13 to Life

13
TO
LIFE

Shannon Delany

St. Martin’s Griffin

New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

13
TO LIFE.
Copyright © 2010 by Shannon Delany. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Delany, Shannon.

   13 to life : a werewolf’s tale / Shannon Delany.—1st ed.

p. cm.

   ISBN 978-0-312-60914-6

  1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Werewolves—Ficiton. I. Title. II. Title: Thirteen to life.

   PS3604.E424A15 2010

   813’.6—dc22

2009046740

First Edition: July 2010

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1

Dedicated to my mother, Cecile Plott Reinbold, and bold and
humble women like her everywhere. Cancer may have stolen
your life, but it could never dim your spirit. Your strength, wit,
faith, and courage in the face of adversity inspired me.
Then. Now. And always.

Hang in there, folks, this’ll be a long one because so many people helped me along the way. Writing can be a solitary struggle, but you helped make my writing life full (and lively). And (just in case) I leave someone off my list here, keep in mind this is a series. Woot!

Oleg and Dmitri, who stayed with my family briefly one summer while the Iron Curtain between our two nations still hung heavily: Your stories, curiosity, and fears inspired my fascination with your language and culture. I hope these stories inspire others to appreciate Russian culture more.

Dr. Warzeski of Kutztown University, whose classes on Eastern European history and Russia cemented my love of all related topics, and Dr. Theiss of Kutztown University, who taught Russian language classes with great humor.

Stan Soper, founder of
Textnovel.com
, willing tweaker of contracts, great beta, fine agent.

Leslie DeBauche, for being excited about all my projects and giving me an opportunity to try something truly inspiring
with her classes at University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. Point Pirates rock! Returning from Wisconsin I got the idea for the title of this book, from which the story sprang (you are all somehow to blame). Werewolves now—maybe pirates later—I have an idea. . . .

My husband, Karl, for not only putting up with my bizarre need to write, but also encouraging it, bouncing ideas around with me on car rides, and allowing me the time (and mood swings) a writer needs to push forward.

My son, for giving me time to write and interjecting his ideas throughout the project. I promise, there will be a story with potion-drinking werewolves just for you eventually!

Lauren Manzer, for encouraging pack members to vote in the Textnovel competition (and being an awesome supporter and fan—you’ll love what happens in books two and three. . . . Bwa-ha-ha!).

My aunt Dorothy Reinbold, for making sure there were always books—in my childhood home and in the Waynesboro Public Library.

Ellen Dwyer, for spreading the word about the story even though you had little computer time—your support means so much.

Joey Holling for being genuinely excited for me.

Jennifer Holling-Blake for reading the first full manuscript when other betas suddenly had full plates. And for asking me for more from Amy. Books two and three are in part a reflection of that request (let’s cross our fingers for more Amy in the future, too).

Annette Fitzgerald, owner of The Book Exchange in Ohio and friend to authors everywhere, for printing out the whole manuscript, reading and commenting in record beta time, and
telling me over the phone: “You suck!” because she wanted book two right then.

Deborah Blake, CP, beta, and friend with a great eye for detail, a sharp wit, willingness to admit when she’s wrong (and hey, she’s not often wrong), and a talent for writing that will land her great gigs in fiction.

Robin Wright for talking me back from the ledge. Now that you don’t have to read it on a screen, I hope you have time to fully read it (while raising two kids, supporting a busy guidance counselor, and writing your own fiction. Oh, heck. Never mind.)

Morgan Dirk Reinbold, creative brainiac brother who said something that stuck with me: “I believe that if someone writes a good story, it’ll get published.” That became my mantra.

Morgan David Reinbold, best dad I could have and the guy who willingly listened to the audio recordings of the manuscript on long drives to make sure it wasn’t “sucko.”

P. C. Cast, who said to me at the party in Bardeo, “Don’t let anyone stop you.” That got added to the previous mantra.

Thanks to my Textnovel readers, blog followers, Textnovel voters, and members of my 13 to Life Private Writers Group, specifically: James Powel, who made sure I maintained Pietr’s animal grace at a key moment; Jenna Bufano, who gave wonderfully specific input on an early draft; Sarah Flinders, who understands the importance of specific praise; Alisha Sizemore, who reminded me how to dream; Kimberly K. and Annabelle—great supporters and fans.

To the amazing people who make up St. Martin’s Press: Michael Homler, best darned editor I could have; Matthew Shear, publisher and signer of my contract, who had me change my name but not my title (hey, life’s about compromise, and
I’m cool with that); and Anne Marie Tallberg, who was excited to have my novel on her e-reader (along with P. C. Cast’s—talk about being in good company!).

To my Twitter followers, Goodreads group (and Carla Black for reminding me I needed one), and Facebook fans—your support keeps me (closer to) sane!

To small-town folks and American immigrants from everywhere—our success in this country has always been built thanks to your hardworking contributions.

Very, very important: To all the students I had the opportunity to teach over the years, from my first tentative steps at Southern Reading Middle School under the guidance of Richard Christ to my years teaching social studies and drama at Burnett Middle School in Seffner, Florida, where a big chunk of my heart still resides. GO WOLVES!

Last, but not least—the small towns I’ve loved: Oley, Bryson City, Gilbertsville, Brandon, Seffner, Oneonta, Rising Sun, Waynesboro, and Nottingham—all these and so many more have gone into developing Junction.

Rio stiffened beneath my touch, striking a glossy hoof against the floor.

“What, girl?” I asked, still fighting the tangle that snarled her ebony mane. She snorted, nostrils turning the red of fresh blood. She shook, long neck yanking the brush out of my fingers. It bounced off the opposite wall with a thump. “Rio!”

Keeping a hand on her, I walked around to her other side and leaned down to search for the brush. For a moment everything was eerily still—completely quiet. Then my dogs, Maggie and Hunter, leaped up from where they’d been dozing, snouts propped on a bag of feed. They rushed the barn door, exploding in a fit of barking.

The other horses whickered, voices filled with equal parts concern and frustration. Hooves stomped, crackling hay.

“What the—?” My fingers danced down Rio’s velvety nose. “Shhh. It’s okay, girl.” Slipping out of her stall, the fine hairs on my arms stood as if lightning charged the autumn air. “Everything’s okay,” I insisted as I marched over to Maggie and Hunter.

They were not convinced. Wedging myself between them, I snaked my hands around their collars and peered through the narrow opening separating the barn’s huge doors. The barnyard was strangely silent, as if everything simultaneously shut its mouth to stare with fearful wonder at whatever stalked the shadows. The dogs pulled, pawing and growling.

The unnaturally white expanse where the barnyard floodlight lit the space between the first barn and the house stretched out like a broad scar before me. Never before had it seemed so ugly and bare—or such a great distance. A cool night breeze pushed the faint noise of television to me. Dad was watching reruns of that crazy video show. Would he hear us over the blare of television if we needed help? The answer hit like a rock dropping into my stomach as Dad’s laugh punctuated the suddenly calm air and he cranked up the volume.

I glanced down at the dogs.
Crap.
I was on my own with only Dumb and Dumber to help.

My gaze scraped across the yard from the reassuring glow of my home’s windows to the tall floodlight. I whispered calming words to the dogs—vague promises of tasty snacks.
Huh.
Usually gobs of moths fluttered in the glare of the floodlight, bats darting in and out to catch dinner. Tonight there was nothing. The air had gone still, but my apprehension made it seem to buzz with electricity.

I swallowed. A shadow sliced across my field of vision, briefly blotting out the light, and I stumbled back, fingers slipping free of the dogs’ collars. Maggie’s and Hunter’s voices blended into a single thin and wavering whine. I grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the wall and held it before me.

Something shoved at the other side of the doors. Nudged them so they wobbled. The creature whuffled the air like a hound searching for a trail. Its nose, nearly as broad as my palm
and as black as the shadow its body cast, thrust between the doors, nostrils stretching as it sucked down our scent. I could see just a hint of reddish fur. The dogs slinked back to me, tails tucked and bodies trembling as I brandished the pitchfork.

But far more frightening than the huge nose (at the height of my chest, I realized) was the line of teeth visible between dark, rubbery lips. Long and jagged, they left no doubt they were designed to shred.

The beast snorted, a sound that rivaled Rio’s, and then—as suddenly as the thing had appeared—it was gone. I gasped. Trembling like my dogs, I looked at the pitchfork in my hands and laughed. Add a torch and I’d be set to join the mob in Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
. What did I think was out there? A monster?

I winked at Maggie and Hunter. “Probably just old Monroe’s dog Harold anointing everybody’s fence posts,” I assured. They wagged their tails but knew better than to trust my words.

I set the pitchfork back in place and busied myself tidying the barn, too aware I hesitated to switch off the lights and cross the bare and bright white expanse between here and home. Too soon there was nothing left to clean or rearrange. And tomorrow was a school day.

I steeled myself for the walk back to the house. “Come on, Hunter. That’s a good girl, Maggie.” Dread clenching my heart, I remembered the strange stories that came out of the city of Farthington last year. Flanked by my dogs, I walked swiftly to the house.

I only relaxed when the door closed and the bolt slid into place. Hunter looked up at me expectantly, sitting like the gentleman he was far from being. And very happy to remind me with a solemn look from his soulful golden eyes of the snacks I’d recently promised.

I closed the door behind me, heading down the hallway and straight to Hell. The hall glowed eerily in the morning light. Outside, the wind snarled and threw a kaleidoscope of dry leaves against the large windows. I was sure whoever summoned me had very good intentions, but that only encouraged the gnawing sensation in my gut. Wasn’t the road to Hell
paved
with good intentions?

My feet dragged the whole way to Guidance. The call had gotten me out of Ms. Ashton’s literature class—not gym. Nobody
ever
got called out of gym.

The whole thing made me suspicious. Why did Guidance need
me
? Had they finally figured out who wrote that scathing editorial about the double standards between the jocks and the nerds? Considering what I knew of Guidance, I could be fairly certain they hadn’t—at least not without assistance.