human. Those eyes and his monstrous size were the only things

left of the man. The rest was wolf.

The test had come. I felt my body betray me, arm hairs prickle, legs tremble,

a heavy weight bearing down in my groin as if I was seconds away from pissing

myself. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to meet his gaze. He had to bite

me. I knew what a werewolf was, and how you became one. My older brothers

delighted in scaring me with monster stories, never guessing that I wasn•ft

scared at all, that I listened to their tales and thought only of how lucky

the monsters were, that they never had to cower under a bed or hide in a

closet, listening to drunken curses and punches, and knowing if they were

found, they•fd be next. Monsters didn•ft fear. They were fear. Now I had a

chance to try that for myself. So I took a deep breath, held out my arm and

waited.

Something flickered in the wolf•fs eyes?surprise, shock, maybe even the barest

hint of uncertainty. He growled. I didn•ft budge. He snapped at my arm, teeth

sinking in. Pain ripped through it. I stumbled back, tripping over my feet and

falling as he let go. Warm blood trickled down my arm and hot urine soaked my

jeans. I looked at my arm and saw blood flowing from twin gashes in the soft

underside. I struggled to my feet. The wolf stared at me, as if confused. His

tongue lolled out, blood-pink saliva dripping from its tip.

I met his eyes and grinned. I had done it. I•fd been bitten. The gift was

mine.

He lowered his head, eyes never leaving mine. A low growl started in the pit

of his stomach. He hunkered down. Then he sprang.

I should have died that moment. That was his plan, not to turn me into a

werewolf, but to kill me, to put a quick and easy end to the minor

inconvenience of my existence. So what happened? Was I so brave and strong and

smart that I outmaneuvered my fate? Hardly. I tripped.

I saw him spring. As I stumbled back, my foot caught on a root and I twisted

sideways. Instead of landing on top of me, the wolf crashed down beside me,

fur brushing my arm.

Somehow, I managed to keep enough balance to come out of the tumble running.

Instinctively, I ran for the front of the cabin, for the main road heading

past the campground.

Before I•fd gone twenty feet, I heard a snort and knew the wolf had recovered

from his fall. My throat dried up. My brain shut down. My legs seemed to move

of their own accord, running so fast that slivers of pain shot through my

calves and my lungs.

I raced for the road. I heard pounding, either the blood rushing in my ears or

his paws on the hard-packed dirt?it didn•ft matter. I knew he was behind me.

I heard a scream. No, not a scream. The screech of tires and brakes. The flash

of headlights. A car heading into the campground.

I tripped over on the curb and sprawled onto the road. Someone shouted. I

lifted my head to see two men jump from the car, arms waving. The wolf

hesitated, then turned and ran for the forest.

"What the hell was that?" one man yelled. "It was huge!"

"Forget it," the other said. "Go call an ambulance. The kid•fs bleeding."

I wobbled to my feet.

"Whoa. Hold on there, little guy."

I looked up, saw them approaching, two large faceless shadows. I bolted for

the opposite side of the road, heading for the highway across the embankment.

Behind me, the men shouted. Instead of following on foot, though, they ran

back to their car. By the time they got the car turned around, I was long

gone.

I don•ft remember what happened next. I assume there was a search for me,

maybe my picture made it onto a milk carton somewhere. If so, I knew nothing

of it and, in later years, never checked back to see how big a fuss my

disappearance had caused. As for my parents, I•fm sure they played up the

tragedy for all it was worth, but stopped searching the moment everyone else

stopped caring. If there was a search, I escaped simply by avoiding people, an

aversion that became second nature after I was bitten.

Of those first few weeks, all I remember is the pain. Pain and hunger. My mind

retreated to some dark hole in my psyche, emerging now and then to spout

ribbons of gibberish, then muttering away into silence. The world turned to

permanent shadows, even while the Louisiana sun parboiled my skin. Ordinary

shapes contorted into funhouse mirror reflections. Alley cats grew to the size

of ponies, with gaping mouths and fangs that threatened to swallow me whole.

Children•fs laughter twisted into the taunting laughs of the old werewolf. I

had only to hear a human voice and I•fd run scuttling to the shadows. And

still the hunger grew.

Survival

As a human child, I•fd already begun learning to fend for myself. With my

transformation came the boost I needed to survive. A six-year-old child can•ft

live on his own, but a half-grown wolf already has the tools and the instincts

he needs. Instinct made me avoid humans and other potential predators. Common

sense told me to take shelter from the elements. My sense of smell sharpened

and tuned to the scent of food, leading me to trash bins and Dumpsters and

road-kill.

I never went home. Never tried to. I could say that I•fd forgotten where home

was or that I was afraid of how my family would react, but that•fs a lie. I

chose not to return.

I don•ft remember the first time I changed into a wolf. One night, I passed

out, and awoke to find my body covered in yellow fur. My brain was beyond

reacting. It took this in stride, as it had everything else in my new life. I

got to my feet and went in search of food.

As a wolf, I learned to hunt . . . or at least to scavenge. If I managed to

kill the odd mouse or sparrow, it was more dumb luck than skill. Even that

added food wasn•ft enough to feed the fire in my gut.

One day, as the hunger threatened to gnaw through my stomach, I realized I had

to find something larger than a mouse or half-eaten hamburger. I left my bed

of matted newspapers and went hunting.

The city was in the midst of an mid-autumn heat wave. The midday sun shoved

through the buildings and trees, and broiled the pavement into a stinking

stream of asphalt. Every living thing with a brain had taken shelter, leaving

me hunting for food in a scorched wasteland.

Fortune let me stumble onto a cat napping beneath a bush. The cat jerked awake

and stared at me in heat-stupid confusion. I flung myself forward . . . and

leapt clear over the cat, which quickly regained its senses and ran away. I

got to my feet and went in search of new prey, but it was no use. Fortune,

thoroughly disgusted with my ineptitude, left to find a worthier recipient.

I wandered through the alleyways, eating from the open trash-cans, and

drooling at the ones sealed tight. In this weather, most people covered their

cans, so easy pickings were rare. Finally, after what seemed like hours of

searching, a smell hit me, the stink of dirt and decay, but underlain with

something that cut short my retreat. The smell of death. Of fresh meat.

I followed the stench, rounded a corner and came upon a pile of rags shoved

under a concrete step. The smell overpowered my senses, making my eyes water,

and prodding me to turn tail and run for cleaner air. But the lingering scent

of meat kept my paws riveted to the pavement. Buried somewhere under those

rags was food, and I damned well wasn•ft leaving until I found it.

I eased forward until I was under the step. Then I grabbed the first layer of

cloth between my teeth and tugged. A filth-crusted blanket pulled away from

the heap beneath, and the heap became a man. A dead man. A derelict. I don•ft

know what had killed him. Maybe the heat. It didn•ft matter. All that mattered

was that he was dead, and I was starving.

With the added strength of a full belly, I was able to roam farther in search

of food. After a couple of days I came to the bayou, and soon made it my home.

My den was probably a cubbyhole in some hillock or outcropping of rock. I

remember it only as a montage of senses, someplace warm, dry and safe. I was

comfortable there, away from people. I quickly learned to hunt rats and birds.

While they didn•ft always fill my stomach, they kept me from starving, and

that was enough.

One evening, I found myself back in the city. I don•ft remember how or why I

arrived there. Maybe somehow I knew that on that day I had to be in Baton

Rouge, at that hour I had to be in that particular park, at that moment I had

to be beside that pathway, waiting. My life pivoted on this point as much as

it had the day I'd confronted the old werewolf.

I was in wolf form. This wasn•ft intentional?it was no longer a matter of

intention, if it ever had been. I vacillated between forms endlessly, falling

asleep human, waking a wolf, hunting as wolf, eating as human. I•fd stopped

noticing the difference. The agony of the change became part of my life, like

the ache in my gut.

That evening, I lay hidden in a stand of flowering bushes, watching the

passersby. When the scent first wafted past, my hazy brain recognized it as

familiar, bringing to mind an image of the old werewolf who•fd bitten me.

A growl escaped before I could choke it back. The sound was soft, barely

louder than the rustle of dry leaves, and nobody noticed. Nobody except one

man, dark haired man, maybe as old as my father, and about the same size,

average height and broad shouldered. He was strolling through the park gardens

with a young woman. When I growled, he turned and scanned the area.

I pushed back into the bush. He caught the movement. His eyes narrowed and his

nostrils flared. He said something to the woman, the sound reaching me only as

garbled noise. Leaving her behind, he started toward the bush, his long

strides devouring the ground between us.

As he approached from upwind, I caught a whiff of scent. It was the same smell

that had made me growl, the smell that had reminded me of the old werewolf.

But this obviously wasn•ft the same man. My muddled brain struggled to make

sense of it. Finally, some deeper instinct solved the riddle, and I realized

that what I•fd recognized was the common scent of a werewolf.

As my brain hit the answer, it freed my legs. I tore back out of the bush and

didn•ft stop running until I reached my den in the bayou.

The next morning I crept from my den in human form, groggy, shivering and

eager to find a warm place in the sun, so I could go back to sleep. The

mornings and evenings had grown too chilly for human form. I didn•ft wear

clothing. The impulse to cover myself had died long ago under the sheer

impracticality of finding my clothes each time I Changed.

I stumbled out, still half-asleep, heading for a trail that would take me to a

warm clearing. Like any wolf, I had my favorite trails, paths through the

swamp that I•fd walked along so many times that they reeked of my scent. It

was a matter of habit and safety, sticking to what I knew. All the trails led,

in some convoluted way, back to my den.

I•fd walked about five feet when something grabbed me around the neck and

hoisted me into the air. The panic came slowly, formless, my sleepy brain

still trying to decide whether this was another of my nightmares. When

realized it wasn•ft, I twisted and kicked, but my feet struck only air.

A man laughed. The grip on my neck tightened. I struggled harder, twisting and

flailing. My leg struck the man in the chest, and he cuffed my ear so hard my

vision clouded. The trees swayed. When the spinning stopped, I resisted the

impulse to fight. Resistance only makes them hit harder. A lesson long

learned, though often challenged.

As I went limp, I caught a whiff of scent. Werewolf scent. It was him. The one

from the park. He•fd used my trails to track me to my den. Instinctively I

started struggling. Again he struck me, and the world toppled into momentary

darkness.

He said something, a volley of words that made as little sense to me as the

chirping of the birds overhead. I•fd long since lost the ability to understand

human speech. When I didn•ft respond, he shook me and repeated himself. His

words sounded clipped, impatient. Still dangling me by the neck, he swung me

around to face him, then lifted one brow and said something. When I didn•ft

react, he laughed and tossed me to the ground.

I hit the dirt hard, my head striking a half-buried rock. When I opened my

eyes, he was crouched with his head inside my den. I tried to growl, but the

sound came out strangled and ridiculous. He swiveled on his heels, looked at

me and laughed. He said something, then went back to investigating my den.

After a few minutes, he got to his feet, grimaced and wiped his hands on his

pants. Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he left.

I lay on the grass, listening as the thud of his footsteps retreated through

the trees. When the sound stopped, I lifted my head, then gritted my teeth and

tried to stand. The pain forced me back down. I lay there, panting and trying

to focus. I had to get up, get away. He might come back. My heart hammered so

hard it drowned out the birds in the trees. I stretched my legs and rolled

onto my stomach. Waves of agony pulsed through my skull. I closed my eyes and

concentrated, got to my knees, started to rise, then passed out.

When I came to, I•fd changed into a wolf. I couldn•ft remember what happened

or why I was lying outside my den. The sunlight jabbed needles through my

eyes. It hurt to blink, to turn my head, to move. As I stumbled forward, my

legs tangled and I fell headfirst to the ground, muzzle bulldozing though the

dirt, nostrils filling. For a second, I couldn•ft breathe. Mindless panic sent

me flying to my feet. Excruciating pain forced me back to the ground.

Lifting my head, I saw my den. It wavered, mirage-like, just feet from my

nose. I crawled forward, belly to the ground. Time crawled even slower. Only

the promise of my den kept me moving. Finally, I was there. Forcing myself to

my feet, I made that last step. Then, just as I was about to lurch onto my bed

of leaves and rags, the scent hit me. His scent.

I backed away, my legs shaking. For the first time in years, old

emotions?human emotions?surfaced. Frustration. Humiliation. Rage. Hate.

Impotent, overwhelming hate. I threw back my head and howled my anguish to the

rising moon.

I spent days lying outside my den. My brain prodded me to find shelter, but my

throbbing head wouldn•ft let me move. The den was soiled for me now. Cold

nights, bitter rain, the fear of predators, nothing would make me take that

final step inside. Sleep brought no relief from the pain or the cold. I was

too terrified to close my eyes, certain he•fd come back. Once or twice, the

hunger and exhaustion became too much and I passed out. More than once, I

thought he•fd returned. I saw him there, looming over me, but just as my teeth

were about to graze his throat, he•fd vanish into mocking laughter.

One day, I awoke and found the strength to stand. I stumbled to the swamp and

drank the fetid water, coughing half of it back up again. Next, my nose led me

to the decaying carcass of a nutria and I ate. And life continued.

Days, maybe weeks later, I was sunning myself on a rock by the bayou, enjoying

one of the last rare bouts of heat as autumn slid into winter. A cloud

kidnapped my sunlight, and I shifted my position. As I moved, I caught sight

of something. It was him?the werewolf who•fd beaten me?standing downwind less

than twenty feet away. My heart jammed in my throat.

He leaned against a tree, arms crossed. When I moved, his arms fell to his

sides and his lips curved in a crooked, almost hesitant, half-smile, nothing

like the arrogant grin of my nightmares. Also, I remembered him as shorter,

more muscular. Older, too. This man looked barely out of his teens. But the

dark hair and the shape of his face matched my memories exactly.

I began to wonder if I•fd fallen asleep and was dreaming. I rubbed my eyes and

looked around. Everything was as it should be. Everything except the intruder.

I shaded my eyes from the sun to get a better look.

Yes, this man definitely resembled the werewolf who•fd invaded my den.

Therefore it must be him. So why was I sitting here? Was I eager for another

beating? My gaze slid from side to side, evaluating my escape options. The man

was still watching me. Watching, but making no move to approach.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he didn•ft see me. I focused on his eyes. They were

black and slightly slanted over high cheekbones. When I saw them, I knew this

wasn•ft the man who•fd violated my den. I had looked into the other man•fs

eyes and I would never forget them.

The stranger said something. The inflection reminded me of the other man, but

the timbre was different, deep and low. He tilted his head and smiled, even

more hesitant this time. He spoke again. I barely heard him. My attention was

focused on his body, waiting for the first twitch of movement. I was in human

form, completely vulnerable.

After a short silence, the man resumed talking, his voice low and soothing,

the sentences stretching into a monologue. Then his left leg moved ever so

slightly. I tensed. He stepped forward, moving slowly, still talking. I inched

backward. My toes brushed water and I froze. I looked from side to side. The

bayou surrounded me, blocking off all escape.

The man continued his approach. I began to shake. He stopped, now only five

feet away, then dropped to one knee. I watched his hands. He lifted them and

turned them, palms toward me. Bending down more, he tried to make eye contact.

His shoe slipped in the mud. At the sudden movement I panicked. I leapt at

him. He yanked back, fast, but not fast enough. My long nails raked down his

forearm, three rivulets of blood springing up.

He inhaled sharply. I fell back, shielding my head, waiting for the

retaliatory blow. Everything in my early life had conditioned me to recognize

this simple cause and effect. I cowered, head under my arm, eyes clenched

tight. Nothing happened. My heart thudded. I knew this trick. He was waiting.

The second I exposed myself, the blow would come, a cuff across the head or

shoulders that I•fd feel for days. I opened one eye, keeping my arm over my

head. He crouched on his heels, tying a handkerchief around the wound with one

hand. When he noticed me watching, he managed a pained half-smile. Then, still

crouching, he eased backward and stood.

I closed my eyes, tensed and waited. When I peeked again, he was gone.

Domestication

Only a few hours passed before he returned. The day was darkening and I•fd

begun to hunt. I•fd changed to a wolf, possibly in a subconscious reaction to

the fear, taking on a form where I would be better able to fight him if he

returned.

I was chasing a mouse when I heard a noise behind me and turned to see the man

step into the clearing. He smiled. I wheeled and ran.

I ran full out until I was certain he wasn•ft following. Once I was sure I•fd

lost him, I turned around and went back to find him.

I crept through the undergrowth, ears perked. As I approached the clearing, I

slowed, crawling along the ground, ready to bolt at the first sign that he saw

me. I slunk into a thicket bordering the clearing. Then I closed my eyes and

inhaled. He was there. I listened, but heard nothing. I crouched, sniffing and

listening, every muscle poised for flight. After a few minutes, I worked up

the nerve to peer through the weeds. He sat on the grass, leaning against a

tree, legs outstretched, arms crossed and eyes shut, as if dozing. I stopped,

confused. I•fd seen humans do a lot of strange things, but settling down for a

nap in the middle of the bayou was not one of them.

I pushed my muzzle out farther to sniff again. Not a leaf rustled, but somehow

he seemed to hear the movement. His eyes snapped open. I jerked back into the

thicket. He laughed. No, not a laugh really?a deep chuckle that rippled

through the night air. I heard a rustle and peeked out to see him rooting

around in a paper bag. He pulled something out and threw it. Although I was

over thirty feet away, it sailed through the thicket and landed squarely at my

feet. I bent to sniff it. A piece of cooked meat. I gulped it before I could

have second thoughts. A second piece flew into the thicket with equally

perfect aim. I ate that one, and the next, and the next. He threw each to my

feet, not trying to entice me out of my hiding spot.

At last, the meat stopped coming. I waited patiently. Nothing happened. I

poked my head out of the thicket and looked at him. He said something, turned

the bag upside down and shook it. My nose twitched, catching the lingering

hints of meat in the air. My stomach growled. He got to his feet. I darted

back into the thicket. Minutes passed. When I peeked out again, he was still

by the tree, standing now, hands in pockets. He murmured something under his

breath, turned and vanished into the forest. Once he was gone, I crept to the

crumpled bag and tore it apart, frustrated by the scent of meat permeating the

paper. I licked the scraps, but only got enough of a taste to make my stomach

start growling again. Reluctantly, I left the bag in tatters and went to hunt.

I barely had time to pick up another mouse trail when a sharp crack of

undergrowth startled me. I spun to see a form emerge from the trees. Though it

was in the shadows, I could see the outline of a large dog. I was about to

bolt when it stepped into the moonlight. It was a wolf, a tall, rangy black

wolf. My leg muscles seized, riveting me to the ground. Instead of walking

toward me, though, the wolf loped to the east, circling me while coming

closer. There was something in his mouth, but he was too far away for me to

see it. Then, a light breeze blew through the trees and his scent fluttered

down to me. With a start, I recognized the smell. It was the man from the

clearing. I don•ft know why it surprised me to realize he was a werewolf, but

it did.

Staying upwind, he moved a few steps closer. Then he drew back his head and

threw whatever was in his mouth. His aim and distance weren•ft nearly as good

as when he•fd been a man and whatever he•fd thrown landed about five feet

northwest of me. I stayed still, watching. He backed up, then laid down,

putting his muzzle on his paws. Now a second smell shifted to me in the wind.

Rabbit. Freshly killed rabbit. My stomach overrode my fear and I raced

forward, finding the rabbit where he•fd thrown it. It was larger than anything

I could ever catch. The throat had been ripped open, but he hadn•ft fed. I

lowered my head and ate.

When I finished eating, my brain reminded me that I should escape, but the

warning was buried under the weight of the food in my belly. With the black

wolf still lying less than ten feet away, I stretched out and fell asleep.

The next morning he was gone. He reappeared around noon, in human form, again

bearing food. I ate it, then crept back into the woods. He didn•ft follow.

That night, he returned with more food.

With that, a pattern was established. Each day, he brought food, he talked to

me, sometimes changed form and hunted for me, but always kept his distance,

never following when I grew nervous or bored and wandered away. Gradually his

patience wore down my fear. Although I still didn•ft trust him, I learned to

tolerate his presence?especially since it was always paired with generous

helpings of food.

About ten days later, after lunch, while he dozed against a tree, I screwed up

the courage to approach him. I was in wolf form and he wasn•ft, which

fortified my nerve. I circled around behind the tree, then crept forward, ears

perked and straining for any change in his breathing. Finally, I was behind

the tree. I craned my neck and sniffed the back of his shoulder. He didn•ft

move. Inching forward, I sniffed his arm and shirt sleeve, then his side and

hip. He had a rich natural smell mingled with a myriad of human smells?soap,

fabric, car exhaust, processed food and scores more. I sniffed him thoroughly

and was about to retreat when I noticed a bag at his side. He•fd already fed

me and the empty food bag was lying in the middle of the clearing. I eyed the

new bag. Something bulged within it. More food? Was he holding out on me?

Gingerly, I snagged the corner of the paper bag with my teeth, then dragged it

to a safer spot behind the tree. It didn•ft smell like food. But it had to be.

What else was a bag for?

Grabbing one corner, I jerked my head up and dumped the bag. A shower of

fabric fell to the ground. I tossed the bag aside and pounced on the fabric

before it could escape. I snuffled through the pile. As the fabric spread out,

it revealed its true nature. Clothing. A small pair of jeans, a shirt and

sneakers. I tore through the clothing looking for the hidden food. It wasn•ft

there. Behind me, the bag tumbled away in the breeze. I raced after it and

caught it just as a gust of wind was lifting it into the air. Tipping it onto

its side, I thrust my head inside, hoping to find the missing food. There was

nothing there, not even the tempting scent of meat soaked into the paper. I

pulled back. The bag stayed on my head, stuck behind my ears. I shook myself.

It stayed on. I tried backing away from it and tripped, tumbling head over ass

to the ground. It was then that I heard it. Laughter. Not a dry chuckle or a

quiet laugh, but a tremendous whoop of choking laughter. I caught the bag

under my paw and yanked my head out. He stood there, arms crossed over his

chest, trying to stop himself from laughing and failing miserably. I glared at

him, salvaged my last shreds of dignity and stalked off into the woods.

The next day he brought extra food, so I decided, after much contemplation, to

forgive him.

Each day following, the clothes reappeared in a fresh bag. I ignored them. On

the third day, I was in human form when he brought my lunch. He fed me just

enough to stop the gnawing in my gut, then produced the bag of clothing.

Lifting each piece, he pointed at the corresponding article of clothing on his

own body, then pantomimed putting it on. I fixed him with a cool stare and

curled my lip. I knew perfectly well what clothing was and what was supposed

to be done with it. I wasn•ft an idiot. And I certainly wasn•ft stupid enough

to put them on, which seemed to be the end goal of this little demonstration.

I laid down in my patch of sunlight and closed my eyes. Then I heard the

crinkle of paper and a smell I knew all too well. Food. I opened one eye. The

man held out both hands, a cooked hamburger patty in one and the shirt in the

other. He arched one eyebrow. I closed my eyes. The scent of the meat wafted

over. My mouth watered. I peeked again. The hamburger was still there. So was

the shirt. With an annoyed growl, I got to my feet, marched over, grabbed the

shirt and tugged it on, first trying to pull the armhole over my head, but

eventually remembering the proper sequence. Then I held out my hand. He gave

me the meat patty. I ate it, yanked off the shirt and threw it back.

Unperturbed, he reached down for the jeans and a second meat patty and we

started again.

By the third day of playing this game, I surrendered. It was an uneven match.

His patience seemed endless. Mine wore out in five seconds. Besides, I was

curious to see what this clothing business portended. I put on the whole

outfit, then followed him out of the bayou. On the edge of the woods was a

parking lot for weekend fishermen. He walked over to the only car in the lot,

opened the passenger door and turned to say something to me. The tail end of

his words floated into the night as I plunged back into the forest.

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GiftItwasalatesummernight.Hotandsticky,likemostsummernightsinBatondideverysummerweekend.ItwaspastmidnightandIwaswanderingthewoodsalone.Nothingunusualaboutthat.Isupposethereshouldbesomethingunusualaboutasix-year-oldroamingtheforestatnight,butmyparentshadavagueSaturdaynightsatthecampgroundwerealwaysth...

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Kelley Armstrong - Clay 1 - Savage

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