The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

by Catherine Jinks

 Tobias tries to come to terms with the possibility that he might be a werewolf, and enlists the help of suburban vampires when he is abducted, in the highly anticipated sequel to The Reformed Vampire Support Group.

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780547721958
  • ISBN-10: 0547721951
  • Pages: 416
  • Publication Date: 05/08/2012
  • Carton Quantity: 24

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About the Book
About the Author
Excerpts
Reviews
  • About the Book
    When Tobias Richard Vandevelde wakes up in a hospital with no memory of the night
    before, his horrified mother tells him that he was found unconscious. At Featherdale
    Wildlife Park. In a dingo pen.
    He assumes that his two best friends are somehow responsible, until the mysterious
    Reuben turns up, claiming that Toby has a rare and dangerous “condition.” Next thing
    he knows, Toby finds himself involved with a strange bunch of sickly insomniacs who
    seem convinced that he needs their help. It’s not until he’s kidnapped and imprisoned
    that he starts to believe them—and to understand what being a paranormal monster
    really means.
  • About the Author
  • Excerpts

    Chapter 1

    You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the guy they found in a
    dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife Park.
     It was all over the news. If I’d been found in a playground,
    or on a beach, or by the side of the road, I wouldn’t have scored
    much coverage. Maybe I’d have ended up on page five of some
    local rag. But the whole dingo angle meant that I got national
    exposure. Hell, I got international exposure. People read about
    me in all kinds of places, like England and Canada and the
    United States. I know, because I checked. All I had to do was
    google “dingo pen” and— Pow! There I was.
     Not that anyone mentioned my name, of course. Journalists
    aren’t supposed to identify teenagers. In the Sydney Morning
    Herald, this is all they said:

    A 13- year- old boy is in a stable condition at Mount Druitt Hospital
    after being found unconscious in a dingo pen at Featherdale
    Wildlife Park, in western Sydney, early this morning. A park
    spokesperson says that a dingo in the same pen sustained minor
    injuries, which were probably inflicted by another dingo. Police
    are urging anyone with information about the incident to contact
    them.

     As you can see, it wasn’t exactly a double- page spread. And
    just as well, too, because when I was found, I was in the buff.
    Naked. Yes, that’s right: I’d lost my gear. Don’t ask me how.
    All I know is that I’m the luckiest guy alive. Being Dingo Boy
    was bad enough, but being naked Dingo Boy would have been
    much, much worse. I wouldn’t have survived the jokes. Can
    you imagine the kind of abuse I’d have copped on my first day
    back at school? It would have been a massacre. That’s why I’m
    so relieved that nobody printed a word about the missing
    clothes. Or the damaged fence. Or the cuts and bruises. Either
    the newspapers weren’t interested or the police weren’t talking.
    (Both, probably.) And I never told anyone that I was naked.
    Not even my best friends. Especially not my best friends.
     I mean, I’m not a complete idiot.
    So there I was, in the dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife
    Park, and I don’t remember a thing about it. Not one thing. I
    remember lying in my own bed at around 10:00 p.m., fiddling
    with a flashlight, and then I remember waking up in hospital.
    That’s all. I swear to God, I wasn’t fiddling with a tube of glue
    or a bottle of scotch; it was an ordinary flashlight. Next thing
    I knew, I was having a CT scan. I was stretched out on a gurney
    with my head in a machine.
     No wonder I panicked.
     “It’s all right. You’re all right,” people were saying. “Can
    you hear me? Toby? Your mum’s on her way.”
     I think I might have mumbled something about breakfast as
    I tried to pull offmy pulse oximeter. I was a bit confused. I was,
    in fact, semiconscious. That’s what Mum told me afterward—
    and when you’re semiconscious, it’s usually because you’ve
    damaged your head or your spine. In the ambulance on your
    way to hospital, you have to wear an oxygen mask and a neck
    collar. And once you reach the Emergency Department, they
    start checking you for things like leaking cerebral fluid. (Ugh.)
     I wasn’t semiconscious for very long, though. At first I didn’t
    quite know where I was. I couldn’t understand why I was lying
    down or what all the beeping monitors were for. But the fog in
    my head soon cleared, and I realized that I was in trouble. Big
    trouble.
     Again.
     Just six months before, I’d been in the same Emergency Department
    with two broken fingers, after my friend Fergus and
    I had taped roller skates to a surfboard. (I don’t recommend
    grass- surfing, just in case you’re interested. It’s impossible to
    stand up.) So I recognized the swinging doors, and the funny
    smell, and the bed- curtains. Even a couple of the faces around
    me were vaguely familiar.
     “What happened?” I asked as I was being wheeled around
    like a shopping trolley full of beer cans. “Did I get hurt?”
     There was a doctor looming over me. I could see straight up
    her nose. “Don’t you remember?” she said.
     “Nah.”
     “What’s the last thing you can remember?”
     “Umm . . .” I tried to think, but it wasn’t easy. Not while I
    was being poked and prodded by about a dozen different
    people.
     “Do you have a headache?” someone inquired.
     “No.”
     “Do you feel sick in the stomach?”
     “A bit.”
     “Can you look over here, please, Toby? It is Toby, isn’t it?”
      “Yeah. Course.” At the time, I thought that they knew me
    from my previous visit. I was wrong, though. They were only
    calling me Toby because Mum had panicked. She’d walked into
    my bedroom at 6:00 a.m., seen my empty bed, searched the
    house, realized that I didn’t have my phone, and notified the
    police. I don’t suppose they were very concerned at that point.
    (It wasn’t as if I was five years old.) All the same, they’d asked
    for a name and description.
     So when I showed up at Featherdale, without any ID, it
    didn’t really matter. The police were already on the lookout
    for a very tall, very skinny thirteen- year- old with brown hair,
    brown eyes, and big feet.
     One of the nurses told me later that she hadn’t recognized
    me when I first came in because there was so much blood and
    dirt all over my face.
     “Can you tell us your full name, Toby?” was the next question
    pitched at me, from somewhere offto my right.
     “Uh— Tobias Richard Vandevelde.”
     “And your address?”
     I told them that, too. Then I spotted the big jagged cut on
    my leg.
     “What happened?” I said with mounting alarm. “Is Mum
    all right?”
     “Your mum’s fine. She’s on her way here now. The police
    called her.”
     “The police?” This was bad news. This was terrible news.
    “Why? What have I done?”
     “Nothing. As far as we know.”
     “Then— ”
      “You’re breathing a bit fast, Toby, so what I’m going to do
    now is run a blood gas test . . .”
     I couldn’t get a straight answer from any of them, but I
    didn’t want to make a fuss. Not while they were trying to figure
    out what was wrong with me. They kept asking if I was in pain,
    and if I could see properly, and if I knew what year it was, and
    then at last the crowd around my bed began to disperse. It
    didn’t take me long to realize that people were drifting away
    because I wasn’t going to die. I mean, I’d obviously been downgraded
    from someone who might spring a leak or pitch a fit at
    any moment to someone who could be safely left in a holding
    bay with a couple of machines and a really young doctor.
     “Not all of these cuts are going to heal by themselves,” the
    really young doctor said cheerfully as he pulled out his box of
    catgut (or whatever it was). “We might give you a local before
    we stitch you up. Do you know when you had your last tetanus
    shot?”
     Dumb question. Of course I didn’t. You’d be better offasking

  • Reviews

    "Jinks has hold of a clever idea and a solid sense of humor."—Publishers Weekly

    "The satire isn't all that's biting in this darkly comedic sequel to The Reformed Vampire Support Group (2009)."—Kirkus Reviews 
     
    Reformed Vampire Support Group
    2010 ALA Best Books for Young Adults
    Nominated as a YALSA Teens Top Ten
     
    "Jinks’s signature facility with plot and character development is intact as she turns to the topic of vampires—as fans can anticipate, hers are not the romantic superheroes of the Stephenie Meyers books....Throwing in delicious details and aperçus, the author works her way from the murder of one of the vampires to suspense and adventure of the sinister yet daffy variety beloved by readers of Evil Genius. The plot twists, more ornate than in previous works, ramp up the giddiness—and, perhaps, camouflage the corpses, blood and other byproducts of the genre." —Publishers Weekly, starred review 
     
    "Support Group is truly like no other vampire story. It is witty, cunning, and humorous, with numerous plot twists and turns. Jinks has conjured up an eccentric but believable cast of characters in a story full of action and adventure." —School Library Journal
     
    "Jinks’s quirky sense of humor will appeal to fans of her Evil Genius series. Those tired of torrid bloodsucker stories or looking for a comic riff on the trend will feel refreshed by the vomitous, guinea-pig–drinking accidental heroics of Nina and her pals." —Kirkus Reviews
     
    "The ill-assorted bunch of vampires in this offbeat Australian novel couldn't be further from the iconic image of the dangerous, sexy night creature....Jinks draws her characters and their unique challenges in great detail; though the adventure takes a while to get into gear, there's plenty of blood and guts (both types) to go around. One part problem novel, one part comedy, and one part murder-mystery, this alternative vampire story is for outsiders of all kinds, underground or otherwise." —The Horn Book
     
    "Jinks takes readers on a wild ride, poking wicked fun at vampire enthusiasts of all stripes with her wryly clinical take . . . a first-rate comedy with equal appeal for avid vampire fans and those who wouldn't be caught dead with a copy of Twilight." —The Bulletin
     

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