100% Hero (2 page)

Chester and his daughter Priscilla were Werens – that
is, they were werefolk, but they did not transform into
wolves. Chester was a famous scholar on the history of
werefolk, and claimed to be descended from Dravin,
Sir Rathbone's brother. While the Archduchess was
alive, the family had lived in the elegance and luxury
of the Court of Boldovia, a small principality on the
edge of Transylvania. There Priscilla had been raised
as a lady, and had split her time between the court and
her private school in America. For the past two years,
however, since the death of the Archduchess, times
had been a little harder for the Puceleys. Chester had
no money of his own, and he and Priscilla had spent
all that had belonged to his wife. He was hoping to
make his fortune by writing a bestseller on the history
of Boldovia (with no mention of werefolk, of course). It took a lot of money to keep his daughter in the
luxury she was accustomed to.

Freddy charged after his father into the Great Hall
to greet the guests. Batty assumed his sudden dash was
a game and chased after him. Just as they arrived in
the hall, she tackled him from behind and Freddy fell
on his stomach. He skidded over the smooth wooden
floor like a torpedo.

'And here's my son.' Flasheart laughed as Freddy
came to a rather undignified halt at the perfect feet
of Priscilla Puceley. In fact, twelve-year-old Priscilla
looked perfect in every possible way – something she
was well aware of. She was tall, pretty, blonde, popular
with all the cool kids, a dancer, and a gymnast.

'Farts, that hurt,' Freddy groaned. Then the boy
who hated girls looked up at Priscilla and promptly
fell in love. He would never have admitted this, of
course – not in a million years. In fact, he would have
denied it in a fury, but it was true. Unfortunately for
him, however, Freddy was far from perfect in Priscilla's
eyes. He was two years younger than her, way shorter,
had sticky-out ears and his black hair was standing in
spikes. No amount of victory over wolf hunters was
going to help him here. He couldn't have looked less
cool or heroic than he did then, lying on the floor and
grinning at her cheesily. She wrinkled her perfect nose
with disapproval.

'So this is your Master Frederick! Or may I call
you Freddo? What a great honour to meet you at last. I'd like to shake the paw of the wolf who defeated
a hunter.' Chester beamed down at him, his voice
sounding like a song.

What sensible words! Freddy liked him already. He was a small, dainty man, with dark brown hair
and a long thin moustache, which he twisted as he
spoke. He was dressed in a close-fitting, black-and-white
striped, long-tailed suit. He looked nothing
like any werewolf you ever saw. He stepped forward,
thrust his soft white hand down at the boy, and
helped him to his feet. 'An honour to meet a hero,'

he repeated.

Freddy's chest swelled with pride.

'Well, it's not so hard to be a hero,' he said, trying to
look tough for Priscilla. 'Not when your werepack is in
danger and you're the only one who can save them.'

'And may I say, Mrs Mutton, that you are looking
more beautiful than ever.' Chester bowed low to the
housekeeper.

'Ooohh!' The old lady shrieked like a schoolgirl
and blushed madly. 'Well I never . . .' She fanned
herself with her apron.

'Who's this?' Priscilla said, as she picked something
up. It was the photograph Freddy had taken from Mrs
Mutton – it had fallen out of his trouser pocket. He
went purple with shame as she held up the picture
of his . . . Blavendoch for all to see. He glared at his
father, willing him not to tell.

'That's our Freddy, of course,' Mrs Mutton
announced, to the boy's horror.

'Gruesome,' said Priscilla, dropping the photograph.

As Freddy grabbed the picture in shame, the girl
turned and saw Batty. As a usually fierce rule, werefolk
despise dogs and cannot bear to be associated with
them. That had all changed in the Werepack of Lupin
after Batty had helped to save Freddy from danger. Priscilla, however, like most Werens, still believed
dogs were the lowest, most impure animals on earth. She gave a gasp when she saw the mongrel.

'Daddy, a dog!' She pointed, a disgusted look on
her face.

Chester turned and saw the sweet black-and-white
hound.

'Great horned toads! Lupin, how did that beast get
in here?' He forgot for a moment to smile.

'Well, she lives here.' Flasheart smiled, but his eyes
were suddenly hard.

'A dog? As a pet?' Chester frowned.

'No, she is one of our pack,' Flasheart replied. Freddy heard the iron in his father's voice. He sounded
much more like the Grand Growler than just Puceley's
cousin.

Priscilla's nose wrinkled once again in disgust. She
drew back as Batty trotted forward to shake paws,
which the dog knew was polite among humans and
werefolk.

'Urgh! Keep it away. It's so filthy and disgusting,'

Priscilla squealed.

'It's okay, she won't hurt you. See? She's my best
friend.' Freddy put his arm around Batty's neck and
she licked his face.

'Grue . . . some!' Priscilla felt ill at the idea of
touching something so beneath her.

'She's an honorary wolf,' Freddy added eagerly.

'No dog could ever be a wolf,' Priscilla snorted. 'Our blood is pure.'

'I know this much, Freddo . . .' Chester smiled
charmingly. 'A dog's a dog, and a wolf's a wolf. And
the two don't mix.'

'No way,' his daughter agreed with a shudder.

Freddy removed his arm from Batty's neck and
looked down at his feet in shame. He waited in misery
for Mrs Mutton, or his father, to blurt out the truth
about him. What would the perfect Priscilla think of
him then? But Flasheart changed the subject, and took
the guests off to their rooms.

Freddy stayed below with Batty, feeling very
gloomy. He was sure he'd been quite right to want to
hide the truth – that his wolfen blood was mixed with
poodle blood. Somehow, some way, he was going to
make sure that Priscilla did not find out the truth. She was perfect and Freddy wanted to be perfect too.

Freddy tore up the terrible photograph and flushed it
down the lavatory. He must do something to prove to
Priscilla that he was a hero and not a wallington. In
his bedroom at the top of the tower, Freddy looked at
himself in the mirror. He tried to force his ridiculous,
sticky-up hair flat, but it wouldn't stay down. Even
with gel on, it kept springing up again. Batty smiled as
she watched him. He tried sticking it down with sticky
tape, but that didn't work. In the end he wet it and then
sat on his bed with some underpants on his head.

'I'll take them off before I go downstairs,' he cried,
as Batty laughed. 'Just until it's flat.'

In the end it was a useless plan. As soon as the
pants came off, up flew his hair again.

'Oh, she'll think I'm a wally!' he said to Batty, who
raised one hairy eyebrow in reply and wagged her tail
significantly.

Somehow she understood much of what Freddy
said, and certainly always knew how he was feeling. Much of dog language was expressed through signals,
and Freddy had been a poodle long enough to understand
most things that Batty meant, too.

And aren't you a wally?
was what she meant this
time.

'No, I'm not! I'm a hero . . . it's not my fault
everything goes wrong.'

Batty barked. Yes, he was a wally, but she did
love him. They lay on the bed together watching TV. Batty was so thankful that she had her own pack now,
even if they were wolves. Although she had always
enjoyed living on the Wildside, she had never realised
the happiness and companionship that living in a
pack could bring. She hoped to stay with the Lupins
forever. Freddy could be spoilt, selfish and silly, but
he was also very loyal and lots of fun too. He could
always make her laugh. They were best friends and no
one was ever going to come between them.

Mrs Mutton called upstairs for them to come down
to dinner.

They raced down the spiral staircase and along the
corridor into the kitchen. Batty's bowl was laid out,
as usual, on the stone flags next to the fireplace. The
table, however, was bare.

'We're eating in the Great Hall tonight, Freddy,
in honour of our guests. Batty will be fine here,' Mrs
Mutton announced, as she carried a huge platter of
meat from the room.

Freddy felt a slight twinge as he saw Batty's ears
droop a little. They had taken almost every meal
together since she came to Farfang. Even if Flasheart
had had important guests, Freddy had always begged
permission to sit with Batty in the kitchen instead. He looked at his friend and then thought of Priscilla
waiting next door. What would she think if Freddy
ignored her, so that he could eat with a
dog
? His
struggle didn't last long.

'It's just for tonight,' he said, stroking Batty's pretty
head. 'Just to be polite. I'll eat with you tomorrow, I
promise. I'll ask Mrs Mutton for sausages.'

Batty wagged her tail.
Okay.

'I'll come and see you later, promise. Don't be sad,
will you?' He smiled.

Not sad,
she barked.

'Good,' Freddy cried and then, without another
word or look, he raced off to see Priscilla.

Batty turned to her bowl. She knew she would see
him soon.

Freddy ran to the Great Hall. His father was seated
next to Chester Puceley at the long dining room table. They were discussing the various objects hanging
on the stone walls around them: the tapestries, the
swords, shields, and stag's heads. Freddy sat down
and, without waiting for anyone else, stabbed a
sausage with his fork and began to eat.

'And which is Sir Rathbone's sword?' Chester asked. 'The one the prophecy describes?'

The prophecy foretold that one day, when held
in the hand of a true hero, that sword would save
Wolfenkind from destruction.

'Well.' Flasheart winked at his son. 'I think Freddy
may have fulfilled the prophecy already, but there it is,
still in Sir Rathbone's gauntlet.'

Flasheart pointed to the top of the stairs, where
his ancestor's shining silver armour held the huge
sword – the sword that Freddy had used to stop his
Uncle Hotspur from betraying their family.

'Great horned toads, what a magnificent sight!'

Chester looked up the sweeping Red Stairs at the
ancient heirlooms.

Freddy looked up too, and his mouth fell open. His sausage fell off his fork and into his glass of water
with a splash. The boy who hated girls looked at
Priscilla, who stood on the stairs like a princess from
a fairytale. She wore a beautiful white dress and her
blonde hair shone like gold. She smiled and her white
teeth glittered. Freddy remained with his empty fork
paused outside his open mouth as she skipped daintily
down the stairs towards them.

'Ah, and here is my beautiful jewel,' said Chester,
beaming as she sat down opposite Freddy.

'Good evening, Papa, Mr Lupin, Mrs Mutton.' She
smiled sweetly and then looked with some disdain at
the spiky-haired boy.

Freddy noticed that she spoke with an American
accent – how cool was that? The men continued their
discussion.

'Freddy, close your mouth when you're eating,'

Mrs Mutton ordered, 'and get your sausage out of
your glass.'

'It wasn't me.' He blushed, looking with some
confusion at his drink. He fished out his sausage,
shook the water off, and shoved it in his mouth.

'Oh, gross!' Priscilla curled up her perfect nose. Freddy stabbed at another sausage.

'I can eat twelve bangers in one go,' he announced. This was sure to impress her.

'Oh, grosser!' Priscilla turned away in disgust.

'With ketchup on!' he added.

She simply snorted and looked at the food on the
table. There were sausages, lamb chops, potatoes and
bread.

'Don't you have any green vegetables?' she asked
Mrs Mutton.

'Vegetables?' the old lady said in surprise.

'
Green
ones?' Freddy gasped – surely he had
misheard.

'Yes, like peas?' Priscilla nodded.

'Peas?' he repeated, as if she were suggesting he
eat poo.

'Or spinach?'

'
Spinach
?'

'Or salad?'

'
Salad
?!'

He couldn't know it, but Freddy's expression was
now exactly the same as in the photo of him falling
offstage while dressed as a carrot. Total surprise and
amazement – but in a bad way.

Mrs Mutton was also struggling to understand. In
her whole long life of looking after the Lupin Pack
she had never heard any werefolk ask for a vegetable.

'Since when did a Weren eat greens?' she
complained. 'There's enough meat here for a pack of
wolves.'

Freddy nodded, terrified that he too might be
forced to eat something healthy.

He demonstrated to the girl exactly how to eat
a sausage like a wolf. He stuffed it into his mouth
sideways so that it bulged out both of his cheeks, and
then he gave her a smile.

'Oh . . . grossest!' Priscilla shuddered. 'I'm a
vegetarian.'

Freddy's face fell.

'A what?' the housekeeper cried. Even Flasheart
looked over in surprise. 'How can you be a Weren
and a . . . vegi-whatever?'

'Well, I am, and I'm not going to eat this. I want
vegetables, Papa!' Priscilla flounced back into her
chair in a sulk. 'And salad.'

'Of course you do, my jewel,' her father cried,
twisting his moustache. 'Priscilla is a very special girl,
Lupin. And times change, even for werefolk. I think,
now it's the twenty-first century, that a pup can have
some vegetables if she wants them.'

'Of course she must. Mrs Mutton, if you would
be so kind?' Flasheart's green eyes twinkled at the old
lady.

'Where am I going to find
salad
? I've never heard the
like of it,' she muttered as she walked to the kitchen. 'In my day, a puppy never got greens just because they
asked for it, not even Flasheart!'

Freddy spent the next few minutes looking at
Priscilla. She got her own way brilliantly, but he was a
little concerned that he might be forced to eat spinach
and was already developing a plan for smuggling it
out in his underpants.

There was a lucky escape, however, because the
only green thing Mrs Mutton could find was a jar
of mint jelly, for putting on lamb chops. Priscilla
reluctantly made a mint jelly sandwich, and pointedly
ignored Freddy as she ate it.

Over dinner, Chester explained the reason for his visit
to England. Many hundreds of years earlier, Dravin de
Lupinne had travelled from Farfang to the Court of
Boldovia, where he had deposited some ancient parchments. Chester wished to research the history of the
documents, and thought there may be some information
in the library and attics of the castle. Flasheart was
more than happy for Chester to explore the vaults.

'You must treat Farfang Castle as your own,'

Flasheart told his guests.

'Oh, I will, Lupin.' Chester smiled. 'Thank you so
much.'

That night, Freddy lay in his tower room and
stared at the ceiling, while Batty snored at the end of
his bed. He was feeling a little nervous, for it was to
be a full moon the following night. In the four months
since his first Transwolfation, he had been a wolf three
times and a poodle only once. Freddy didn't quite
understand how his mixed blood behaved the way it
did, and he certainly had no control over it. He was
roller-coastering between dread and excitement. He
hoped he could parade in front of Priscilla as a sleek
black wolf, for no Weren could help but be impressed
by that. But what if he turned into Dripsy-Wimpsy
the poodle again? His scalp went tight with worry. Priscilla would never want to associate with a dog. He looked down at Batty and bit his lip. They were
supposed to be going to play in the woods the next
morning, but Freddy couldn't now. He was sure Batty
would understand that while Priscilla was here, things
had to be a little different. It wasn't his fault.

Many miles away, Freddy's enemy of old was likewise
anticipating the new moon.

'They will be hunting for red blood soon!' Dr Cripp
pointed up at the night sky with his crayon – he wasn't
allowed anything sharp. 'Just as I hunted them.'

He was sitting in his comfy padded cell in the
Dreamy Daze Maximum Security Hospital for the
Completely Confused. He was talking to a nurse
and his eyes shone eagerly behind his thick round
spectacles. Sweat glistened on his forehead. His greasy
hair was brushed to one side.

'See?' He held up his drawing of a wolf howling
under the moon. A stick man was aiming a gun at
the wolf. 'Only I, the valiant Foxwell Cripp, can save
mankind from their evil. So, do you agree to release
me and let me carry on my quest?' he cried.

The nurse merely raised her eyebrow slightly. Dr
Cripp would not be leaving his hospital in the near
future – not until he gave up his bizarre stories about
werewolves, at least.