Monsterstreet #1

by J. H. Reynolds

  Gramps held up the vial of Liquid Silver into the moonlight. It looked like it came from another world.

  Max stared at the potion. All he had to do was drink it, and he could wake up from this nightmare.

  Right then, Gramps cleared his throat, breaking Max’s trance.

  “Before you make your final decision,” he said. “It’s important that you know that wolf blood can be more of a gift than a curse. You’ll be able to do things other humans can only dream of.”

  Max considered the possibilities. He could try out for the football team, the basketball team, even track! Maybe he could get a college scholarship and play pro ball someday. But he would always have to hide his true identity.

  He looked down at his paws and then up at the bright candle in the sky. He thought of the hundreds of moons upon which he would have to keep his secret, and he wondered if it would all be worth it. It would be so easy to drink the potion and make the burden go away forever.

  Then he remembered the ache he had felt all his life. The ache of not knowing who his father was. Of not having any sort of connection with him. He recalled how lonely and lost he had felt his entire life.

  And his decision became as clear as day.

  I—I don’t want to be cured, he communicated to Gramps and Grammy. The blood in my veins is all I have left of my dad. If being a werewolf makes me more like him, then that’s what I want.

  Gramps and Grammy exchanged a surprised look.

  “If that’s your wish, boy, then we’ll honor it,” Grammy said. “Just always know, the cure is here if you ever change your mind.”

  Max stepped toward Gramps. He took the vial of Liquid Silver into his palms. It felt warm and alive. Without a second thought, he threw the vial to the ground and shattered it. The potion spilled, glowing eerily for a moment, then melted into the earth.

  I won’t need it. Max smiled. This is who I am.

  Gramps beamed with pride.

  “There is something else we wanted to give you,” the old man said, reaching into his overalls pocket. “It’s a birthday present from your dad. He left it for you.”

  Max squinted in confusion.

  What is it?

  “Your father’s silver compass,” Gramps explained. “It was his prized possession, a family heirloom passed down through generations of Bloodnights. My father gave it to me when I was your age, and I gave it to your father.”

  Max admired the ancient moon cycles upon its face.

  “Your dad called this his good luck charm. He always carried it with him . . . except on the night he died. As he was leaving the house, he said he had a strange feeling, and he gave the compass to me to give to you should something happen to him.”

  Max took the silver compass and turned it over. The inscription on the back read:

  For Max.

  On his 12th Birthday.

  I’m Always with You.

  Love,

  Dad

  Max’s heart overflowed with warmth. He was speechless. It was the first tangible gift he had ever received from his father.

  This is the best birthday present ever, Max thought, his fangs glimmering in the moonlight like tiny stars.

  He gazed down at the compass and then up at Gramps and Grammy.

  And for the first time in his life, Max didn’t feel so alone.

  25

  A Perfect Costume

  The next morning, Max awoke at the rooster’s crow.

  He looked down at his hands and saw that they were no longer furry paws. He felt his teeth and was glad to discover that they were no longer fangs. After examining his normal self, he wondered if the night before had all been a dream.

  When Max arrived downstairs, no one was there.

  He stepped onto the front porch and saw Gramps at the edge of the pumpkin patch, digging a large hole with a shovel.

  Max ran over to him.

  “Your father has deserved a proper burial for some time. We never knew where his body was until you told us of your discovery last night. What do you say we go get it?”

  Max nodded reverently.

  It wasn’t a dream after all, he thought, reaching into his pocket and feeling the silver compass.

  The two of them walked together deep into woods and toward the shack. They wrapped Max’s father’s body in one of Grammy’s patchwork quilts, and carried it together, hardly saying a word the entire way back to the farm.

  After they finished burying him, Max picked up a handful of dirt, and let it sift through his fingers onto his father’s grave. A tear ran down his cheek, and he felt a strange satisfaction like that of closing a book after reading the last page.

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave,” Max admitted.

  “You can come back anytime you want,” Gramps assured him, patting Max’s shoulder. “Think of this place as your home away from home.”

  Max stared at the ground, deep in thought.

  “I’m kind of nervous about going back to school. I mean, how do I control my transformations?”

  Gramps chuckled slightly, as if he understood the question all too well.

  “They’ll be a little tricky at first, but you’ll get the hang of it. Eventually, when you feel your blood starting to boil, you’ll be able to control it,” Gramps said. “In the meantime, just make sure you wear that hoodie for another few moon cycles until you get the hang of things.”

  “So there’s nothing else I need to know? No training or guidelines or rules?”

  Gramps stared at the ground for a long moment, scratching his chin.

  “Well, for starters, always wear lots of cologne. Even if you shower three times a day, you’re going to smell like you just crawled out of the swamp. And hide some mouthwash in your backpack during school. You don’t want to have wolf breath when you’re talking to a girl. Also, always keep a comb in your back pocket. Whenever you turn back into your human form after a transformation, your hair is going to be a mess. Floss every day, no exceptions. You only get one set o’ fangs. Most important—perhaps most important of all—only talk about werewolf things to other werewolves. We haven’t existed in secret for this long without extreme caution. If certain people ever found out about us, it could be dangerous to our entire kind.”

  “You mean there are other werewolves out there besides us?”

  But Gramps didn’t answer.

  Max thought about this for a moment. He wished Gramps could always be there to teach him the things he needed to know.

  “Gramps, do you think maybe you and Grammy could get a cell phone? You know, just so I can call and talk to you sometimes,” he asked, already missing his new family. “They have solar chargers now, so you still wouldn’t have to get electricity.”

  Gramps grimaced at the idea, but then he let out a sigh of surrender.

  “I think we might be able to make a small compromise for our grandson,” he said, then tousled Max’s hair. “Say, looks like you have a visitor.”

  Gramps started toward the house, and Max turned to see Jade approaching him. He wasn’t sure what she thought of him now.

  “So,” she finally said. “You’re a . . . werewolf.”

  Max nodded, afraid of what she might say next.

  “Pretty cool,” she said.

  Max smiled.

  “Listen,” Jade continued. “I wrote down my mailing address. You should write to me sometimes. I promise to write back.”

  She handed him a folded piece of notebook paper. He glanced down at it, then put it in his pocket.

  “Thanks, Jade. I’m really glad that we met. And I’m even more glad that you weren’t eaten by one of us,” he said.

  “Hey, the full moon comes once a month, so there’s still time,” she teased. “You’ll be coming back, won’t you?”

  “I hope so,” Max said. “I mean . . . you can count on it.”

  He was glad to have a friend who knew his secret. Someone he could trust. And be himself around.

  “Looks like your mom
is here,” Jade said, pointing to a blue minivan driving up the dirt road. A cloud of dust hovered in its wake.

  Max turned.

  “Yeah, I better get packed up,” he said. “See you soon?”

  “Definitely,” she said, then skipped away through the pumpkin patch and back to her house, where her father was harvesting the final pumpkins of the year.

  Max’s mom pulled up in front of the cabin and stepped out of the van. She approached Grammy, who was setting out a freshly carved jack-o’-lantern on the front porch. Max noticed that the old woman’s eye was back to normal, just like she said it would be.

  “It’s good to see he’s taken to this place,” Max’s mother said to Grammy.

  “The boy’s one of us, all right,” Grammy said with a smile.

  Just then, Max ran up and hugged his mom.

  She hugged him back, surprised to find him in such high spirits.

  “Mom, is it all right if we stay for lunch? Grammy’s making barbecue,” he pleaded.

  “But you don’t eat meat,” she said in surprise.

  Max shrugged.

  “Things change,” he said with a playful grin.

  Max’s mother looked at Grammy questioningly.

  “And Mom?” Max said softly. “I know what happened to Dad. I’m—I’m really sorry. I know it’s been just as hard for you as it has been for me. In different ways.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. Tears reflected in her eyes, and the sadness on her face turned to relief.

  “Oh, but son, your father never left us. I see him in you every day,” she said, then leaned down and kissed Max’s forehead.

  They hugged for a long moment.

  “Someday, remind me to tell you about how I met your father,” she added wistfully.

  “I thought you met in college,” Max said.

  “That’s only half the story. Your mother has secrets too, you know,” she said with a wink. And for a moment, Max thought he saw slim fangs hiding behind her rosy lips. He suddenly remembered what Gramps had said about there being other werewolves in the world. But he decided it was just his imagination. “Oh, and I brought a charger for your iPad so you can play games in the car on the way home.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he replied. “But I think I’ll wait to play it once we get back to the house. I don’t want to miss the view.”

  She looked down at him in surprise, then put her arm around him. Gramps joined them on the porch, and all four of them walked toward the front door of the cabin.

  Just before they stepped inside, Max’s mother added, “By the way . . . have you figured out what you’re going to be for Halloween yet? It’s your last year to go trick-or-treating, you know.”

  Max looked up at Gramps and Grammy, then back to his mother.

  “I think I have something in mind,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  And for the rest of the morning and the entire drive home, he practiced turning his hands into paws, deciding that he would be able to go trick-or-treating every Halloween for the rest of his life.

  Acknowledgments

  “I am a part of all that I have met.”

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  There are quite a few people to acknowledge here in this first book of the Monsterstreet series:

  First of all, my Mom, Dad, Sis—everything I am is because of you, and words can never express the depth of my gratefulness. I can only hope to honor you with the life I live and the works I create.

  All my family: Granddad, Grandmom, Pappa Hugg, Mamma Hugg, Lilla, Meemaw, Nanny, GG, Grandmother Hugghins, Marilyn, Steve, Haddie, Jude, Beckett, Uncle Hal, Aunt Cathy, Nicole, Dylan, Aunt Rhonda, Uncle Greg, Sam, Jake, Trey, Uncle Johnny, Aunt Glynis, Jerod, Chad, Aunt Jodie, Uncle Terry, Natalie, Mitchell, Anna, David, Hannah, David Nevin, Joy, Lukas, Teresa, and Aunt Jan.

  Teachers, coaches, mentors, colleagues, and students: Jeanie Johnson, David Vardeman, Pat Vaughn, Lee Carter, Robert Darden, Kevin Reynolds, Ray Bradbury, R.L. Stine, Rikki Coke (Wiethorn), Peggy Jezek, Kathi Couch, Jill Osborne Wilkinson, Marla Jaynes, Karen Deaconson, Su Milam, Karen Copeland, Corrie Dixon, Nancy Evans Hutto, Pam Dominik, Jean Garner, Randy Crawford, Pat Zachry, Eddie Sherman, Scott Copeland, Heidi Kunkel, Brian Boyd, Sherry Rogers, Lisa Osborne, Wes Evans, Betsy Barry, Karen Hix, Sherron Boyd, Mrs. Kahn, Mrs. Turk, Mrs. Schroeder, Mrs. Battle, Mrs. McCracken, Nancy Frame Chiles, Mrs. Adkins, Kim Pearson, Mrs. Harvey, Elaine Spence, Barbara Fulmer, Julie Schrotel, Barbara Belk, Mrs. Reynolds, Vanessa Diffenbaugh, Elisabeth McKetta, Bryan Delaney, Talaya Delaney, Wendy Allman, John Belew, Vicki Klaras, Gery Greer and Bob Ruddick, Greg Garrett, Chris Seay, Sealy and Matt Yates, David Crowder, Cecile Goyette, Kirby Kim, Mike Simpson, Quinlan Lee, Clay Butler, Mary Darden, Derek Smith, Brian Elliot, Rachel Moore, Naymond Keathley, Steve Sadler, Jimmy and Janet Dorrell, Glenn Blalock, Katie Cook, SJ Murray, Greg Chan, Lorri Shackelford, Tim Fleischer, Byron Weathersbee, Chuck Walker, John Durham, Ron Durham, Bob Johns, Kyle Lake, Kevin Roe, Barby Williams, Nancy Parrish, Joani Livingston, Madeleine Barnett, Diane McDaniel, Beth Hair, Laura Cubos, Sarah Holland, Christe Hancock, Cheryl Cooper, Jeni Smith, Traci Marlin, Jeremy Ferrerro, Maurice and Gloria Walker, Charlotte McDonald, Dana Gietzen, Leighanne Parrish, Heather Helton, Corrie Cubos, all the librarians, teachers, secretaries, students, custodians, and principals at Midway ISD, Waco ISD, Riesel ISD, and Connally ISD, all my apprentices at Moonsung Writing Camp and Camp Imagination, and to my hometown community of Woodway, Texas.

  Friends and collaborators: Nathan “Waylon” Jennings, Craig Cunningham, Blake Graham, Susannah Lipsey, Hallie Day, Ali Rodman Wallace, Jered Wilkerson, Brian McDaniel, Meghan Stanley Lynd, Suzanne Hoag Steece, the Jennings family, the Rodman family, the Carter family, all the families of the “Red River Gang,” the Cackleberries, the Geib family, Neva Walker and family, Rinky and Hugh Sanders, Clay Rodman, Steven Fischer, Dustin Boyd, Jeff Vander Woude, Randy Stephens, Allen Ferguson, Scott Lynd, Josh Zachry, Scott Crawford, Jourdan Gibson Stewart, Crystal Carter, Kristi Kangas Miller, Taylor Christian, Deanna Dyer Williams, Matt Jennings, Laurie McCool Henderson, Trey Witcher, Genny Pattillo Davis, Brady Williams, Brook Williams Henry, Michael Henry, Jamie Jennings, Jordan Jones, Adrianna Bell Walker, Sarah Rogers Combs, Kayleigh Cunningham, Rich and Megan Roush, Adam Chop, Kimberly Garth Batson, Luke Stanton, Kevin Brown, Britt Knighton, George Cowden, Jenny and Ryan Jamison, Julie Hamilton, Kyle and Emily Knighton, Ray Small, Jeremy Combs, Mike Trozzo, Allan Marshall, Coleman Hampton, Kent Rabalais, Laura Aldridge, Mikel Hatfield Porter, Edith Reitmeier, Ben Geib, Ashley Vandiver Dalton, Tamarah Johnson, Amanda Hutchison Thompson, Morgan McKenzie Williams, Robbie Phillips, Shane Wilson, J.R. Fleming, Andy Dollerson, Terry Anderson, Mary Anzalone, Chris Ermoian, Chris Erlanson, Greg Peters, Doreen Ravenscroft, Brooke Larue Miceli, Emily Spradling Freeman, Brittany Braden Rowan, Kim Evans Young, Kellis Gilleland Webb, Lindsay Crawford, April Carroll Mureen, Rebekah Croft Georges, Amanda Finnell Brown, Kristen Rash Di Campli, Clint Sherman, Big Shane Smith, Little Shane Smith, Allen Childs, Brandon Hodges, Justin Martin, Eric Lovett, Cody Fredenberg, Tierre Simmons, Bear King, Brady Lillard, Charlie Collier, Aaron Hattier, Keith Jordan, Greg Weghorst, Seth Payne, BJ Carr, Andria Mullins Scarbrough, Lindsey Kelley Palumbo, Cayce Connell Bellinger, David Maness, Ryan Smith, Marc Uptmore, Kelly Maddux McCarver, Robyn Klatt Areheart, Emily Hoyt Crew, Matt Etter, Logan Walter, Jessica Talley, JT Carpenter, Ryan Michaelis, Audrey Malone Andrews, Amy Achor Blankson, Chad Conine, Hart Robinson, Wade Washmon, Clay Gibson, Barrett Hall, Chad Lemons, Les Strech, Marcus Dracos, Tyler Ellis, Taylor Rudd, James Yarborough, Scott Robison, Bert Vandiver, Clark Richardson, Luke Blount, Allan Gipe, Daniel Fahlenkamp, Ben Hogan, Chris Porter, Reid Johnson, Ryan Stanton, Brian Reis, Ty Sprague, Eric Ellis, Jeremy Gann, Jeff Sadler, Ryan Pryor, Jared Ray, Dustin Dickerson, Reed Collins, Ben Marx, Sammy Rajaratnam, Art Wellborn, Cory Ferguson, Jonathan King, Jim King, Anthony Edwards, Craig Nash, Dillon Meek, Jonathan Stringer, the Bode and Moore families, Jackie and Denver Mills, the Warri
or Poets, the Wild Hearts, the Barbaric Yawps, the Bangarang Brothers, and all the Sacred Circle guys (CARPE DIEM).

  To all the writers, directors, composers, producers, artists, creators, inventors, poets, and thinkers who have shaped my life, work, and imagination—a list of luminaries which is far too long to mention here.

  To Chris Fenoglio, for creating such stunning covers for the Monsterstreet series. It’s safe to say your illustrations pass the ultimate test: they would have made me want to pick up the books when I was a boy! Thank you for lending your incredible talent and imagination to this project.

  To the Stimola Literary Studio Family: Erica Rand Silverman, Adriana Stimola, Peter Ryan, Allison Remcheck, and all my fellow authors who are lucky enough to call the Stimola Literary Studio their home.

  To the entire HarperCollins publishing family and Katherine Tegen family: Katherine Tegen, David Curtis, Erin Fitzsimmons, Jon Howard, Robby Imfeld, Haley George, and Tanu Srivastava.

  To my amazing agent, Rosemary Stimola, who plucked me out of obscurity, remained faithful to this project over the course of not just months but years, and who sets the highest standard of integrity within the wondrous world of children’s publishing. I can’t tell you how deeply grateful I am for all that you have done for me.

  And to my extraordinary editor, Ben Rosenthal. From our very first conversation reminiscing about 1980s movies, I felt in my gut that you were a kindred spirit. Our collaboration on the Monsterstreet series has been one of the greatest joys and adventures of my life, and it’s an enormous honor to get to share this journey with you. Thank you for all your guidance, encouragement, and optimism along the way . . . you’ve been a fantastic captain of this ship!

  To my wife and best friend, Rebekah . . . no words can ever tell you how grateful I am for the thousands of hours you’ve spent reading rough drafts, listening to unpolished ideas, and offering warm, thoughtful encouragement every step of the way. These books wouldn’t exist without you, and I’m so glad I get to share this journey and all others by your side.