He started walking, slowly and deliberately, the dragging steps of a condemned man, and Betty called after him. “If you see the wolf … you have to shoot, Archie. No matter who it is. If you hesitate, even for a second, it’ll be too late. For both of us.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” He forced a smile that didn’t meet his eyes, holding up the handgun. “ ‘Kill to be kind.’ ”
And then he was gone, eaten by the shadows, and Betty turned to face her own dark path. The start of the aquarium’s exhibits was a narrow, zigzag hallway bordered by informational plaques showing a timeline of aquatic life across the eons. Its recessed lights turned off for the night, the only illumination available was a creepy blue-green glow filtering in from the passageway’s far end. Betty swallowed hard as she inched along, adjusting her sweaty grip on the revolver, trying not to think about all the ways this might be a huge mistake.
She’d been a fool not to take it for granted from the start that they were dealing with more than one wolf. It was rare these days, but obviously not unheard of, and the fact of it threw certain past events into sharp focus, such as Dilton’s death inside an old crypt and the locked-room mystery of Miss Grundy’s tragic end. These situations had the authorities thoroughly perplexed, but to Betty they finally made sense. Two wolves working together—one to set a trap, the other to guide their prey into it—explained the unexplainable.
And now she and Archie had followed a werewolf into a scenario where they had to split up, creeping through nearly pitch-black corridors with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Every inch of her skin pebbled with goose bumps as she was forced to consider that the beast was not the one who was about to be cornered in the aquarium.
The narrow hallway opened onto a square room lined with different-sized fish tanks, the water inside shimmering turquoise under soft, hidden bulbs. Tetras, guppies, and barbs dove and circled, casting a net of shapeless, undulating shadows across every surface in the room, and Betty glanced around nervously. Everything was silent but for the whir of filtration systems and the occasional rush of bubbles breaking, and she squeezed her eyes shut for just a second before creeping ahead to the next doorway.
Two more rooms followed that looked no different, wallpapered with mirages conjured by light through rippling water, and the muscles in her jaw started to ache from tension. On the opposite side of the aquarium, Archie would be going through something just like this, trying to keep his head clear as he closed in on a monster that had no way out—except over one of their dead bodies. She hoped he wouldn’t be the one to find the wolf, because she wasn’t sure he’d put himself first.
Then again, she was starting to wonder if she would.
The third room opened onto a long, curving passage bordered on both sides by massive tanks of dark blue water. One contained a school of translucent jellyfish, their motions mesmerizing, tentacles streaming like ribbons from their bell-shaped heads; and the other held a brightly colored universe of angelfish. This was what Betty remembered best from her one and only visit—these triangular bodies, with dramatic fins and brilliant scales, darting back and forth in a seamless, chaotic ballet. She’d watched them for what had felt like hours. Seeing them now, she let out a sigh that echoed along the glass-enclosed corridor, a breath that contained multitudes.
A breath that was answered.
It came from the far end of the hallway, a huff of air so faint it was almost drowned out by the growing thud of her heartbeat; but the sound was unmistakable—and inhuman. Pivoting slowly, her hackles rising, Betty took one cautious step along the slight bend in the passage … and froze. Two glowing eyes, narrowed into menacing slits, glared back at her; two long, pointed ears folded back against a lupine head in a threatening signal; and four massive paws, the size of human hands, scraped the tiled floor. From its muzzle to the tip of its tail, each hair of the werewolf’s thick brown pelt quivered with deadly energy as it took one menacing step forward.
Betty had the revolver up and sighted, the barrel trained on the spot between the beast’s eyes, in the time it took her to blink. Choking on the first breath she drew, she braced herself, steadying her hand—and wondered why she hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.
Or maybe not wondering. She could still feel Ethel’s paws pinning her shoulders to that mountain of trash; she could still remember the taste and smell of blood spraying across her face; she could still see that severed wolf’s head slowly reverting back to its human shape, familiar eyes staring emptily and accusingly back at her. No matter how many hours she’d spent training, no matter how many missions she’d gone on with her parents or Aunt Elena, nothing had prepared her for that last moment. For killing someone she knew.
If she pulled the trigger right now, would the beast in front of her turn into Jughead Jones as it died? The barrel of the gun wavered slightly, a bead of perspiration rolling down her temple, and she took another shaky breath. “Sometimes you have to kill to be kind.” Growling deeper in its throat, the creature bared even more of its teeth, quivering all over—and Betty blinked in surprise.
It was scared. The flatted ears, the raised fur, the trembling … the beast was frightened of her. The revolver dipped, her head spinning with the realization.
And that’s when the werewolf finally lunged.
He was staring at a betta fish, its extravagant pink tail fluttering in slow motion, when the roar of gunfire sent Archie’s heart catapulting so far up his throat he almost gagged on it. The report was muffled, coming from far away, but the sound was unmistakable. Archie’s vision tunneled, his head growing light.
Betty.
Breaking into a run, he sprinted through three more rooms, barely thinking to check his surroundings before plunging ahead into the next stretch of unknown territory. His hands were sweaty, and terror squeezed his chest tight as he thought about Betty and the wolf. He’d been so sure that he would be the one to find the beast first, that his luck was just that lousy. He’d been so sure that Betty would be the only living thing in the entire aquarium to walk out alive at the end of the night.
There’d only been one gunshot. That meant either Betty had stopped the beast … or that it had stopped her. Nausea swept over him, and dark spots crowded his vision, his feet stumbling as he swayed against the wall. In his hand, the gun shook so badly he could barely hold it.
Whose body was he running to?
Which of his friends was dead?
Forcing himself to keep moving, he staggered down a short hallway and into a cavernous room at the rear of the aquarium, where an entire wall of thick glass held back the largest tank of water Archie had ever seen. Rocks and shells covered its floor, dark plant life poking through and waving softly—and above, high over his head, two distinctive figures circled. Casting shadows that slithered across the floor at his feet, silhouetted by oblique light, a pair of hammerhead sharks drifted in ominous silence.
The weird light from the tank rippled and danced over the room’s concrete floor, the resonance of electricity humming faintly in the air … and then the sound of a deep, frightening growl rumbled out from the black archway leading off into the next section of the loop. Archie froze all the way to his core as two burning yellow eyes appeared in the shadows, and a massive brown wolf prowled soundlessly out of the passage and into the light.
“J-Jughead?” His voice squeaked, sweat rolling down his sternum. The wolf came to a stop, snarling as it pulled its ears back flat against its skull, and all the moisture left Archie’s mouth. “Jug, is … is that you, man?”
Snapping its jaws at the air, the werewolf bared all its teeth, a sling of drool spilling to the floor. Archie’s bladder weakened dangerously, and he took an instinctive step back. With a quaking hand, he aimed the weapon, lowered it … and then aimed it again, his nausea returning with the force of a tidal wave.
“Jug, if you’re in there, you gotta listen to me,” he begged, barely getting any sound out through his sandpaper throat. The beast crept to the left, claws
ticking against the floor, and Archie moved quickly to the right, keeping the gun up between them. “I don’t want to shoot you, okay? I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, and I know you don’t, either—that’s why you chained yourself up tonight. You can fight this, man, I know you can!”
It was a great speech that would all turn out to be wasted air if the thing in front of him was actually Bingo—especially if he’d already killed Betty. But he had to try. He had to believe. Peering into the creature’s eyes, he struggled to see past its terrifying features, past that unearthly glow. Minutely, the beast cocked its head, the feral expression changing … and Archie drew a breath. For just a moment, less than a heartbeat, he’d seen something in the shape of its face that he recognized. Something he knew.
“That is you, isn’t it?” He gaped, his heart pounding in his ears. The creature in front of him was Jughead, he was sure of it. The beast stepped back with a confused whine, snapping at the air again, and then prowled back to the right before baring its teeth once more. Holding up a hand beside the gun, Archie backed away a little. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, come on, Jug! It’s me—Archie. Your best friend? Remember?”
The wolf hesitated and then whined again, making a confused noise that vibrated through the air. Shaking its head, dark fur rippling from the point of its muzzle all the way down to its flanks, the beast paced back and forth a little and then snarled again.
“That’s it, man, keep fighting,” Archie pleaded. “Don’t give in to this. I know you’re not a killer, and … and neither am I.” Adrenaline spitting ice-cold nails through his bloodstream, he lowered his gun to the floor, hoping it wasn’t the worst—and last—mistake he’d ever make. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jug. That’s not who we are, and it’s not who we have to be. Whatever caused this, I know you didn’t ask for it. I know you don’t want to be a monster, but you have to fight it, man!”
“You have to fight it, man.” A part of Jughead’s buried consciousness made sense of those words and shouted the meaning at him through a thick screen of intrinsic, animal instinct—some tiny voice telling him to stop, to listen. But it was hard to hear over the grinding rumble of his empty stomach. The intoxicating scent of fear hung heavy in the air; he was hungry for it, and all of his being demanded that he attack.
Drawing back, Jughead calculated the distance between him and his prey, assessing how much force he’d have to put behind a leap; and then that voice intruded again, a shrill alarm warning him not to proceed. He recognized Archie, of course—just as he’d recognized Dilton and Grundy and Pop Tate—but he couldn’t understand his own hesitation. Knowing who you were hunting was an advantage; what was keeping him from seizing it?
Jughead paced, shaking his head in an unstrung silence. His body quivered with the need to pounce, and the confusion of not being able to follow through on the impulse frightened him. A frustrated whine emerged from deep in his gut, and he drew back again, teeth snapping, summoning up the clarity of his primal urge to kill. He was just about to force himself to lunge when a new scent caught his attention—and he knew, instantly, that they weren’t alone in the room anymore …
Maybe putting the gun down had been a stupid idea, but it was too late now. The wolf took a step forward, and then two steps back, and made a pitiful crooning noise. Then it narrowed its eyes and gnashed its teeth, coiling back like it was about to spring, and Archie’s head whirled in fear. But before it could pounce, another dark shape separated unexpectedly from the shadowy corridor leading away to the rest of the loop, pale light from the shark tank gleaming against blond hair and the shining barrel of a revolver.
“Archie, don’t move,” Betty commanded, her tone crisp and clear, her weapon held steady on the werewolf. She didn’t appear injured, but she was soaking wet, water dripping from her bedraggled ponytail. “I don’t want to shoot you by accident.”
The beast growled, its attention caught by Betty’s unexpected entrance, and it shifted its feet warily. Looking from one human to the other, it seemed to be sizing up the threat they posed, and its ears pulled back even farther as the scruff on its neck lifted. Licking his lips, Archie pleaded, “Wait, Betty! This is … it’s Jughead. It’s Jughead in there.”
“I’m sorry, Archie.” Betty could have been a statue for how remote her expression was, but her tone was soft and clear in the empty room. “It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.”
“He’s resisting it, Betts, I swear! How can that not matter?” Archie had his eyes on the wolf, on Jughead, whose lips quivered around a deadly array of long, sharp teeth. “He could have killed me already, but he hasn’t. Give him a chance!”
“We’ve both seen what werewolves do when they’re given chances,” she said, her voice ringing against the shark tank, the lazy shapes inside still circling. But she hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. She could have killed already, too—but she hadn’t. “We … we don’t have a choice.”
Caught between them, the beast’s eyes rolled, its primal fear of being surrounded pushing it further from reason. Holding out both hands, sensing his opportunity slipping away, Archie whimpered, “Please, Jug. I know you can beat this. I believe in you, man.”
“I believe in you, man.” This time, the words barely registered. There were two of them now, and Jughead was trapped in the middle, both of the exits blocked. His heart raced, his muscles were tense and tingling, and he dug his paws into the floor. Fear was quickly clouding all his other senses, and he growled louder. Bingo had taught him how to hold back from a kill—how to resist the overwhelming urge to strike until the moment was just right; but no training could overcome the instinct for survival.
He was cornered, and he needed to escape. Everything else—his hunger, his caution, the small voice telling him to stand down—vanished in a haze of fear, replaced by a sense of fight-or-flight that could not be reasoned with. Betty stood on one side, and Archie on the other … but only one of them was armed.
His body shook, and one last growl rattled the depths of his gullet …
The werewolf trembled all over, a growl seeming to shake its entire body—and then it sprang without warning. Eyes blazing, jaws spreading to catch the air, it launched itself right at Archie. The boy shrank back, nowhere to hide and no weapon to defend himself, his life flashing before his eyes. He barely caught the gleam of gunmetal as Betty’s revolver snapped up.
The roar of the gun was shocking, earsplitting, and his heart spiraled all the way up into his brain. His knees gave out a second before the colossal beast crashed into him, and their bodies hit the ground, rolling and skidding over the hard floor. The werewolf’s claws ripped open the leather sleeves of Archie’s jacket as it tumbled away—finally coming to a stop sprawled on its side, slack and motionless.
Archie struggled up onto his knees just as Betty reached him, her face bloodless, the revolver smoking in her white-knuckled grip. Before them, a pool of blood slowly widened beneath the wolf, as its body gradually shifted back to reveal the limp human form of Jughead Jones.
NOW THAT THE PLACE WAS under new management, the burgers that the Chock’Lit Shoppe served just weren’t as good as they used to be. Regardless, Archie and his friends were seated at their usual booth a few days after the grand reopening. The necessary cleanup and renovations had taken a while to complete, and despite aggressive advertising, the diner was nearly empty.
“Well, what did you expect, Archie?” Betty asked under her breath when the boy made note of the sparsely populated tables. “I mean, a man died, like, right where we’re sitting, for Pete’s sake.”
Archie couldn’t help shuddering a little at the thought, even though there was only one person who really knew exactly where Pop Tate had died—and he wasn’t telling anyone the details. Methodically stuffing his face with a pile of French fries, he was also the one who’d insisted that they come in the first place, and the only person of the three at the table who hadn’t complained about the food yet.
“Why are we here, anyway, Jughead?�
�� Archie asked, looking down at his half-eaten burger with a suddenly queasy eye, wondering just how thorough the cleanup job had been. “Isn’t it sort of, uh … morbid?”
Sitting across from him and Betty, Archie’s best friend merely shrugged. “I think I probably owe them the business, since I’m the reason everyone else is staying away. Honestly, they did a great job in here, though. You wouldn’t believe how much blood there was.”
“Right.” Archie swallowed a little and then pushed the rest of his burger aside. He was probably done eating—forever. Lifting up his milk shake instead, he cleared his throat. “Since the three of us are together again at the Chock’Lit Shoppe for the first time since all this started, I would like to propose a toast. Here’s to Betty for shooting Jughead in the hip!”
“Archie,” Betty admonished, her cheeks turning pink.
Jughead didn’t seem the least bit perturbed, though. Lifting his shake, he said, “Thank you for shooting me, Betty.”
“Any time.” She rolled her eyes, but allowed the boys to click the edges of their cups against her own. That night at the aquarium, when Jughead’s instincts had prevailed at last and he’d leaped straight for Archie’s throat, it was only Betty’s quick reflexes and deadeye aim that had saved both boys’ lives.
The first shot she’d fired that night, in the long corridor by the jellyfish tank, had been reactive and unplanned. Thankfully, it had scared Jughead away, but it had also struck one of the thick glass panes on the wall; cracks had spread in a matter of seconds, and then a deluge of salt water and gelatinous blobs with stinging tentacles had poured out. Thank God the creatures weren’t deadly. When she’d recovered, she’d managed to make her way to the hammerhead room just in time.
From her position, with the light from the tank, she’d had a clear kill shot … but she hadn’t taken it. Instead, she’d put a round into one of Jughead’s haunches, the silver bullet lodging high up in his femur, its poison gradually forcing his body to reverse the change.
A Werewolf in Riverdale Page 18