The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group-9780547721958

The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

by Catherine Jinks
$8.99
1

 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

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
Catherine Jinks

Catherine Jinks grew up in Papua New Guinea and now resides in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia. She is a three-time winner of the Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year award, and in 2001 was presented with a Centenary Medal for her contribution to Australian Children's Literature. Her popular works for young readers include the Evil Genius series, The Reformed Vampire Support Group, and the How to Catch a Bogle trilogy. Visit her website at www.catherinejinks.com.

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