Monster High 3: Where There's a Wolf, There's a Way

by Lisi Harrison

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MEAT, PRAY, LOVE

  Nino aimed the camera at his sister. His stringy black hair fell in front of the lens, but he quickly tucked it behind his ear. “And… action!” he called.

  More than a cue, the word had become Clawdeen’s only hope for surviving her first week of captivity. No more sulking around the inn, begging her brothers for driving lessons, or doing thousand-piece granny-loving kitten puzzles while mourning the inevitable death of her party. If she wanted to make a name for herself in the cutthroat world of DIY decorating, she’d have to beef up her blog. And so she enlisted her youngest brother, swiped the key to suite 9, and got to work.

  “Hi, I’m Clawdeen Wolf,” she announced with a confident smile. “Welcome to another episode of Where There’s a Wolf, There’s a Way…” It was the fifth one she’d shot that week. Not that her seven loyal followers would know. Like her, they would be kept in the dark until life returned to normal and she had access to a computer. But when that time came, they would not be disappointed.

  “I was hired to upgrade this hotel room from drab to fab using nothing but construction scraps and my own creative flair.”

  Nino snickered. Probably because he knew how opposite of hired she really was and how opposite of alive she would be if she couldn’t restore the room to its original state before her parents found out.

  Three days earlier, the understated rustic retreat had been furnished with pine-green accents, raw-wood furniture, and a king-sized bed covered with a red and royal blue Navajo blanket. Now, Friday night, the space was well on its way to becoming the Sweet Suite—the must-have room for the eighteen-and-under crowd.

  Broken glassware from the kitchen had been glued to the mini-fridge in a colorful mosaic that spelled EAT; above the bathtub the mosaic said CHILL, and behind the bed she’d written REST. Old coffee tins had been covered in fur (thanks, boys) and dyed purple to play up the faux facade. In the cans, Clawdeen displayed hairbrushes, makeup brushes, pens, and even beef jerky. Old hardcover books “borrowed” from the inn’s library had been stacked and shellacked with glossy, high-fashion photos, transforming them into bedside pillars. One displayed fashion dos; the other, don’ts. The family’s old CD collection, stored at the inn for guests who doubted the staying power of iTunes, had finally been put to use. Clawdeen glued the discs to the wooden walls, reflective side showing, to give guests the sense that they were sleeping inside a disco ball—because who didn’t want that?

  “Tonight,” Clawdeen continued, “I’m going to teach you how to transform an entire Polly Pocket doll collection into a chandelier, or a chan-doll-ier, as I like to call it.”

  She padded over the soon-to-be-covered-in-glitter rug and stopped at the desk. It was strewn with cable wires, tiny figurines, and spools of metallic string. Nino followed. “Before you get started, it’s very important that you—”

  Suddenly, Clawdeen’s ears tightened. Music thumped in the distance.

  “Stand by,” Nino said, lowering the camera.

  Clawdeen checked her reflection while they waited for the disruption to pass. The moon was filling out, and with it came the usual warning signs that transformation was approaching. Her auburn hair and nails had grown at least half an inch since lunch. Her metabolism was firing, making the tight aubergine minidress she had put on an hour earlier loose around the waist. And her yellow-brown eyes radiated fierce passion. Funny, every TV hostess in Hollywood would sell her soul for those traits, and yet she was the one hiding.

  The music was getting closer. People were singing, their voices muffled, like they were inside a car. Ke$ha’s “We R Who We R” was blasting at full volume. Clawdeen held her breath and listened to the long-lost sounds of fun.

  “They’re pulling in,” Nino said, rushing to the window. “Look!”

  A black Escalade pulled up the drive. Typical self-centered normie behavior—assuming the SORRY sign applied to everyone else but them. If they only knew that the woman making their creamed spinach wore a hairnet over her entire body.

  Inside the SUV, two voices wailed: “We’ll be forever young!”

  Clawdeen sang along. “We are who we are.” She knew every word. How could she not? Lala played it in her car every morning on their way to—Omigod! She tossed the suite key to Nino. “That’s a wrap. Lock up, will ya?”

  Clawdeen charged down the forest-green carpeted staircase and rushed out to greet the SUV.

  The windows were fogged—probably from the blasting heat—but Clawdeen didn’t hesitate. She pulled open the driver’s door and jumped inside. Lala and her uncle Vlad were dancing in their seats, waving their arms above their heads and belting out the final chorus.

  “Deenie!” Lala threw herself into Clawdeen’s open arms. Apart for only a week, they hugged as though it had been forever.

  “I know when I’m not wanted,” joked Uncle Vlad, leaning over his niece to shut off the ignition. “Guess I’ll make like under-eye cream and get the bags.”

  Lala’s fangs began chattering as the heat escaped through the open door. Her gray fedora, yellow hoodie, black satin blazer, leggings, and knee-high boots obviously weren’t enough to keep her warm on a sixty-seven-degree night. And it looked as if she hadn’t eaten for days.

  “Bags?” Clawdeen asked. “What bags? What are you doing here? Where have you been?”

  “Can we talk about it inside?” Lala asked, grabbing a couple of parasols from the backseat. “It’s cold out here in the sticks.”

  “What’s going on out here?” Clawd asked from the doorway. “Mom’s been calling you for dinner. Where’s Nino?” He was wearing his football jersey for the same reason Clawdeen had painted her nails in green glitter polish and enhanced them with silver bow stickers: hope.

  “Look who’s here!” Clawdeen announced, rub-warming her friend’s delicate arms as they entered the inn.

  “Lala,” Clawd said, his expression softening from watchdog to puppy dog.

  “Fresh off the plane from Romania!” She slapped him five, jammed her parasols into the steel umbrella holder, and hurried into the warm lobby.

  Candlelit and cozy, it was a balanced mix of log cabin and Henry VIII. The granite registration desk was flanked by dark walnut walls covered in black-and-white photos of castles. Navy wingback chairs, a Scotch plaid sofa, and an iron coffee table faced a stone fireplace. Bookshelves offered classic novels and sun-bleached board games. Lala went straight for the hearth and held her hands to the flames.

  “Romania?” Clawdeen asked. “With the grimparents?”

  “Yup, Dad forced me. He thought I’d be safe there. Funny thing is, I almost died of starvation. The closest thing to a vegetable that Grumpma served was sausage from a corn-fed pig.”

  “Where do you want these?” Uncle Vlad panted as he dragged two massive trunks into the foyer. Old, worn, and wheelless, they could have been recovered from the Titanic.

  “Wait, you’re staying?” Clawdeen asked.

  “Sur-priiiise!” Lala singsonged.

  “I’ll get those,” Clawd said. With a small grunt, he stacked the trunks and lifted them over his head. “I’ll put them in Deenie’s room.” He began climbing the stairs.

  Uncle Vlad pulled a hankie from the pocket of his teal-checked blazer and dabbed his slick forehead. “Show-off.”

  “We have tons of room,” Clawdeen offered. “I’m sure my mom won’t care.”

  “It was her idea, actually,” Lala said.

  “Really?”

  “Our phones were taken away, and I didn’t have your number. So I called the inn and she answered. All she had to do was ask how I was doing and that was it. I started bawling. My grimparents were waiting in the car, honking, because we were going on a double date. Them, me, and some fruit bat they wanted to fix me up with. Are you ready? His name was Marian—”

  Clawd snickered from the second-floor landing.

  “I called Uncle Vlad first, but—”

  “Poor thing was in puddl
es when I picked up,” he said, helping himself to a Jolly Rancher from the candy dish at the reception desk. “And I just knew. I grew up with those two. Crying was my cardio. But I’d accepted a decorating job for a five-star seafood restaurant in Portland where—get this—Demi Lovato is part owner… or is it Demi Moore?”

  “So your mom said I could stay here until he gets back. I told her not to tell you. Wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Fur real?” Clawdeen shrieked. A friend! A girl! A cohost! A driving teacher! A miracle!

  Lala nodded and they squealed again.

  After a round of good-bye hugs for Uncle Vlad, the girls made their way to dinner.

  Clawdeen couldn’t wait to fill Lala in on everything that had been happening. To hear stories about Lala’s crazy relatives, laugh their way to stronger abs, and stay up all night gossiping. Lala could teach her how to drive. Assist with the Sweet Suite. And help her plan the Sassy… just in case.

  The thrill of a weeklong slumber party must have tickled Lala too. Not one for silly humor, she approached the suit of armor—which held the inn’s menus with its metal fingers—and smacked its butt.

  “Ooh, me next!” Howie teased from the table, already eating.

  “I suggest you use gloves,” Don joked.

  “The kind they use at the zoo to clean the elephant cages,” Nino said, sitting.

  “Why would he need gloves to touch the knight’s butt?” Rocks wondered.

  “Not him,” Don said, frustrated. “Lala.”

  “Why would Lala need gloves? She just did it, and her hands are fine.” Rocks smirked, stabbing a meatball.

  Everyone burst out laughing—even Clawdeen, who was so over Rocks’s airhead comments. Having Lala there definitely lightened her mood and made her feel safe in a way her brothers never could. Like a waitress refilling her cherry Coke before she had to ask. Clawdeen finally felt like someone had her back.

  “Are they being pigs?” Clawd asked, entering behind them. The wrinkled football jersey and gray sweats had been replaced by a black tee, skinny jeans, a leather belt, and sneakers. He had even spent some quality time with a comb. Hair gathered in a neat ponytail and smelling like Clawdeen’s black-currant body wash, he was suddenly more fox than wolf.

  The boys whistled. Lala’s dark eyes gave him a once-over. Clawdeen asked if he was sneaking out later to meet a girl.

  “Relax,” he said, sitting. “I was fixing the clogged tub and I fell in, so I changed.”

  A round of accusations followed about who should be blamed for the latest plumbing issues.

  “Welcome, Lala!” Harriet called, emerging from the kitchen with a steaming casserole dish. “Macaroni and cheese, just for you.” Her toned triceps bulged as she set the dish down. Removing her oven mitts, she pulled Lala in for a hug. “I’m going to fatten you up,” she promised. Her cheeks, flushed from cooking, matched her cinnamon-colored hair.

  “I can’t wait,” Lala said, digging in. “I’m starving.” She looked healthier already.

  Harriet sat. “You look nice,” she told Clawd. “I can finally see your eyes. Now if you could get Nino to—”

  “No way,” said the youngest, covering his head with a red napkin.

  “Why? Look how handsome your brother looks.”

  “Don’t get used to it, Mom,” Clawd said, grabbing a roll from the bread basket. “It’s not like this is my new look or anything. I like my hair. I just did this—”

  “I bet you’d look cool with a mohawk,” Lala said, lifting the scalding casserole to her lips. “They’re everywhere in Romania. My cousin gave one to her boyfriend, and he looked hot. I can do it for you if you want.”

  “We’ll see,” Clawd said, grinning shyly.

  Lala smiled, fangs exposed.

  “So, Cleo texted me today,” Clawdeen said. “She said everyone is talking about my Sassy. Even the normies.”

  “It’s still happening?” Lala asked.

  “Thank you!” Howie dropped his fork and clapped his hands. “Finally, a girl with a brain around here.”

  “It’s eight days away,” Clawdeen explained to Lala, ignoring her pompous brother. “This whole thing could be over by then.”

  “That’s true,” Lala said, returning to her food.

  Clawdeen knew her friend too well. Lala didn’t believe the party would happen any more than her brother did. Still, she acted as if it could, and that meant everything. It meant there was hope.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  RAD TO THE BONE

  “Truth or dare?” Melody asked, her hair adorned in blue and olive feathers.

  Candace dog-eared a page in her Marie Claire magazine and sat up on her bed. “Dare, Kemosabe.”

  Pulling back the powder-pink curtains, Melody peered across the street at Jackson’s cottage. Dark and lifeless. Just as it had been all week. “Pick truth.”

  “Okay, truth.”

  The game was borderline amoral, considering Candace was under the influence of Melody’s spell—assuming there was a spell and she wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere experiencing a coma-induced hallucination. But come on, how else was she supposed to rationalize this? Melody Carver had never been the girl people listened to. Now suddenly she was calling the shots. Maybe this was some real-life version of Freaky Friday. Had she and Candace switched bodies? Melody glanced at her flattish chest. Not likely. Maybe one of the RADs had given her this gift. But who? Vampires, werewolves, zombies, mummies, gorgons… She ran through the list of everyone she knew. None of them were capable of that. The only thing that made sense (sort of) was that Melody had somehow become an overly persuasive, feather-shedding RAD. But what kind? The Black Swan?

  “Where is Mom’s white silk tunic?” she asked Candace, continuing to test her power.

  Her sister began blinking. “You mean the tunic formerly known as white?”

  “I guess so. Why? What happened to it?”

  “Salsa happened to it at Carmen Dederich’s pool party. So I dyed it black, and it actually looks better than before.” Satisfied, she sank back into her down-filled pillows and returned to her magazine.

  They had been playing this for almost an hour. Candace always picked dare, and then Melody, with the help of her newfound power, demanded truth. So far she had already uncovered the following information:

  Candace loves Melody’s new feather obsession. And really loves that her sister is exploring her personal style. But feathers and hoodies are the toothpaste and orange juice of fashion. One had to go, and Candace was rooting for the sweats.

  When she wants to land a new crush, Candace e-mails him a JPEG of herself in a bikini. When the boy writes back, and he always does, she says her assistant messed up—the photo was meant for her modeling agent, not him. A date request always follows.

  Candace’s diary—filled with descriptions of lonely nights spent at the library while her friends are out partying—is a fake. Left in the living room by “accident,” it’s intended to be read by snooping parents while she is out partying with her friends.

  All Candace’s new Salem friends think her father is a CIA operative. If they knew he was a plastic surgeon, they’d assume her beauty was enhanced. And it’s not.

  Her sciatic nerve was never pinched. The real reason she quit ballet? She tooted during a brisé and everyone heard.

  Her biggest confession? After being forced to turn down Lori Sherman’s pony party to hear Melody perform “Hirtenruf-Auf der Alp” in a yodeling recital, Candace had tossed a penny into the theater’s fountain and wished away her sister’s singing voice. One month later Melody developed asthma. Since then Candace had blamed herself, refusing to touch another penny as long as she lived. Hearing Melody sing at the Teen Vogue shoot was a huge relief. Candace no longer holds herself responsible but still refuses to touch pennies because they’re worthless and dirty.

  However unscrupulous this game, the distraction was necessary to calm Melody’s nerves. Between Jackson’s impending departure and her decept
ive parents’ momentary return, she had paced a landing strip in Candace’s sheepskin rug.

  For the previous two days, she had searched for Ms. J and Jackson. She’d asked teachers, students, and neighbors; scoured the Riverfront; flashed their pictures at airport ticket counters. Each of her subjects blinked before answering. They were telling the truth but had nothing to tell.

  Beau and Glory, however, would have plenty to spill. And she was finally ready to hear it. Ignorance is bliss was bull. Melody had been ignorant her whole life, and things were far from blissful. It was time to give knowledge is power a try. “Truth or dare—”

  Headlights streaked the bedroom walls. Candace tossed her magazine. “Omigod, they’re home.”

  Melody’s palms began to perspire. “Knowledge” was pulling into the driveway.

  “Truth,” Candace said. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad that I used the cleaning-lady money to buy a spray-tan machine?”

  “That depends. Are you planning to tell them I skipped school?”

  “Never,” Candace said, crossing her cami.

  Melody extended her hand and they shook. “Then we have a deal.”

  “Ew, melting much?” Candace wiped her hand on her wine-colored skinny jeans. “Botox treats sweating, you know. You should talk to Mom and Dad about it.”

  “I’ll add it to my list of topics.”

  “Hola señoritas,” Beau called. “Mamá y papá están en la casa!”

  Candace ran down the stairs and greeted them with a hug. Melody walked. Stale airplane smells clung to their matching turquoise camisetas.

  “How was it?” Candace asked.

  They giggled like spring breakers with an inside joke. “Lo que haiga pasado en Punta Mita se queda en Punta Mita,” Glory said.

  An expression from ten years ago should have stayed in ten years ago, Melody would have joked, but she was busy waking her courage from a fifteen-year slumber.

  “Notice anything different about the house?” Candace stepped aside so they could admire her work.

  “No,” Beau said, not bothering to look.

  “Exactly!” She beamed. “Everything is perfect. So feel free to go away and leave me in charge whenever you want.”