Maggie Stiefvater - [Wolves of Mercy Falls 02]

by Maggie Stiefvater

  I blinked.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Cole said. “If the shifting is the disease, it’s one thing. If you’re shifting because of the disease, it’s something else entirely. So here’s my theory, and this is such crap science, I don’t have to tel you. It’s science without microscopes, blood tests, or reality. Anyway. Grace was bitten. When she’s bitten, wolf toxin, for lack of a better term, is introduced. Whatever it is in this wolf spit is real y bad for you. Let’s say that shifting is the good guy, and that something about this wolf spit initiates a defensive response in your body—shifting, to purge the toxin. Every time you shift, the toxin’s put at bay. And for some reason, these shifts are timed with the weather. Unless, of course—”

  “You stop yourself from shifting,” Isabel said.

  “Yeah.” Cole glanced up toward the bottom of the stairwel , toward Grace’s floor. “If you somehow destroy your body’s ability to use hot and cold as a trigger, you look cured, but you’re not. You’re…festering.”

  I was tired, and I was not a science person. Cole could’ve told me that wolf toxin made you lay eggs and I would’ve thought it sounded reasonable at this point.

  “Okay. So it sounds fine, if vague. What’s the upshot?

  What are you suggesting?”

  “I think she needs to shift,” Cole said.

  It took me too long to realize what he was saying.

  “Become a wolf?”

  Cole shrugged. “If I’m right.”

  “Are you right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I closed my eyes. Without opening them, I asked,

  “And I’m guessing you have a theory on how to get her to shift.”

  Oh, God, Grace. I couldn’t believe what I was saying.

  Cole said, “Simplest is easiest.”

  I had a sudden image in my head of Grace’s brown eyes looking out from a wolf’s face. I wrapped my arms around myself.

  “She needs to get bitten again.”

  My eyes flew open and I stared at Cole. “Bitten.”

  Cole made a face. “It’s an educated guess. Something got messed up in the shifting chain of command, and if you reintroduced the original trigger, it might start her over from square one. Only this time don’t cook her in the car.”

  Everything in me rebel ed against the idea. Of losing Grace, losing what made her Grace. Of attacking her while she was dying. Of making decisions like this, on the fly, because there was no time. I said, “But it takes weeks or months to shift after you get bitten.”

  “I think that’s how long it takes for the toxin to build up initial y,” Cole said. “But she’s already there, obviously. If I’m right, she’d shift immediately.”

  I linked my arms behind my head and turned away from Cole and Isabel, staring at the pale blue concrete wal . “If you’re wrong?”

  “She has wolf spit in an open wound”—Cole paused, then added, “that she’l probably bleed to death from right now, because it sounds like the toxin is destroying her ability to clot.”

  They let me pace for several long moments, and then Isabel, a low voice out of the silence said, “If you’re right, Sam’s going to die, too.”

  “Yes,” Cole said, in such an even way that I knew he’d already considered that. “If I’m right, when Sam gets ten or thirteen years down the road, his cure won’t be a cure, either.”

  Could I believe the science concocted in a hospital cafeteria over lukewarm coffee and crumpled napkins?

  It was al I had.

  I turned, final y, and looked at Isabel. With her smudged makeup, her hair rumpled, her shoulders hunched up with uncertainty, she looked like an entirely different girl, trying to wear an Isabel disguise. I asked, “How would we get into the room?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  • ISABEL •

  It fel to me to get Grace’s parents out of the room. They hated Sam, so he was out, and Cole’s brawn would be needed elsewhere, so he was out. It occurred to me, as I clicked down the hal way to Grace’s room, that we were counting on Cole’s solution not working. Because if it did, we were al going to be in big trouble. I waited for a nurse to exit Grace’s room, and then I opened the door a crack. I was in luck; only her mom was sitting by her bed, looking out the window instead of at Grace. I tried not to look at Grace, who lay silent and white, her head turned limply to the side.

  “Mrs. Brisbane?” I asked in my best schoolgirl voice.

  She looked up, and I noted, with some satisfaction for Grace’s benefit, that her eyes were red. “Isabel?”

  I said, “I came as soon as I heard. Could I—could I talk to you about something?”

  She stared at me for a moment, and then she seemed to realize what I had asked. “Of course.”

  I hesitated at the door. Sell it, Isabel. “Um. Not near Grace. You know, where she could…” I pointed to my ear.

  “Oh,” her mother said. “Okay.” She was probably curious about what I was going to say. Honestly, I was, too. My palms were sticky with nerves.

  She patted Grace’s leg and stood up. When she

  got out into the hal , I pointed behind my hand at Sam, who was, as we’d advised, standing a few feet on the other side of the door. He looked like he was going to throw up, which was about how I felt. “Not near him, either,” I whispered. I remembered, suddenly, having told Sam that he wasn’t cut out for deception. As my stomach churned and I planned what I was going to confess to Grace’s mother, I thought that karma was a terrible thing.

  • COLE •

  As soon as Isabel had gotten Mrs. Brisbane out—Was she the only person in there? Only one way to find out, I supposed—it was my turn. While Sam watched out to make sure no nurses came in, I slipped into the room. It stank of blood, rot, and fear, and my wolfish instincts crawled up inside me, whispering at me to get out. I ignored them and went straight to Grace. She looked like she was made up of separate parts that had al been brought to the bed and assembled at awkward angles. I knew I didn’t have much time. I was surprised, when I knelt by her face, to find her eyes open, although the lids were heavy on them.

  “Cole,” she said. It was the long, low timbre of a sleepy little girl, someone who just couldn’t stay awake much longer. “Where’s Sam?”

  “Here,” I lied. “Don’t try to look.”

  “I’m dying, aren’t I?” whispered Grace.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said, but not for the reason she said. I pul ed out drawers on the cart by the bed until I found what I was looking for: an assortment of shiny sharp things. I selected one that looked logical and took Grace’s hand.

  “What are you doing?” She was too far gone to care, though.

  “Making you into a wolf,” I said. She didn’t flinch, or even look curious. I took a breath, held her skin taut, and made a tiny cut on her hand. Again, she didn’t move. The wound was bleeding like hel . I whispered,

  “I’m sorry, this is going to be disgusting. But unfortunately, I’m the only guy who can do the job.”

  Grace’s eyes opened just a little further as I worked up a big mouthful of saliva. I didn’t even know how much she would need to be reinfected. I mean, Beck had had it down to a fine science, had thought everything out. He’d had a tiny syringe that he kept in a cooler.

  “Believe me, less scarring this way,” he’d said. My mouth was getting dry as I thought about Isabel losing her hold on Grace’s mother. The blood was pumping out of the tiny cut like I’d slashed a vein. Grace’s eyes were fal ing shut, though I could see her fighting to keep them open. Blood was pooling on the floor underneath her hand. If I was wrong, I’d kil ed her.

  • SAM •

  Cole came to the door, touched my elbow, pul ed me inside. He latched the door and pushed a surgery cart up against it, as if that would stop anything.

  “Now’s the moment of truth,” he said, and his voice was uneven. “If it doesn’t work, she’s gone, but you get this moment with her. If it’s going to work, we’re />
  …gonna have to get her out of here in a hurry. Now. I want you to brace yourself, because…”

  I stepped around him and my vision shimmered. I had seen this much blood before, when the wolves made a kil , and there was so much blood that it stained the snow crimson around it for yards. And I had seen this much of Grace’s blood before, years ago, back when I was just a wolf and she was just a girl, and she was dying. But I hadn’t real y been ready to see it again.

  Grace, I said, but it wasn’t even a whisper. It was just the shape of my mouth. I was at her side, but I was a thousand miles away.

  Now she was shaking, and coughing, and her hands were gripping on the rails of the hospital bed. Across the room, Cole stared at the door. The knob was jiggling.

  “The window,” he told me.

  I stared at him.

  “She’s not dying,” Cole said, and his own eyes were wide. “She’s shifting.”

  I looked back down at the girl on the bed, and she looked back up at me.

  “Sam,” she said. She was jerking, her shoulders hunching. I couldn’t watch her. Grace, going through the agony of the shift. Grace, becoming a wolf. Grace, like Beck and Ulrik and every other wolf before her, disappearing into the woods.

  I was losing her.

  Cole ran to the windows and jerked up on the latch. “Sorry, screens,” he said, and busted them out with his foot. I was just standing there. “Sam. Do you want them to find her like this?” He rushed over, and together we picked Grace off the bed.

  I heard the door crashing now; people cal ing on the other side.

  There was a four-foot drop outside the hospital window. It was a bril iantly sunny, clear morning, perfectly ordinary, except that it wasn’t. Cole jumped down first, swearing when he landed in the short shrubs, while I steadied Grace on the sil . She was becoming less Grace in my arms every moment, and when Cole lowered her onto the ground outside the window, she retched on the grass.

  “Grace,” I said, my vision swirling now because of her blood smeared across my wrists. “Can you hear me?”

  She nodded and then stumbled to her knees. I knelt beside her; her eyes were huge and afraid and my heart was breaking. “I’l come find you,” I said. “I promise I’l come find you. Don’t forget me. Don’t

  —don’t lose yourself.”

  Grace grabbed for my hand and missed, catching

  herself from fal ing onto the ground instead.

  And then she cried out, and the girl I knew was gone, and there was only a wolf with brown eyes. I could not bring myself to stand. I knelt, bereft, and the dark gray wolf slowly cringed back from me and Cole. From our humanness. I didn’t think I could breathe.

  Grace.

  “Sam,” Cole said, “I can send you with her. I can start you over, too.”

  For a brief moment, I saw it. I saw myself again shuddering into the wolf, I saw my springs, hiding from drafts, I heard the sound I made when I lost myself. I remembered the moment I knew it was my last year and that for the rest of my life I’d be trapped in someone else’s body.

  I remembered standing in the middle of the street in front of The Crooked Bookshelf, fil ed with the certainty of a future. I had heard the wolves howling behind the house and remembered how glad I had been to be human.

  I couldn’t. Grace had to understand. I couldn’t.

  “Cole,” I said, “get out of here. Don’t give them any more reason to look at your face. Please—”

  Cole finished my sentence. “I’l get her to the woods, Sam.”

  I slowly climbed back to my feet, walked back into the emergency department through the silently swishing glass doors, and, covered in my girlfriend’s blood, lied perfectly for the first time in my life.

  “I tried to stop her.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  • SAM •

  So it comes to this: I would have lost her either way. If Cole hadn’t reinfected her, I would have lost her in the hospital bed. And now Cole’s wolf toxin pumps through her veins, and I lose her to the woods, like I lose everything I love.

  So here is me, and I am a boy watched—by her

  parents’ suspicious eyes, since they cannot prove that I kidnapped Grace but believe it nonetheless—and I am a boy watchful—because Tom Culpeper’s bitterness is growing palpable in this tiny town and I wil not bury Grace’s body—and I am a boy waiting—for the heat and fruitfulness of summer, waiting to see who wil walk out of those woods for me. Waiting for my lovely summer girl.

  Somewhere fate laughs in her far-off country, because now I am the human and it is Grace I wil lose again and again, immer wieder, always the same, every winter, losing more of her each year, unless I find a cure. A real cure this time, not some parlor trick. Of course, it’s not just her cure. In fifteen years, it’s my cure, and Cole’s cure, and Olivia’s cure. And Beck

  —does his mind stil sleep inside his wolf’s pelt?

  I stil watch her now, like I always did, and she watches me, her brown eyes looking out from a wolf’s face.

  This is the story of a boy who used to be a wolf, and a girl who became one.

  I won’t let this be my good-bye. I’ve folded one thousand paper crane memories of me and Grace, and I’ve made my wish.

  I wil find a cure. And then I wil find Grace.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I feel unequal to the task of thanking everyone involved in the making of Linger. So many folks have been part of making Shiver and Linger that I’m afraid I’m bound to leave people out.

  First of al , I have to thank my absolutely incredible editor, David Levithan, who helped me laugh hysterical y as I transformed Linger from a house cat to a tiger. I have learned so much writing this book with you. And I have to thank the entire Scholastic team, for their tireless support of me and the series. Special mentions to Tracy van Straaten (we’l always have Chicago), Samantha Wolfert, Janel e DeLuise and Rachel Horowitz (Eastern Europe is putty in your hands), Stephanie Anderson (my intrepid production editor, for her tireless work on the books), and Rachel Coun (founding member of the Shiver fan club). I would list everyone at Scholastic who made me laugh or helped make the books a success, but it would take al day. Suffice to say: I love al of you.

  I have to single out Chris Stengel, my jacket designer, for special thanks. Chris, you are a graphic god, and you have chosen to use your powers for good. Thank you for that.

  My agent, Laura Rennert, and her dog, Lola, have been tireless champions and listeners, and without them, I would be puddles of ooze. Ooze does not make for great fiction.

  Thanks to random folks: Jennifer Laughran, for NARKOTIKA. Marian, for tea with almond extract. Beau Carr, for shouting from the rooftops. To al of the Gothic Girls, for returning my sanity. Vera, for accuracy in acetaminophen dispersal. To dead Germans, for writing excel ent poetry.

  I couldn’t have written this without the help of my critique partners, Tessa Gratton and Brenna Yovanoff. I know you’re in every acknowledgments page I write, but heck, it’s true. You could cackle evil y when I beg for a lifeline, but instead you guys always throw it out to me.

  My family: Kate, you know you’re my first reader and best friend. Dad, you make werewolf logic possible. Mom, you always manage to know just when I’m at the end of my rope. Andrew, for helping me work out what made Cole tick. Jack, for countless wagon rides. Mom-in-law Karen, for wrangling Things 1 & 2

  while I tore up NYC. Thank you.

  And final y Ed, always Ed. It always comes back to you.

  Copyright

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Copyright © 2010 by Maggie Stiefvater

  Cover art by Yuta Onoda

  Cover des
ign by Christopher Stengel

  Al rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC,

  SCHOLASTIC

  PRESS,

  and

  associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First edition, July 2010

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  Al rights reserved under International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  eISBN 978-0-545-28316-8

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN