Four: my cell was almost dead, and the charger was in the car.
Five: I was now the guardian of a newborn, or at least whatever you called it when you found one in a dumpster.
The room reeked of yeast from the bakery downstairs, overlaying the faint, indefinable sweetness of the baby’s skin. The walls were teal, the color chosen purely because my last boyfriend had hated it, and the only light came from my laptop, still open on the bed, the cursor blinking in the middle of a sentence about two vampires fighting over a rent-controlled condo.
I ran my hands over my face, then talked to the baby like she could answer. “Option one,” I said, voice low. “Call the cops, turn you in, become a hero. Also possibly get shot by mystery bikers, or have to fill out twenty-four hours of paperwork.”
The baby didn’t flinch.
“Option two, leave town. Go to ground. Survive on ramen and sheer spite.”
The baby made a gurgling sound, as if this was the obvious favorite.
“Option three, wait for the bikers to show, hope they’re the polite kind of hired killers. Maybe we can outlast them with the element of surprise and carbs.”
I reached for the phone, thumbed the screen to life, and blinked at the six percent battery. The baby yawned, a tiny, perfect oval of jaw and gums, and for a second I almost felt something. It passed. I pressed the three numbers that defined my faith in civilization: 911. I was halfway to tapping “call” when I heard the sound.
It started with a pop, like knuckles cracking. The baby’s body jerked, every muscle locked, then a shudder ran down her limbs. I watched as her face contorted—not in pain, but in concentration. The bones under her skin moved, rippled, changed shape. The air filled with a sound like twigs snapping underfoot.
Where the baby had been, there was now a wolf pup.
I did not scream. I did not faint. But I did drop the phone, and it clattered onto the hardwood, screen shattering, the numbers 911 still glowing through a spiderweb of cracks.
The wolf pup was maybe the size of a house cat, pale gray with a white slash on her muzzle. She blinked at me, round and golden-eyed, then stretched her paws and yawned again. The sound that came out was halfway between a whine and a hiccup.
We stared at each other. My brain ran through every possible explanation, discarded them, and then, finally, just said fuck it.
The pup nosed forward, small claws catching in the duvet, and licked my hand.
“Okay,” I said, because there was nothing else to say.
I picked up the phone, or what was left of it, and dialed again. The screen flickered, the battery icon threatening imminent death. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex for someone whocould handle a wolf baby, and came up with a vet I’d met at a dive bar on Alberta, the wildlife sanctuary outside Eugene, and a forest ranger who’d gotten weirdly personal at a book signing in Astoria. None of those options seemed viable at two in the morning, and none explained why the baby was now a wolf.
The pup curled against my thigh, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of my sweatpants. Her breathing evened out, and I realized that, unlike every living creature I’d encountered tonight, she was completely at ease. Like she’d expected this turn of events, and was just waiting for me to catch up.
The phone vibrated in my hand. Unknown number.
I answered unknown numbers. It’s a compulsion. Some people bite their nails; I like to know what’s coming for me.
I thumbed the screen.
“Flynn,” the voice said. Deep, unhurried, the kind of voice that didn’t just expect to be obeyed—it assumed it.
“This is he,” I said. My own voice sounded thin, artificial.
“If you want to live do exactly what I say.”
I was not, by nature, an obedient person. I made a small, ugly laugh. “Buddy, you have no idea how much that depends on context.”
“You have the child. Yes?”
I did not answer.
“They are already in your building.” The voice was smooth, not a flicker of threat, just the dead-flat confidence of someone who’d bet against me and won every time. “You have thirty seconds. Fire escape. Take the child. Down to the alley, black SUV, north end.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I said, but the line was already dead.
The pup’s head shot up. Ears pricked. From the hallway outside my apartment, I heard a soft, almost tender scuff of rubber on linoleum, followed by the slow, careful turn of my doorknob.
