He whirled around, but the wolf didn’t come out of the bushes, didn’t emerge from the shadows that were starting to gather between the trees.
It was getting late.
Call’s father came up behind him. He looked at the torn rope and the open door and sighed, raking a hand through his gray-black hair. “Call,” he said gently. “Call, it’s gone. Your wolf’s gone.”
“You don’t know that!” Call shouted, spinning to face Alastair.
“Call —”
“You always hated Havoc!” Call snapped. “You’re probably glad he’s gone.”
Alastair’s expression hardened. “I’m not glad you’re upset, Call. But yes, that wolf was never meant to be a pet. It might have killed or really hurt someone. One of your friends or, God forbid, you. I just hope it runs off into the woods and doesn’t head into town to start snacking on the neighbors.”
“Shut up!” Call told him, although there was something vaguely comforting about the idea that if Havoc ate someone, Call might be able to find him in the commotion. Call pushed that thought firmly out of his mind, consigning it into the Evil Overlord column.
Thoughts like that didn’t help anything. He had to find Havoc before awful stuff happened. “Havoc’s never hurt anyone,” he said instead.
“I’m sorry, Call,” Alastair said. To Call’s surprise, he sounded sincere. “I know you’ve wanted a pet for a long time. Maybe if I’d let you keep that mole rat …” He sighed again. Call wondered if his dad had kept him from having a pet because Evil Overlords shouldn’t have pets. Because Evil Overlords didn’t love anything, especially not innocent things, like animals. Like Havoc.
Call imagined how scared Havoc had to be — he hadn’t been on his own since Call had found him as a puppy.
“Please,” Call begged. “Please help me look for Havoc.”
Alastair nodded once, a sharp jerk of his jaw. “Get in the car. We can call for him as we take a slow drive around the block. He might not have gotten far.”
“Okay,” Call said. He looked back toward the garage, feeling as though he was overlooking something, as though he’d see his wolf, if he just stared hard enough.
But no matter how many times they went around the block and no matter how many times they called, Havoc didn’t come out. It got darker and darker and they went home. Alastair made spaghetti for dinner, but Call couldn’t force any of it down. He got Alastair to promise to help make LOST DOG posters for Havoc the next day, even though Alastair believed a picture of Havoc would do more harm than good.
“Chaos-ridden animals aren’t meant to be pets, Callum,” Alastair said after clearing away Call’s untouched plate. “They don’t care about people. They can’t.”
Call didn’t say anything to that, but he went to bed with a lump in his throat and a feeling of dread.
A high-pitched whining noise roused Call out of a restless sleep. He shot upright in bed, grabbing for Miri, the knife he always kept on his nightstand. He slid his legs off the bed, wincing as his feet touched the cold floor.
“Havoc?” he whispered.
He thought he heard another whine, distant. He peered out the window but all he could see were shadowy trees and darkness.
He slipped out into the hallway. His dad’s bedroom door was shut and the line between it and the floor was dark. Though he could still be awake, Call knew. Sometimes Alastair stayed up all night fixing things in his workshop downstairs.
“Havoc?” Call whispered again.
There was no answering noise, but gooseflesh spiraled up Call’s arms. He could feel that his wolf was nearby, that Havoc was anxious, was scared. Call moved in the direction of the feeling, though he couldn’t explain it. It led him down the hall to the top of the cellar stairs. Call swallowed hard, gripped Miri, and started to descend.