Monster High 3: Where There's a Wolf, There's a Way Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Fur Cindy Lederman, Garrett Sander, Eric Hardie, and the rest of the freakishly creative Monster High team. You put the awe in claw.*

  CHAPTER ONE

  ON THE L.A.M.B.

  The moon—a delicately arched crescent—was weeks away from being full. It was not time to hide. She was not transforming. Her monthly battle with rapid hair growth, insatiable hunger, and extreme irritability was not the issue. Still, Clawdeen Wolf was in a dark ravine, running for her life.

  “Slow down!” she barked at the five athletic J.Crew catalog–worthy guys who formed a protective rhombus around her as they charged, panting, through the woods. Their mud-stained construction boots pounded the twig-covered earth with tireless determination. Not a minute passed without one of them vowing to keep Clawdeen safe, pledging to sacrifice his life for hers. It would have been extremely sweet—romantic, even—if they were contestants on The Bachelorette. But since they were her brothers, it was getting super annoying.

  “My feet are killing me!” she groaned between breaths.

  Howldon, aka Don, the oldest triplet by sixty-eight seconds, peered over his shoulder and looked down, fixing his orange-brown eyes on Clawdeen’s pointy-toed gold ankle boots. “I’d kill you too if you stuffed me into those things.” He turned to face the thicket ahead. “It’s like the shoemaker only made room for one toe.”

  Howie, the middle triplet, snickered. If Howleen, or Leena, the youngest triplet, had been there, she would have seen Don’s insult and doubled it. Leena—whose nickname rhymed with mean-a for a reason—had boot issues of her own, thanks to Arrowhead Boot Camp. While Clawdeen suffered from blisters, Leena’s pain came from a drill sergeant, five AM whistles, and group meetings about anger management. Ahhhh… just thinking about her certifiable sister’s yearlong sentence brought relief.

  “They didn’t come from a shoemaker!” Clawdeen practically spit. “They were designed by L.A.M.B.”

  “Is that why you’re running so baaaaaaaad?” joked Clawnor from the back. His nickname was Nino because he tended to be “windy,” like El Niño.

  The Wolf brothers laughed.

  “What’s your excuse?” Clawdeen wanted to ask. But she already knew. Her sensitive canine ears heard the curses Nino muttered every time he ran into a branch.

  Now thirteen, her youngest brother’s fur was coming in fast. Nino’s bushy brows, sideburns, and tangles of black hair undulated in front of his dark eyes like sea grass. It was nothing a bobby pin or styling products couldn’t fix, but Nino refused. He had waited all his life for big-boy fur and wasn’t about to let a few thwacks in the face bully him back to baldness.

  “Owie,” Clawdeen whimpered. The sting of a heel rubbed raw slowed her sprint to a gallop. Is it hard to get blood out of leather? If only Lala were here. She’d know. But none of her friends were around. That was the problem… well, one of them.

  “Keep moving, Clawdeen,” Rocks insisted, grabbing her wrist to pull her along. Leaves and long shadows blurred into bands of darkness. “We’re almost there.”

  “This is so stupid.” She limp-ran, holding up her purple halter dress. “We don’t even know if anyone is chasing us and—”

  “No, what’s stupid is a girl running in lamb’s boots,” he snapped. “They were obviously made for hooves, not toes.”

  The boys howled with laughter. Clawdeen might have chuckled too if her feet weren’t throbbing like techno. Instead, Rocks’s insane remark became an excuse to stop running and glare at him.

  Born Howlmilton, Clawdeen’s younger brother got his nickname because of his dumb-as-rocks comments. But what he lacked in smarts, he made up for in speed—record-breaking, jowl-dropping, thirty-five-miles-per-hour speed. All he had to do to stay on the school track team—and retain his star status—was get straight Ds. Which he did, making the family’s fastest member also the slowest.

  “Keep moving!” Howie barked as the others forged ahead.

  They took a lot of crap from the other RADs for their birth names. But deep down, they had similar objections. Because, seriously, what had their parents been thinking? It’s not like all normie kids were named Norman, Norma, Normandy, or Normiena. So why the need to force Howl and Claw on the Wolf kids? Being a girl with a hairy neck was embarrassing enough. Couldn’t her parents have at least tried to make life less mortifying?

  Rocks smacked Clawdeen’s butt playfully. “Giddyup, lamb.”

  Growling, she started limping forward again, silently cursing the day for not turning out the way it was supposed to.

  Thursday, October fourteenth, I curse you! You tricked me! From now on, my year has three hundred sixty-four days.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The itinerary had been solid. After school and a rigorous body wax, she, Lala, and Blue would take a limo to the Oregon sand dunes. There, they would meet up with Cleo and the accessories editor for Teen Vogue. First, a team of hair and makeup artists would glam Clawdeen, Blue, and Cleo into models. Under Lala’s direction, stylists would adorn them in priceless jewels exhumed from Cleo’s aunt’s tomb. Next, the famed photographer Kolin VanVerbeentengarden would photograph them on camels for a fashion editorial layout on Cairo couture. After a toast to their futures in fashion, they would sneak tiny sips of champagne—aka “model water”—then limo back to Salem. The next day would be spent delighting their classmates with enviable anecdotes from the set. Months later, their exotic beauty would be available on newsstands everywhere—printed on high-gloss paper and bound by Condé Nast.

  But the trio had never even made it to the sand dunes. They never got glammed. They never sipped model water. And they would never be printed on high gloss.

  Rue you, October fourteenth!

  During the ride down, she, Lala, and Blue were searching the limo’s flat screen for TMZ when they happened upon a special called “The Ghoul Next Door.” It featured all three of them, plus Clawdeen’s brother Clawd and many of their RAD friends. The never-before-seen glimpse into the secret lives of Salem’s monsters was supposed to air only if their faces were blurred, homes obscured, and names omitted.

  But there it was, clear as Crystal Light. In high def, no less. Not a single blur. Not a single black box. Their true identities—identities the RADs had struggled to keep hidden for generations—were broadcast all over town. Now, instead of celebrating at a wrap party, she was under wraps, limp-running all the way to the Wolf family’s hideout.

  Thursday the fourteenth is the new Friday the thirteenth!

  Their faces were sure to be on the Internet and the AP wire by now. And the worst part? Cleo de Nile, Clawdeen’s ex–best friend, must have had something to do with it. Because if proof really was in the pudding, this was one lumpy dessert.

  Lump 1: Frankie Stein had played a big role in producing “The Ghoul Next Door,” earning her major popularity points with the RADs. Cleo’s queen bee status was threatened, so she was determined to take Frankie down.

  Lump 2: Cleo had turned her back on the RADs and become overnight besties with Bekka Madden, a normie who was out to destroy Frankie Stein for stealing her man.

  Lump 3: Cleo had refused to be in “The Ghoul Next Door,” proving she knew it would expose the RADs.

  It was hard to imagine Cleo jeopardizing the entire RAD community. But as Clawdeen’s mother always said, “People do unimaginable things when they’re insecure. Look at Heidi Pratts.” Clawdeen got squirmy when her trying-to-be-hip mother referenced pop culture—especially when she got celebrities’ names wrong. But Harriet was right: Cleo’s insecu
rities, like Heidi’s, had driven her toward the unimaginable.

  Still, how could she?

  Clawdeen began picking up speed, trying to outrun her rage. Popped-blister pain was minor compared to the sting of a stab in the back. Her high heels were sinking into the soft earth, and her C cups were in a turbulent state. Pumas and a sports bra would have made a world of difference, but she had been forced into exile the moment she stepped out of the limo. By then the show had already aired, and the RADs were fleeing.

  “Couldn’t we have packed a bag or two, at least?” Clawdeen asked, risking a mouthful of mosquitoes.

  “Couldn’t you have not gone on TV?” Don fired back. The honor roll student did make a good point, as usual.

  “I didn’t know we were being set up!”

  “You should have,” he grumbled.

  “Clawd did it too,” Clawdeen added without guilt. Don would never get mad at Clawd—he was the oldest.

  “I did it to watch over you,” he said breathlessly. A star football player, he was better at short sprints than long distances. “To make sure it wasn’t a trap.”

  “And how did that work out?” Howie teased.

  Clawd smacked him playfully on the arm. Howie smacked him back.

  Clawdeen missed her girls already. No more gossip sessions, ab-grabbing laughter, clothing swaps, hair-streaking sleepovers, nail-art contests, or professional waxes at the spa.

  She pumped her fists and ran faster. Every twig that snapped beneath Clawdeen’s boots was a closed-minded normie. Banished from our homes. No more Internet. No more television. No more jogging along the river to Blue’s bonzer playlists. Forced into hiding. Living in fear. Clawdeen ran harder. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  Birds took off in flaps of panic. Rodents dipped back into their holes. Leaves rustled.

  The clearing was visible now. Their mother, Harriet, would be there, anxious to guide them to safety.

  “Maybe we should grab Mom and go back home,” Clawdeen tried. “Maybe it’s time we stood up for ourselves instead of being afraid—”

  “We’re not afraid,” Howie insisted. “Dad put us in charge of keeping you and Mom safe while he’s away, that’s all.”

  Clawdeen rolled her eyes. It was the same story day after day. The boys were supposed to protect the girls. But this girl didn’t want protection. She wanted to go back home and confront Cleo. She wanted to check the mail and see if anyone had RSVP’d to her Sassy Sixteen (because what sixteen-year-old wants to be sweet?). She wanted to take a long, hot shower.

  “You guys stay with Mom, and I’ll go back,” she pressed.

  “No. We’re a pack,” Clawd said, “and—”

  “Packs stay together,” they all finished, in a mocking tone.

  “Keep going. We’re almost there,” Clawd instructed.

  Clawdeen bit her bottom lip and did what she was told. But her tolerance for being babied was wearing as thin as her socks. Forget about protecting her—what about their home? Their individual rights? Their freedom? Those needed protection way more than she did.

  Harriet’s athletic silhouette became visible in the distance. As usual, she waved her kids forward, silently urging them to hurry. Going through the motions, Clawdeen picked up her pace, but the flight instinct had yet to kick in. Instead, she wanted to dig in her high heels and fight. And why shouldn’t she? She was just weeks away from her sixteenth birthday, too old to follow the pack. It was time to take control of her life, to show her family that she was more than just another shiny coat.

  It was time for this Wolf and her L.A.M.B.s to stray.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRIGHT OR FLIGHT

  Drained and aching from what seemed like hours of sprinting and hiding behind trees, cars, and lampposts, Frankie flopped onto a stone couch in the RADs’ underground hideout and surrendered to the weight of her eyelids. As usual, the lair smelled like popcorn and moist earth. The carousel overhead stopped circling at sundown, but familiar voices still swirled all around her. She was not the first to arrive.

  Were her parents there? Had they made it safely? Was Brett really to blame for this?

  Frankie tried not to think about him or she’d spark. And she couldn’t spark. She needed to preserve every last drop of energy in case she had to run again.

  Her fingers flopped against the tattered hem of her matronly peasant skirt. It felt frayed and muddy—definitely no longer wearable. She grinned weakly. At least some good had come of this.

  “You okay?” Frankie heard a familiar male voice and smelled orange Starburst. She forced her eyes open. No one was there.

  “Billy?”

  He unhooked a strand of black hair from Frankie’s lashes and gently tucked it behind her ear. “Yeah,” he said softly.

  She struggled to sit up. Her invisible friend gripped her shoulder and eased her back down. “Rest.”

  Police sirens wailed aboveground. The room became noticeably quieter until they passed.

  “I need to apologize,” she managed to mumble.

  “No one blames you.”

  Frankie sighed with doubt.

  “It’s true. You did everything you could to protect us. Everyone knows that. Brett had all of us fooled. Not just you…” Billy kept talking. Going on and on about how Brett was the wrong guy for her. How he had used her to further his film career. How she never should have trusted a normie who wears monster-movie tees.

  Frankie nodded in agreement to show Billy she was just as outraged. But if she were being honest, she would have told him that when Brett gave Channel Two the unblurred interviews, he did more than just break her trust. He broke her heart.

  The underground lair began filling with the usual, albeit panic-stricken, RADs. Too nervous to sit on the stone club chairs, they paced. Their jittery movements blocked and then unblocked the lanterns that hung from ceiling hooks, creating a dizzying strobe effect. Jackson chewed his bottom lip while his mini fan blew the floppy bangs off his forehead. Beside him Blue peeled off her fingerless gloves and began slathering her scaly skin with Burt’s Bees moisturizer. Deuce removed his green beanie so the snakes on his head could uncoil and stretch. Lala, looking even paler than usual, closed her ruby-red parasol and quickly joined their tight cluster. Julia greeted them with her endearing zombielike stare behind her cat-eye glasses.

  Ordinarily, bubbly conversation would fizz from their circle and overflow into the room like shaken soda. But tonight conversation was flat. Instead of giggly gossip, they exchanged what-do-we-do-now? glances set to a symphony of nail-biting, toe taps, and muffled sobs.

  Billy tugged Frankie’s finger. “Let’s say hi.”

  “You go,” she said, too embarrassed to face her friends. Not because her mission to liberate the RADs had failed, but because she really liked Brett and had led everyone to believe he liked her too.

  Billy squeezed her hand before letting go. “Okay, be right back.”

  Allowing her eyes to close again, Frankie heard familiar voices wash over her like waves of electricity.

  “Who figahd Brett was such a bounce?” Blue said, her Australian accent thicker than usual. “I had him sussed for a real mate.”

  “Well, thanks to that ‘bounce,’ I have to go back to Greece,” Deuce muttered.

  “For how long?” Billy asked.

  “Dunno. Long enough for the coach to kick me off the basketball team.”

  “Does Cleo know yet?” Lala asked.

  The sudden knick-knock knick-knock of wooden heels and a waft of amber perfume kept Deuce from answering.

  “Heyyyy,” Cleo trilled, with meeting-up-for-lattes flippancy.

  “Coooool haaaiiir,” Julia droned, noticing Cleo’s camera-ready do. The zombie was oblivious to the mounting tension.

  Frankie wanted to peek, but opening her eyes had become impossible. She felt as if a dozen chandelier earrings were dangling off her lashes.

  “Thanks! I just came from the Teen Vogue shoot,” Cleo announced. She paused for a second and then
asked, “What’s wrong with Frankie?”

  “She just needs some sleep,” Billy insisted. “She’ll be fine.”

  “Really? ’Cause she looks a little green, if you ask me.” Cleo giggled.

  Frankie’s fingertips warmed but didn’t spark. If she had a single watt of energy left, she would mummy-wrap the royal rhymes-with-stitch so tight that her fake lashes would pop off. What is she doing here, anyway? She wasn’t even in the video.

  “What do you want?” Lala asked.

  “I came to clear my name,” Cleo said, her tone downshifting to serious. “Where’s Clawdeen?”

  “No one knows.” Billy sighed. “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “Anyway, don’t you mean apologize?” Jackson seethed.

  “Cleo apologize?” Deuce scoffed. “That’ll never happen.”

  “Exactly, Deucey, because I didn’t do anything.”

  “Rubbish!” Blue snapped. “You ruined our lives to impress your new bestie—”

  “Ka!” Cleo stamped her wooden heel. “Bekka Madden is not my bestie!”

  “Well, she should be, because we’re done,” Blue replied.

  “Will you let me finish?” Cleo asked, hands on hips.

  They were silent.

  “I admit, I was bitter because you chose the movie over my Teen Vogue shoot,” Cleo began. “I teamed up with Bekka to erase the video from Brett’s computer so it wouldn’t air. Not cool, I know. All I wanted was to model with my best friends, so, technically, my heart was in the right place.”

  Julia hummed in approval.

  “But why team up with Bekka?” asked Lala.

  “She knew Brett’s passwords.”

  “Why didn’t she want the movie to air?” asked Jackson.

  “Who cares? She had her reasons, but those were mine, okay?”

  Frankie’s fingertips burned like cheeks blushing. She was Bekka’s reason.

  “Anyway, when I heard Channel Two wasn’t going to show the video because of the blurs, I thought everything was golden,” Cleo continued. “You guys could model, and I could stop hanging out with Bekka and that pain in the Aswan, Haylee. I had no idea they were going to put it on TV uncensored. I had nothing to do with that! Swearsies on Ra. I was in the Oregon sand dunes fighting for my life in a camel stampede while this was going down. If Melody hadn’t filled me in, I never—”