Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl by Emily Pohl-Weary

folks are perfectly normal professors. You’d like them. Maybe you’ve even heard of them—Françoise and Pierre Lebrun.”
    Of course I had. They were in the New York news all the time: NYU activists who coordinated relief missions for the United Nations. They’d written a bestselling book about how business interests impacted the way we helped New Orleans after Katrina. My mom was obsessed with them. If this guy was related to those Lebruns, I’d eat my pink Chuck Taylors.
    â€œYou can’t get more harmless than academics,” he said.
    â€œI bet you’ve never even met the real Lebruns.”
    â€œThey’ve got a guest room.”
    â€œWhat, we’d show up and you’d be all like ‘Hey, Mom and Dad, I want you to meet Sam Lee. She’ll just nap for a bit before I drive her out to a secluded forest and kill her.’”
    The flash of annoyance that crossed his face left me feeling anything but safe. I’d finally gotten under his skin. But all he did was lean back on the grass, close his eyes, and mutter, “Okay, your call, Sam.”
    The sky was bright blue where it met the horizon and pitch-black above us. After a few minutes I caught myself dozing off. A terrible idea, but that’s how exhausted and drained I was. I tried to wake myself up by moving a bit.
    â€œHow do you know so much about me?” I asked.
    He opened one eye. “I have a talent for fading into the background.”
    I snorted. “Helps with your stalking hobby?”
    â€œI find your scent fascinating.”
    â€œEww. You’ve been close enough to smell me?”
    â€œI can smell you from here.”
    I was about to say something rude when I inhaled deeply and realized I could smell him, too. His scent mingled with the trees and grass around us. Beneath the soapy top notes were citrus and a low, enticing musk. I exhaled, covered my nose with my sleeve, and stared at him. His eyes were closed again, so he didn’t notice. He was relaxed, his chest rising and falling evenly.
    That’s when my gaze lit on his car keys, abandoned in the grass. My fingers inched toward the ring. I shot my hand out and nabbed the keys, then jumped to my feet. Sucker.
    He bolted to a sitting position. I shoved him as hard as I could and careened toward the driver’s door. As I grabbed the handle, Marlon started barrellingtoward me. I slid into the seat, slammed the door shut, and locked it
    Marlon flung himself at the windshield, pounding furiously. “I’m trying to help you!”
    I stretched over to slam my fist down on the passenger-side lock—no electronic systems in this old girl. He roared, kicked a tire, and then punched the hood so hard the car rocked. He was stronger than he looked—he’d put a big dent in the metal. I bet he was going to regret that later.
    Shoving his key into the ignition, I jammed the car into first gear and stomped on the accelerator. The tires squealed. I left Marlon and my bike at the side of the road, engulfed in a cloud of dust.
    It took two hours to get into the city. The traffic was oppressive. As if every tourist in the world had decided to visit at once. While I was stuck in the Battery Tunnel, I poked around in the glove box and found receipts from cafés and a bookstore called Words of Wonder that specialized in “The Unexplained, Occult, and Otherworldly.” He’d bought a book called Guide to Shifters by Mariela Rojas.
    The registration papers were there, too, and they listed a home on Long Island. Maybe he hadn’t been lying about where his parents lived. But the El Camino was in his name, so there was no proof thatPierre and Françoise were his parents. I jotted down the address on a scrap of paper and shoved it into my pocket.
    I drove to the Village and parked in a lot close to NYU. It seemed like a good place to leave his car. Then I bought myself a mammoth smoked meat sandwich— with