Tied With a Bow

one hip while the other two youngsters slammed into the passenger’s side of the car like guided missiles. The taller boy—he looked Pakistani or Indian—yanked it open. “Arjenie! Arjenie! Is it true your new guy turns into a wolf at the full moon? It’s full moon tomorrow! Can we watch?”
    “Malik!” Robin said, rebuke in her voice, adding quickly, “Danny, grab Havoc.”
    The shorter boy with chipmunk cheeks snatched up the terrier before it could duck under the car.
    And Benedict breathed a sigh of relief. All of the Delacroix, even Aunt Robin, were wearing jeans. Just like him. So far, so good.
    Arjenie explained that Benedict only Changed when he chose to, but full moon was a time when he really wanted to Change, and no, they couldn’t watch, and if they didn’t move so she could get out of the car, their aunt Robin was going to turn them into hoppy toads.
    That made them laugh—but they backed up. Arjenie bounced out and grabbed her aunt in a hug. Benedict got out on his side. The moment his feet were on the ground, earth tried to surge up through him to join with the moonsong. Automatically he repressed it and reached back into the car for the new leather jacket. He didn’t need it, not with the temperature at least ten degrees above freezing, but he was supposed to wear it.
    Questions were spilling from Arjenie as she was scooped into hugs—where’s Uncle Nate and Aunt Sheila and Uncle Stephen and Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Carmen and the twins and the rest of the kids? Everyone answered at once. Benedict picked up something about holly and horses as he slipped on the jacket and eyed the dogs.
    He wasn’t worried about the Lab mix, but the other one was a recent adoption, Arjenie had said, a scruffy little Jack Russell terrier. Most dogs either ran or submitted quickly when they met him, but a few just had to challenge. Especially terriers. Terriers were genetically convinced of the dictum that size doesn’t matter—it’s what you do with what you’ve got.
    Robin Delacroix told the boys that they had apparently forgotten everything they’d ever learned about manners, and did they want a refresher course from her or from their fathers? The Lab mix rounded the hood of the car and stopped dead, staring at Benedict in utter astonishment.
    He chuckled. “You don’t know what the hell you’re smelling, do you?” He snapped his fingers. “Here, boy.”
    The dog flattened his ears, lowered his tail, and wagged it once, uncertain. Benedict averted his gaze slightly— I’m not challenging, either— and snapped his fingers again. The dog trotted up to him. Benedict rubbed his ears. “Good boy.”
    “Did you see that?” a young voice piped up. “Did you see? He told Harley to come, and he did! Just like that!”
    “Hold on to Havoc,” Clay Delacroix reminded the boy in a voice deep enough to rival that of Benedict’s father. He nodded at Benedict in a friendly way. “Harley there is an expert at selective deafness. He knows all the usual commands. He only hears them when food is involved.”
    Arjenie turned in the circle of her uncle’s arm to beam at Benedict. “Benedict, this is Clay Delacroix and my aunt, Robin Delacroix, and the man holding little Amy is Uncle Gary—Gary Brown—and this is Uncle Hershey,” she said as the man they’d first spotted reached them, “and the two hellions with all the nosy questions are—”
    “Oh, no!” cried the boy who’d been holding the terrier—past tense, since the dog had squirmed free. “Havoc! Come here, Havoc!”
    The dog ignored such poor advice to race around the car, barking madly. Both boys raced after her. Which, of course, just increased her excitement. Being chased was almost as much fun as chasing, and maybe the boys would help her get rid of this weird-smelling intruder.
    You never know what will work with a terrier, and Jack Russells could be fearless bordering on suicidal. But they were smart and curious, so sometimes . . . Benedict dropped down on his heels and stared at the little dog charging him.
    Havoc skidded to a stop, startled into silence, then darted to the right, trying to flank him. Even a Jack Russell hesitates to charge straight at a predator twenty times her size, but she knew she was fast, and for all that he smelled like the scariest canid she’d ever run across, he was shaped like a big, slow human. She figured she could outmaneuver him.
    She was wrong. Crouching on his heels was more awkward than some